Constance and the Ghosts.

A warning: This one’s a bit heavy and contains language that is rather … unfriendly toward Constance as well as some pretty heavy subject matter. I honestly don’t know why I wrote this, other than to — once again — break out of my comfort zone of comedic interludes and weak characterizations. I don’t do horror well, and this is a bit more psychological. I may reconstruct the story at a later date, depending on if I’m inspired to pick it back up and give it a better go.

Constance stood mesmerized, her brain seemingly elsewhere. Jeff Walters, her boyfriend stood next to the sixteen year old girl, and wondered where she was. “Connie?” he asked, quietly. She seemed to not notice, instead looking out over the vast field, staring at something in the distance.

“Constance.” he said, snapping a finger in front of her face. Nothing. “Whatever. Fuckin weird bitch. I’m outta here. Fuck you.”

The words registered in her head as she screamed a tortured scream, though only to herself. She cried on the inside, and felt a great deal of sadness. But, she could not stop staring at what she saw. What was simply Cochrane’s North Forty, a place where boys and girls came to make out in silence and with privacy, was something completely different now. Like a movie effect, the plain, rolling wheat grass caught fire through Connie’s eyes. In the distance, a small building burned, too, children screaming as they attempted to exit, fruitlessly.

The doors had wedged shut and there was nothing that could be done, aside from listening to the pained screams of eighteen children, screaming and burning to death.

Two hours later, Constance fell, found by two classmates who’d come to neck a bit — Her best friend Allison Thomas and her boyfriend Steven Thomas (no relation, just odd coincidence). They drove her to the hospital, and called her father, Wilson.

A week went by, and Constance lay in a catatonic state nearly the entire time, aside from one haunted scream, three days into her stay, and standing up, ripping off her gown and standing in her room in the nude. The nurses tried to lift her, but, her body stayed in place, as if magnetized to stay in the single spot. When she came out of the trance, she was embarrassed, and cried for two days.

“What happened, Constance?” her father asked, holding her hand. Her mother had died a year ago, and Constance started to decline acedemically, as well as mentally. The happy, sweet girl grew angrier and angrier with the hand life dealt her, and she found even the slightest tasks overwhelming.

“I saw ghosts,” she answered, hesitantly. “They were burning. I couldn’t stop it.”

“Sweetie,” Wilson said, cautiously. “Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Fuck you!” she spat at her father, her hand raising and slapping him. “I saw them, asshole! I saw them die! I SAW THEM DIE! OH GOD I SAW THEM DIE!”

It took a few minutes for the drug to calm her, before Wilson sighed, and signed the papers, admitting her until she was well again.


A month passed before Constance was in the mood to speak to anyone, let alone lucid enough to deal with it. She wanted to be Constance again, not the girl who went crazy. Her body didn’t allow it, and the psychiatrists didn’t either. She was kept just lucid enough to remember who she was, and just crazy enough so that she wasn’t sure if it really was an other hand inside of her panties, roughly invading her body with fingers that would have been unwelcome in any and all other circumstances. She protested in her head, though she wasn’t even sure if it was happening. She couldn’t look to confirm anything.

Her first conversation was with the orderly, a young black boy named Raheeb. He smiled at her daily, mostly because her small, white ass stuck out of her gown as she lay curled on her bed, away from the door. “I saw ghosts,” she said to him, wanting him to believe her words as if they were gospel truth.

“Yo, I seen a lot of fucked up shit, girl. Sometimes, it be best to keep that shit to yo’ self, ya heard?”

She nodded, inspite of hearing nothing, tears streaming from her eyes. “Yes. Yes. Please, yes. Take me away from here. I need to be well.”

Raheeb looked outside the door, and saw the coast was clear. No one came over this time of day, and besides, they’d all taken turns with the hot white girl anyways. “You wanna be well, baby girl? I got the medicene for you.”


“There are no ghosts, Constance. What you had was called a hallucination.”

“I heard them too, doctor,” she said, her hands on her belly. She expected it to get bigger, but, it never did. Raheeb said he’d marry her, and take her away. She loved him, and wanted to be with him, forever. He said she was sane, that she was normal. That she was beautiful.

“That was a hallicinatory sound, Constance. You–”

“Don’t say my name after every sentence. I hate that, you asshole.”

“I spent fifteen years in school, Constance. If you’re going to insult me, please call me Doctor Asshole,” he said with a smile, trying to get her to laugh.

“Fuck you, Doctor Post.”

“That would be illegal, Constance.”

“Stop saying my name. It’s creepy. You’re creepy, and you’re in denial.” She swore she felt something move inside of her belly. Can you feel a baby at two weeks? She wasn’t sure, but, there was something there. Raheeb hadn’t been back in a few weeks, but, he said that was normal. He’d come back, soon.

“Okay. When you admit that you didn’t see the ghosts, I will stop saying your name, Constance.”

She flew into a rage, her fists thrusting at Dr. Post. “I SAW GHOSTS! I SAW GHOSTS! I SAW GHOSTS! I SAW GHOSTS” she insisted, her fist hitting him at each syllable. Her fourth punch hit his face, breaking his glasses, and driving a peice of glass into his eye. He stood and screamed himself, pushing her backwards into her chair, and onto the floor.

He kicked her in the back of the head as she tumbled, and whispered at her “Fuck you, you fucking cunt! You’re never getting out of here now!”

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as the pain shot through her body. Dr. Post ran screaming out of the room, and into a wheelchair, pushed by two attendants. Two orderlies made their way into the room, grabbing Constance and “escorting” her back to her room.

The girl’s head swelled, as she lay on the floor, her body in pain. Her mind became a fog, never to lift again.


“No, doctor,” Constance said, her face showing little to no emotion. “I never saw a ghost. I was sick. I’m okay now.”

The investigation into the unfortunate accident was short, and over quickly. Officially, Constance had attempted to hurt herself, and Doctor Post saved her life. Her arms flailed as she was restrained, the glasses breaking into his eye. As a result, Constance would have a form of a post traumatic stress disorder the rest of her life, and would require mostly around-the clock care, like a Gulf War vet, thanks to her neglected injuries.

Constance, lost the will to live, and soon after her ordeal, she died of what was determined to be natural causes at the age of seventeen. She was buried in a quiet cemetary, next to her mother, and would be joined by her father in months.

Doctor Post returned home, and entered his home office shortly after the burial. The meticulously kept office was in disarray, books thrown on the floor, with words carved into his sixteenth century credenza he used for a desk. The words as he read them were read aloud by another familiar voice.

“Still don’t believe?” it said as Constance read aloud the words to the petrified Doctor Bruce Post.


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