{"id":179,"date":"2011-03-25T09:00:29","date_gmt":"2011-03-25T16:00:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/?p=179"},"modified":"2011-03-24T21:53:55","modified_gmt":"2011-03-25T04:53:55","slug":"prologue-killing-friends-7","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/prologue-killing-friends-7\/","title":{"rendered":"Prologue – Killing Friends 7"},"content":{"rendered":"

For Candace Cormier
\n<\/em>
\nCandace slumped back in the chair, staring up at Dr. Freeman. He pitied her, she could tell. It didn’t bother her really, she was used to it. She didn’t really understand it though. Why pity a person for acknowledging the truth? <\/p>\n

\u201cTell me about yourself\u201d, he said to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow about you just look through my files, it’s all there.\u201d Candace sighed in annoyance. She was tired of this part. She had played the role of the patient too many times. Four different doctors this year already and each one wanted her to tell them about herself.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to hear it from you\u201d, he said.<\/p>\n

They always said that. This time, she wouldn’t argue. It never got her far anyway, always ended the same. She took a deep breath.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Candace Cormier,\u201d she said, \u201cand I see dead people\u201d. She didn’t hold back on the sarcasm. Slumping further back into her chair, she began to pick at her fingers. Freeman stared at her, urging her to continue.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine,\u201d she said with an exasperated sigh. \u201cI’ll start from the beginning\u201d. She sat upright.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor as along as I can remember, I’ve seen things. Ghosts, spirits, whatever you want to call them. The truth is, everyone can see them \u2013 if they really wanted to. It’s just a matter of letting them in. When we’re kids, we all see them. There’s nothing keeping them out, no reason to not believe they exist. Then our parents start telling us they aren’t real. They are shadows, or dreams, or whatever. That works for most people. Not everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you’re one of the chosen few?\u201d Freeman asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cChosen?\u201d she asked with a laugh. \u201cWho said anything about being chosen? If there is someone out there, be it God or whoever, picking people at random to carry this curse then he’s one sick son of a bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Freeman scratched a few notes down on his pad.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don’t have delusions of grandeur, doctor\u201d she didn’t mask the annoyance in her voice. \u201cI don’t believe I’m the saviour here to rescue the world from the big bad ghosts\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cRescue us how, exactly?\u201d Freeman asked with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. \u201cI was under the impression that ‘ghosts’ couldn’t hurt you\u201d.<\/p>\n

He was mocking her. She hated this guy already.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon’t patronize me, doctor\u201d, she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what are they like?\u201d he asked, completely ignoring her frustration. \u201cDo they ever talk to you?\u201d
\n
\n\u201cThey are like living people\u201d she said with a sigh of defeat. \u201cMost are nice. They usually mind their own business, rarely interfering with the lives of the living. Others, though, are real assholes. Unfortunately for me, I tend to attract the assholes\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGo on\u201d he said, scratching down a few more notes.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was one who would visit me frequently. When I was around ten years old\u201d she said. \u201cThis guy was bad news. He looked like the kind of guy you would find at a high-school party, hitting on the teenage girls. He terrorized me. In the beginning, he would just try and scare me. I would wake up to see him standing by my bed, or even laying next to me. Whatever he could do to make me cry. He got off on that.<\/p>\n

\u201cEventually, it got physical. He would slap me, scratch me, shove me, you know \u2013 hurt me. It got more severe over time. My parents would ask me about the marks. They never believed me, of course. My mom even ended up leaving my dad. She thought it was him\u201d she wiped a tear from her eye, forcing out a chuckle. \u201cHe was a creep anyway. Sometimes I wanted to blame it on him, just to be rid of him.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cIt kept getting worse. One night, when I was twelve, he’d decided to kick it up a notch. Apparently, the physical pain wasn’t enough.\u201d she cleared her throat. \u201cI could tell, as soon as he showed up that night, that something was different. It was in his eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe sat down on the bed next to me. I started to cry, for the first time in a while. He placed his hand on my thigh. That’s when everything changed\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don’t understand\u201d, said Freeman. \u201cWe’re talking about a ghost here, right? The way you describe it, it’s as though he’s a solid, physical, entity\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAt that point, he was,\u201d she said. \u201cI’ll try to explain that soon,\u201d she started biting the nail on her thumb. \u201cSo he’d placed his hand on me. I knew that what was about to happen would be worse than anything he’d done so far. There was nothing I could do.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, I closed my eyes. I started thinking about something else, you know? Pretending that nothing was happening, like I was somewhere else. Then, his hand went cold, like ice, and I felt it pass through my leg \u2013 like a cold breeze. I opened my eyes and he was gone.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe came back every night that week, trying again and again. Each time, I would close my eyes, block him out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cClosing your eyes made him disappear?\u201d Freeman asked with genuine interest.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was a little more than that\u201d she said. \u201cI don’t pretend to fully understand it, but I think I’ve figured out some of it. As far as I can tell, the more you acknowledge them, the stronger they get. It’s like they feed off of it somehow. After years of haunting me, I had practically accepted him as part of my life. I was a constant source of attention. The bastard was practically alive again when he was around me. Once I started blocking him out, pretending he wasn’t there, he lost all of that. He came back weaker and weaker. In the end, I could barely see him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou still see them?\u201d Freeman asked. \u201cGhosts, I mean\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yes\u201d she said. \u201cThey’re everywhere. Some stronger than others. Sometimes they’re only shadows, other times I could swear they were living people\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what brought you here?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mom\u201d, she smiled. \u201cI don’t blame her. She was just trying to help me and she didn’t know what else to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, is it helping?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cSort of\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d Freeman couldn’t mask the surprise in his voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, there aren’t any ghosts here to bother me. Not even they want to spend their time in a nut house\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMental hos..\u201d he started.<\/p>\n

\u201cMental hospital. I know, whatever.\u201d she glanced at the clock on the wall. \u201cI think our time is up\u201d<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Candace sat on her bed, staring through the window. She watched a small group of children playing in the hospital’s makeshift playground. Tears stained her cheeks. They were so happy. They laughed and screamed while playing on the swing-set.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou’re getting pretty good at that,\u201d came a voice from behind her. Candace looked back at the source. When she did, the children fell through the swings and vanished.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt’s all about focus,\u201d she said to her visitor, Mark. \u201cAs long as you keep feeding them, whatever it is I’m feeding them, they can interact with anything. For a short time, they get to be alive again\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d said Mark. \u201cWe can grab a bite before your group therapy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mark was a volunteer nurse there. His job usually required strapping patients down when they got out of hand. They called him \u201cThe Muscle\u201d. He was also the only person who didn’t think Candace was crazy. She suspected he had a kind of gift. He couldn’t normally see ghosts, but if she’d fed them enough, he could. He was the only one she’d ever met who could do that.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know,\u201d he said, \u201cI watched ‘The Sixth Sense’ last night..\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she interrupted, \u201cYou haven’t been dead this whole time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOK good,\u201d he said, \u201cbut if I was dead, you’d tell me, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you were dead,\u201d she said with a smile, \u201cyou’d know it.\u201d<\/p>\n

————————————————–
\nTo be continued in an upcoming untitled paranormal series..<\/p>\n

Yes, I know nobody died.<\/p>\n

Now, read the other six “Killing Friends” stories<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For Candace Cormier
\n<\/em>
\nCandace slumped back in the chair, staring up at Dr. Freeman. He pitied her, she could tell. It didn’t bother her really, she was used to it. She didn’t really understand it though. Why pity a person for acknowledging the truth? <\/p>\n

∼ Continue Reading ∼<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8,19,22,14,4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-179","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-flash-fiction","category-killing-friends","category-paranormal","category-requests","category-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/179","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=179"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/179\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":186,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/179\/revisions\/186"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=179"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=179"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=179"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}