It was cold and dark when my parents left. Since I was only 11 at the time, they planned on getting me a babysitter. They never got around to it, so they forced my older sister, Ally, to look after me while they were out. I was sitting in the living room, munching corn chips and watching a sappy movie. Ally was in the kitchen, trying to find her cellphone which I was purposely sitting on. Ally burst into the room and was bright red with frustration. “Where’s my phone, dork!” she yelled, storming up to me and snatching the remote out of my hands before switching off the TV. “How am I supposed to know?” I teased, shifting so I was facing her directly. Ally stomped her tiny foot. I stared deep into her eyes, daring her to make the first move. She turned on her heal and stomped back into the kitchen. I smiled in triumph.
Later that night, strange things started to happen. I was sprawled out on the couch channel surfing with the blankets pulled over me. Suddenly, there was an almighty bang from the kitchen. Ally finally got her phone from under my butt and marched off to bed. I squealed and being the wuss I was, pulled the blankets closer to me. Eventually, I gathered the courage to pull the blankets off my head.
There stood, in the doorway, a little girl. I should have screamed, but I didn’t. She was my age, with brushed black hair and sorrow-filled blue eyes. She was dressed in a little sun dress with sandals. But strangely, I wasn’t afraid. She lifted her hand and waggled her petite little fingers at me. I gulped and waved back. I watched as she skipped across the room to the couch where she sat beside me. “I’m Millie,” she giggled, offering me a broken corn chip from a bag she was holding. I shook my head. “I’m Avalon, you can call me Ava,” I replied. This was so weird.
We chatted that night for hours, until she left. She just disappeared into thin air.
A few weeks later, she appeared again. This time, her hair was pulled into pigtails and her clothing were replaced by shorts and and shirt. “Hi!” she greeted me, sitting beside me under the oak tree behind our house. “What’s up?” I asked. I lent back against the tree. Millie shook her head and relaxed. “Mother will be waiting,” she whispered. Her face was serious and I saw fear etched in with her cute features. With that, Millie disappeared.
Ever since then, Millie constantly appears to me. Sometimes she leaves with the excuse that her “mother” is waiting or she just disappears mid-conversation. I’ve never tried to confide in anyone about Millie, suspecting they’d just laugh at me since I’m fourteen now. But I was determined to figure out who Millie was. So I decided to research the house we lived in.
Apparently, Millie was murdered by her own mother. Word has it that she misses her old life, where she had close friends and a loving father, who was also killed. I don’t pressure Millie into telling me more about her past. I don’t want to upset her.