Was It All Hallucinations?

By Sarah Synk

My mama died years ago. She is now buried in a local graveyard, and it’s a graveyard that is supposedly haunted. My mama wasn’t always fond of ghosts, but by the time I started heading to see her resting place, weird things started happening to me: I began to see evil- haunting ghosts, and I could not tell if this was one of my imaginations.  

 When I saw her soul die, my heart ached. She was removed from her hospital bed, and into the morgue… People in scrubs wrapped Mama in blankets. As she was being transported to the morgue, I could not stop crying. The mascara from my eyes was running down like a waterfall, and my eyes felt tender and puffy.  I felt like I could not breathe at all. We found her death very mysterious after we learned of the fateful news — we wondered: did she potentially poison herself when her friends were not looking, or did someone else poison her? There were a list of possibilities. But, I knew, deep down in my heart, Mama would not poison herself. 

I did not want to go to her funeral. I fell into a depression, which quickly became worse. My school psychologist sent me to group counseling to help me with depression and grief.  I was left with little family — I had to move  in with my Auntie who was very close to my Mama. I wanted to run away from the world. But she was there — my Mama — in a haunted graveyard. My Auntie lived close to the graveyard where my mother wanted to be. I had to live with the thought of her resting place being close to me.  

Three days after Mama’s funeral, as Auntie and I were eating dinner, something felt… weird. Ominous weird. Auntie looked fine. She did not look sinister. Suddenly her eyes turned black, then, just as suddenly, a bloody red. She began to shake violently, and  I screamed. I saw a ghostly girl above Auntie as she shook. I saw her.

The ghostly girl was holding up a dagger. She hummed a haunting tune. Blood then oozed out of her eyes with,  “There she goes…” she sang,”Be dead. Be dead. Be dead…” She then disappeared. 

Auntie’s body laid on the cold floor. She had bumped her head, and a little blood drizzled down on the floor. Auntie began to levitate. Her body when crashing down.  I could not tell if it was the ghost’s blood, or her blood. And yet she managed to survive, with injuries. 

     Each day, every waking day, I did not want to go to the graveyard, but my Mama was there, and I knew I had to go pay my respects. And, of course,  I saw that girl again. This time, she had blood oozing down her face and fangs as teeth. 

 My Auntie had passed, and I was ready to face fears. The way my Auntie  died — it was not a natural death, and then I had to move again, in with my other Aunt on my Mom’s side. This one was very mean, and had problems with alcohol.. By sure luck, she inherited the house, and I still yet lived near that awful graveyard. I was then seventeen. 

 I remember coming home to find my Auntie’s body. Her eyes were ripped out of her forehead, and her head had been severed. 

First Mama, now Auntie. Me living with now an alcoholic aunt who I did not even want to call an aunt, let alone a family member.  My mental health could not have been worse.

  And… in that graveyard… I heard that voice again. It was still the same ghost, in a huge ball gown that was pink with white ribbon around her waist. The ghost had admitted some wacky crazy stuff. But those words, those words I did not want to comprehend. 

This time the ghost girl had a knife. She came closer and closer to me, pointing a dagger, but never hit me. She began admitting to me that she was the one who caused trauma in my life.

 I felt anguish seep throughout my body. I began to yell. I heard more voices, echoey voices. I spaced out, and I saw the girl wearing the huge ball gown, pink, with a white ribbon around her waist. 

And, then, I woke up in a hospital. There were bruises on my hands. A scratch or two. I was delusional and all blurry eyed. I saw that ghostly girl at the hospital. The ghost girl looked at me as each and every nurse passed by me. 

“You’re next, you are next, you are next.” She began to look happy, like a child on Christmas Day.

 Doctors, nurses, had to calm me down, “Please stop!” 

But I kept hearing the words, “You’re next. You’re next — do you want to bet?” The medical professionals had to inject me with a medication to make me become sleepy, and had restrained me, so I could not hurt anyone, but I did not have that urge to!

  Finally, I was released from the hospital, only to be transferred to a mental health facility. I had to attend lots of therapy programs. I knew I would see that ghost again. 

Once a week, I would see my therapist. The therapist was nice. And calm, “What brings you here today, darlin’?” the therapist asked in a Southern accent. 

“There have been a lot of traumatic things that have happened to me.” I said.  She looked at me. And began to look… evil. It was the girl. Again. Standing next to her. The blood… the blood oozing from her eyes. And in her hands, she had a knife. A long silver knife. It began to get very cold. 

The therapist was still there, and my eyesight became blurry. The ghost mouthed, “I’m going to kill you.” I felt my hands gripping the chair handles tight. I began crying. Before I knew it, I passed out. I was in a hospital bed, and had a hospital gown on. Sweating. 

A nurse was hovering over me, with a flashlight. It was burning my eyes. I shot right up. I couldn’t stop crying, still.

“Ssssh…” the nurse said, “it is okay.” 

“My therapist! Is she okay?!”

 The nurse smiled, “She is fine, don’t worry sweetie. You just had a mental breakdown. That’s all. But you were muttering about a ghost. Do tell me what happened.”

 I did not want to tell her. I really did not, for fear the ghost would show up, and haunt me again. “Anyways,” the nurse said, “it is dinner time. We will be having dinner in the Community Living Room Center.” She helped me up, and took one of my frail arms, and we walked across the hall into the Living Room Center where the patients and I had breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Sometimes we got along, sometimes we did not. Most patients that day were laughing, and I saw snickering.    “Well…” one of the mental health patients said, “Welcome Ghost Girl…”