Diary of a Necromancer

October 6th, 1996

The sun shines bright over the ocean and beach cities. The slight breeze from the water offsets the heat from the summer air. I lay down in the grass with my eyes closed, feeling the contrast between the dewy grass and the warmth of the sun. This strange duality of sensations is appealing and mirrors my developing years.

"Lydia! Come into church!" my mother screams from the front steps into the narthex. I take another deep breath before sitting up and dusting off my dress. I turn to see her disapproving expression. Dresses, much like little girls, were not meant for dirt and fun. I smile at her as I let her rush me inside.

I take a seat next to my sister and brothers, always in the front row - like little jewels on display for the rest of the congregation. This is where I've been all my life: sitting in church as a perfect reflection of my power-coupled parents. It never felt natural to me, at least not as natural as my siblings made it seem. But I hadn't thought to question it. After all, this was the medicine we all needed to be 'well' and better humans.

The predictable series of events proceeds as it had every Sunday since I could remember. I knew the songs by heart as well as the Lord's Prayer. When it's time to 'greet your neighbors,' I follow my sister with an equally wide smile. Socialization comes so much more easily to her. I admire her skill in creating what seems to me like pointless conversations.

As it finishes and the gathering music starts to play, I, again, follow close behind my sister and resume our seats. My father is now in the center of the stage. I can see his glowing aura around him: whipping shades of white and purple. In my mind, he seems a perfect replica of the Jesus he always talks about. My father seems to have truly understood the assignment of following in Jesus' footsteps. Therefore, I find his sermons and words somewhat easier to believe.

I try to focus and hear what he is saying, but my child brain does not always compute the more adult messages he conveys. My mind wanders, and my eyes lose focus. I am not sure how long I stare off into nothing, but my attention is brought back by the sound of laughter. I look at my sister, but she is still as motionless as a statue - focusing on our father. My father is still speaking, and nothing about his words sounds comical.

I glance around and hear the laughter again, coming from the stage. I turn to see a haunted little girl with black, hollow eyes hiding behind my father. I'm very aware that - once again - no one sees her but me. I let out a fearful sigh.

I stiffen in my seat and keep my eyes locked on the girl. Even with just dark holes for eyes, I can tell she is looking at me. I slowly reach over and squeeze my sister's hand. I don't want to tell her - or anyone else - what I'm seeing. I've long since learned that only gets met with dismissal and more prayer groups. I have been told repeatedly that I have an overactive imagination. But I don't want to face the ghosts alone.

"Come play with me," the girl gargles in a voice that sounds washed out with water. I slowly shake my head and try to will her to leave. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tell myself that she's not real. When I open my eyes, she is now inches from my face and screams with water pouring out of her mouth. I jolt and let out a small yelp. My siblings are the only ones who seem to notice.

October 9th, 1996

I said prayers at dinner, still firmly believing that if I didn't, my food might poison me. I sit in my bed now, and pray with my sister. I stare at her iris/marine aura. She is speaking the words out loud while I repeatedly ask God, in my head, to take away the visions of ghosts and monsters. He never answers me, though.

"Bianca, how do you know you're still in Jesus' light?" I asked as she finishes. My sister looks at me strangely, and I start to regret asking. I hope she doesn't ask questions about the ghosts.

"Are you worried you're not in Jesus' light?" she asks, giving nothing away. I swallow hard and nod. I am a bit surprised when she leans in to hug me. "Jesus still loves you. You're doing just fine. You can talk to him, you know."

She pulls away as she says this, and I look at her incredulously.

"Like prayers? He never answers," I admit. She gives me a sly smile.

"Are you sure? Maybe you are just missing his messages," Bianca replies. She looks mischievous, and I can't tell if she's serious.

"How could I miss the answers?"

"Well, when Jesus answers, it's not like how I'm answering you. Sometimes it's in signs or dreams or things you feel. Talk to him again and then see what happens. Now go to sleep." Bianca kisses my forehead and moves over to her own bed.

I lie down and close my eyes. I do feel better, though I'm not sure I fully understand. I ask again for Jesus to take away the nightmares, and then put up no resistance and let sleep take me.

"Lydia!"

My eyes shoot open, and my heart is pounding.

"Lydia!" The voice is more sing-song-like this time. I recognized it immediately and closed my eyes tightly again. "I know you're awake, and I know you can hear me. Why won't you answer me?"

I feel an indentation on the bed and a hand trace along my foot up to my knee. I want to scream, but I won't risk waking my sister like that - not again. The hand on my knee starts to pinch, and I whimper before throwing the blankets off of me and moving his hand by force. He's sitting on the edge of my bed, smiling. He looks as if the wounds on his cheek have been patched up a bit more now, but there's still blood trickling down the sides of his mouth.

Only two people are standing behind him now, but neither of them is looking at me. The woman with him seems to be concerned about the surroundings, like someone lost trying to get her bearings. I don't blame her. The child is more disturbing. They seem to shift constantly, creating a haunting and genderless appearance. They dart around with playful laughter, threatening to knock things down. Only a hard stare from the man on the bed makes the child pause and behave.

"What do you want?" I didn't mean my voice to sound so harsh, and I feel guilty watching him flinch back.

"I thought we were friends," he says, quietly. "I thought we could hang out and talk."

"It's the middle of the night. I want to sleep," I whine. It isn't a lie, but it isn't the entire truth either. I just don't want to be forced to acknowledge them. "I can't talk to you right now."

He narrowed his eyes.

"You don't talk to me at all, even when you're awake. You'd rather pretend I don't exist," he snarls. I sigh, and my guilt grows.

"I'm the only one who can see you! If I talk to you, everyone thinks I'm crazy!" I bark, throwing up my hands. I glance at my sister and try to calm down. "Who knows? Maybe I am just crazy."

Instantly, at my words, the child crawls on top of me and shoves their hollow face into mine. Their eyes are like black pools of the beckoning abyss. Their smile is rotted with chalky teeth filled with dirt and pieces of bugs. It seems as if their dirty blonde hair is in constant flux: growing shorter and longer.

"Maybe you are," the child growls. They press their tiny fingers deep into my shoulders and their knees into my legs. I can feel the whole weight of the child and swallow hard. It isn't difficult to see the point they are making. Behind the child, the man starts to smile.

"Fine, alright. What do you expect me to do?" I ask, feeling defeated. The child crawls down under my bed using their feet and hands. This causes their elbows and knees to stick out abnormally, and they look more like a spider. I shiver.

The man pinches my knee again.

"Talk to us, play with us," he answers. I throw up my hands half-heartedly again, gesturing my surrender.

"I can't do anything that would make too much noise. I don't want to wake up my sister." At once, all the ghostly faces in the room glance over at my sister's unconscious body.

"Bianca!" the child cries out in a sort of sing-song voice. I eye the kid and instantly they shut their mouth.

"What are your names?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Since you all already know so much about me."

"This is Danny, he's known as the nightmare man," the man on the bed said, gesturing to the woman glancing around. I raise a curious eyebrow. As if sensing my confusion, the man continues, "He's able to take many shapes and forms. I'm sure when he's comfortable, you'll see his true form. The child is Emily."

Again, I look at him curiously. The man smiles, revealing his broken and rotted mouth.

"You'll find that in death, things are not as black and white. Well, they aren't actually so black and white in the land of the living either, but you are all so well adapted to seeing things how you want to see them and not as they are."

"And you? What's your name?" I ask, hesitantly. His smile became sinister and dripped with what looked like muddy goo.

"My name is Jason."