Haunted House
She was always there. She was always in that room. That damned, grubby, hazy, little room. She used to imagine herself as the ghost who haunted it. The room of little ghost girls. Only she was the only ghost there. Why were there scratch marks on the doorframe? She hadn’t done that, had she? Dove looked down at her nails, now. Dried blood. But no, she must’ve imagined it. She was sitting in the warmth of a kitchen. It wasn’t hers. She didn’t really own much of anything, Dove Burton. A quiet, orange seeped into the walls. There was a spotted white and blue teapot which reminded her of a mushroom. She’d heard a story about a girl the size of a mushroom once. Where had she heard that? It was all in her head, in the end. Nothing was real.
