Communicator

They say when people die their spirits go on to the afterlife. However, what if they had to see something through and had to catch the person who murdered them. However, since their transparent and, well dead, they need a connecter to communicate with the living to solve their own murder. These people are “Communicators” You see there are four types of people in this world; People who murder, People who find the murders, victims, and Communicators’. Communicators’ work for a secret government that secretly runs the other world or spirit world. Cause if they did not the world would be in constant chaos. It is a Communicators’ duty to help the spirits cross over to the other side. If they do not cross within a certain period, the spirit will never cross over.

My parents and older sister were murdered. Somehow, I survived with the price of my memory having been obliterated. How do I know? After the murder, I acquired a unique ability to communicate with the dead. I had become a connector, only I didn’t know it at the time. Because of this gift or curse I was able to help my family find peace. I used to live at the end of an old dirt road with a bunch of blue and yellow wild flowers growing on each side of the road, but as beautiful as it was, the road was rocky which made it difficult to reach the house. It is a 1900s two story house, with white wood walls sparkled in the sun and the grass-green window panes match perfectly with the carefully cut grass. You see, my sister and I were twins in a way, we looked alike from a distance.

However, as we share lots of similar interests, we also have our differences. The eldest daughter, my sister, loved to read books, cook, sew, and do all the normal little girls do. While the youngest one, I of course, loved to play sports, go camping, climb trees, and wear boy’s clothes.

Then one-day the town’s people noticed that my sister and I did not come to school for weeks. We never missed a single day of school before, our mom made sure of that. Even mom and dad did not even show up at work. Our teacher tried calling the house, only to have the voice recording picked up. The townsfolk were concerned about what would happen to us. Therefore, the sheriff sent a friend of my family, who is the best trooper to check up on us.

The trooper walked up the steps of the house that hid the family. He rang the doorbell, waiting and listening. He waited a little longer; the cold spring air blew through his coat. He shivered as the cold air slithered down into his bones and settled in until it was to be warmer.

The overstuffed mailbox rattled as the wind blew at it furiously sending some of the upwind. The messy uncut grass made a whistling sound as a group of flutes played one note at once. The dying flowers on the window seal were begging for water to save them from their slow painful death. The window panes creaked, as they were being pushed back and forth in the cool spring air. The wooden porch creaked, nails had come loose, and it was staid with rainwater. The house had a certain vibe to it that morning like sadness and anger mixed into one.

As the trooper knocked on the door, again, it blew open by a strong gust of air. The door was unlocked, not a good sign. The trooper cautiously enters the house, his right hand on his favorite revolver ready for action. He stridently called out each of our names one by one. Only the sounds of the soft rat paws and the metallic echo of the broken air-conditioner is what filled the house.

The hallway’s floors creaked beneath his shoes as spiders had apparently taken it upon themselves to make themselves at home. A few mice scurried across the floor back to their nest in the chewed through wall. The trooper knew my parents would never let the house get this disorganized if we were home. There was an unpleasant smell in the air coming from the living room. Stopping short of the entrance, he notices a strange red substance that had been smeared on the floor. After examining the strain substance he knew exactly what it was; blood. The officer had been to many crime scenes over the years and he had seen blood before, however it’s different when you see it in a house with somebody you know.

A river of dried blood lay on the floor coming out from the living room. The wall smeared with numerous drops of blood; he turns the corner not knowing what he is about to encounter. The smell of death filled the room; he almost fell to the floor and gagged. Unable to stand from the horrific smell he crawls over behind the sofa. As he lifted his head over the sofa, the color on his face vanished. Walking into the room, he stared down on the floor to find the family massacre. Their bodies already started to decompose. Bloodstains clutched to their clothes and the furniture.

“THIS IS TROOPER 5; WE HAVE MURDER HERE ON LATINO DR. ALL UNITS PLEASE RESPOND!” That day the sounds of police sirens filled the air, which is rare for the townspeople. Fear, sorrow, and pain filled the whole town that day along with flowers and tears.

They called that day Famiglia dei morti. The town tried to sell the house but no one wanted to buy the house; due to the strange occurrences that have been happening. Every family that bought the house we’re only staying for a week. And every time they left they always said that they were strange noises in the walls, disturbing smells, floors cracking as if somebody was walking over them even though everyone was in the same room, there was even one reporting of someone hearing a voice of a girl crying and whimpering in the dark at night.

Until one day, my adopted father bought the very same house over the internet. I would not have been very thrilled to go back to my family’s murder site. Nevertheless, to see all my old friends and neighbors again, to show them I was ok would have been heartwarming.

Yes, it probably would have been nice. The only problem is; I do not remember.