000. Psst, I see dead people.
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Jolene Patterson's Diary, July 9th, 1992

So, the therapist said writing in this journal — or diary or whatever the heck you want to call it — would be good for me after Johanna died, but I don't need it. Johanna is next to me; she sleeps beside me, braids my hair into those pigtails I hate but she loves. My twin is with me, so why does everyone else say she's gone? That she's buried in that dusty old cemetery?

Mom's taken time off work, and she barely leaves her room anymore. She moves through the house like a shadow, her body present but her eyes vacant. It feels like I never see her. I keep trying to tell her that Johanna is still with us. She didn't leave—she would never leave us. She would never leave me.

Michael (my second best friend. The first will always be Johanna.) tried to come over again but my dad just sent him away, I can't face him. Or anyone.

The first time I said Johanna is still here, my parents looked at me with this awful sadness that seemed to press them down, like they were carrying a weight too heavy to bear. The second time, Lucas threw a glass at me and shouted for me to go to my room, that I was making mom and dad upset. (He's two years older, so he thinks he's in charge, that he knows what's best for me, for all of us.) The third time, Mom screamed at me, her voice raw, and then she started sobbing, saying I need to move on, that I have to stop clinging to a ghost.

But why would I even need to move on? I still see Johanna—even after the accident. (She has my face, but the left side is torn and bloody, a deep gash has taken away her eye—those eyes that always looked at me with such understanding, such love.) Sometimes, I reach out to touch her cheek, and my fingers come away cold, slick with something I can't quite name. But she's there. She's there.

At night, when the house is quiet, I hear her humming the lullaby Mom used to sing to us when we were little. She sits at the edge of my bed, her voice soft and sweet, and I close my eyes and try to pretend that everything is like it used to be. That we're just playing hide-and-seek again, that Johanna is hiding somewhere, ready to jump out and shout, "Gotcha!" But she never does, and the humming fades, leaving me with only shadows and the sound of my own breath.

The therapist talks about "grieving" and "processing my loss." He says things like "stages of acceptance" and "letting go," but what does he know? How could he understand? He didn't know Johanna. He didn't know how she was always the brave one, how she'd hold my hand during thunderstorms and make up stories about us being explorers in some wild jungle. How could he possibly understand that she still does that, even now?

Maybe it's better this way, just me and Johanna, and the way the world slips away when it's just us. But sometimes, a thought creeps in—what if they're right? What if... Johanna isn't really there, not the way I think she is? What if she's not with me, but trapped somewhere, waiting for me to understand, to set her free?

I don't want to think about that. I don't want to imagine her lost and alone (or me trapping her here.). So I keep listening for her voice, keep waiting for her to hold my hand, just like she used to.

Maybe I'll write more tomorrow. Maybe not. What's the point, if no one believes me? What's the point, if they can't see what I see?

Lots of love,

Jolene, Age 14

Jolene Patterson's Diary, August 5th, 1992

It's me again. I'm not much of a writer, but I have to get this out. The strangest thing happened to me today, and I can't shake it.

(P.S. Johanna says hi!)

So, the Roberts family lives across from us. I don't know much about them, except for what Taissa Turner told me. Apparently, their mom's not all there—like, totally cuckoo. She screams and shouts about things only she can see. Haunted, she says. Who knows? Maybe we're not so different.

I mean, I still see Johanna. She still talks to me, still smiles (though her smile is jagged and bloody now, and I try not to flinch every time I see it). I've learned to stop telling Mom, Dad, or Lucas about it. They just don't get it. They look at me like I'm the crazy one.

I'm not. I swear.

But, anyway, back to the weird part. I was outside today, playing hopscotch alone. Well, not really alone. Johanna was with me, but no one else can see her, I guess. As I was hopping around, I noticed Shauna Shipman and Jacqueline Taylor—who now insists on being called Jackie—walking past my house. They were whispering and pointing, trying to be subtle. Not very well, though. I know what they were talking about. At school, I'm the "girl with the dead sister."

Lovely, right?

While they walked by, I noticed Mr. Roberts standing outside his house. I thought it was kind of strange, him just standing there, staring off like that. So, being the polite neighbor I am, I walked over and said, "Did you forget your key?"

And then he turned.

Oh my God.

There were stab wounds all over him—his neck, chest, stomach. Everywhere.

He was dead. Mr. Roberts was fucking dead.

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but I didn't stick around. I ran. I could hear him calling my name, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't turn back.

Later, I found out Mrs. Roberts stabbed him. Why? When? I don't know. I don't care. I just want the image of his dead body out of my head.

But we never get what we want, do we? As my mother always says, "Life's not fair, Jolene."

Later, Mr. Roberts appeared again. He shouted "Johanna!" as he stood outside my window, but when he saw me standing next to her, he seemed confused. "I mean, Jolene." I was too scared to say anything.

"What?!" Johanna hissed, my ever-protective guardian angel. "Go away!"

But he didn't. He just stood there, pleading. He wanted me to tell his daughter and son that he was sorry, that he loved them. Johanna told me I didn't have to listen to him, that I didn't owe him anything. But the way he begged... I couldn't ignore it.

So I did it. At the funeral, I told Mary Jane, his daughter, what he'd said. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it would bring her some comfort.

But it didn't.

Mary Jane's face twisted with rage as I spoke. "You think you can just waltz in here and tell me what my dad said?" she screamed, her voice cracking with emotion. "What do you know about it? You're just some freak!"

I was taken aback, and before I could respond, she lunged at me. I barely had time to react before she punched me square in the nose. Pain shot through my face as I stumbled back, my vision blurring for a moment.

"Mary Jane, stop!" her brother shouted, grabbing her arms in an attempt to hold her back. He looked horrified, torn between wanting to defend me and trying to calm his sister down. "You can't just hit her! She's not the enemy!"

(I'm guessing the enemy he was referring to was his mother, the cause of their father's death.)

But she was beyond reason. "She doesn't know anything! She's lying! How could she even think she has the right to speak for him?" Mary Jane screamed, her voice filled with heartbreak and anger.

I felt tears prick at my eyes, but I fought them back. "I was just trying to help," I stammered, but my words were lost in the chaos.

Mary Jane continued to struggle against her brother's grip, trying to reach me again. "You're a freak! You think you can bring him back? You're just a weirdo who talks to ghosts!"

I flinched at that. Do people think that? I thought I was good at hiding it?

Her brother, struggling to restrain her, shot me an apologetic look, but Mary Jane wasn't finished. She yelled one last thing before her brother finally managed to pull her away, "Get away from my family!"

I sat there on the ground, clutching my nose as blood trickled down my lip. The pain was sharp—like tiny needles pressing into my face—and I could feel my scalp throbbing from where she'd yanked my hair. But the worst part wasn't the physical pain. It was the way she looked at me, like I was some kind of monster.

The funeral became a whirlwind of confused looks and whispered conversations directed my way. People whispered behind their hands, shaking their heads, and I heard the word "freak" more times than I could count.

I thought I was doing the right thing, but I ended up making everything worse.

After that, Mom wouldn't speak to me. She said I'd made a spectacle at the funeral, that I'd embarrassed the family.

When I got home, she finally confronted me. "What did you do this time, Jolene?" she asked, her voice filled with disappointment. I didn't know what to say. How could I explain what had happened? How could I make her understand?

"People are talking, Jolene," she said, finally turning to look at me. "They're saying you caused a scene. You embarrassed us. I told you to stop with this nonsense."

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell her I was just trying to help, but the words got stuck in my throat. What was the point? No one ever believed me.

So, I just stood there, staring at the floor, my nose still throbbing. When I got home, Mom shook her head and sighed. "That's it," she said. "Tomorrow, we're taking you to the institution. You need help, Jolene. You can't keep doing this." (Doing what? I wanted to scream. Who am I hurting? But I faltered at that because I hurt Mary Jane. I didn't mean to.)

I didn't say anything. I couldn't.

Tomorrow, I'm being sent away.

So, goodbye for now I'll be burying this within the floorboards of my room.

Jolene,  Age 14.

♱ Author's note she's just a misunderstood teenage girl who can see ghosts ☹️☹️☹️☹️