My name was, well still is Jessie. Jessie Gonzalas. This might not be the first time you have heard my name, I was on the news. You probably tuned in to the news to see a report about me and my face plastered on your glowing blue screen. To you, I was another kid. You probably changed the channel unconcerned.

I was an average teenager, age 16. I had or have two amazing wonderful hard working parents. I was living a normal life. Sometimes I got what I wanted and sometimes I didn't, just like you, right? I wasn't what you could call a popular kid.

It wasn't unusual to find me as I spent some of my free time reading. I wasn't a social loner either. Hanging out with my friends was mostly a daily routine. You could call me a reader, Oh how I wish I could read now. I would skim my finger through the engraving of my favorite book. "A Wrinkle Through Time" and feel its rough and flat cover against my smooth fingertips.

To me reading was amazing and thrilling but writing was more complicated and boring. You might be saying "But Jess, it's the same thing!" But it's not, It was too hard to have creative juices flowing through my brain, So now you may be asking, well than what am I doing here? What am I doing right now?

I guess you could say I can't keep it all in. The pressure. The suspense. The horrid...the ear-piercing screams that escaped my lips. I need to tell my story, well of course I can't speak. That is why I need to pour my story onto you.

You.

That is why you are here. So now I'm here. The In between. I kept yelling at people, trying to make them listen to my story. People never listened. They always turned away with misty eyes. The police didn't listen. Neither did my parents. Although you can't blame them, Nobody really believes in the dead. Or the undead for that matter. The undead. Thats where we could say my story started.

The glowing luminous light surrounds my bedroom with a bright yellow warm light. Gleaming and glowing like a radiant yellow flower. My books untouched, neat, and straight in my small pink shelf. Boxes litter the right of my room. I stare at the ceiling fan, searching for ideas.

What should I write about? I'm suppose to write a fractured story about my favorite fairytale. My mind stays blank from the lack of ideas while I stare at the painted plaster. "Think" I spoke to the open air over and over again as if maybe if I spoke enough an idea would "POP" into my head.

My voice sounds crisp and cunning. I haven't spoken in a while. "What to write?" I tap my chin with the pencil and sat up, laying my back against the backboard of the bed. I pick up the pink notebook against my pillow. It's lifeless figure lay in my hands as I trace a flower into the margins of the paper.

"Snow White? No what could I make out of a girl who falls in love with a goon! Cinderella? What could I write about some girl who is so stereotypical, waiting for her stupid prince charming?" With a mind like mine, it's hard to find the missing pieces of a simple puzzle. A story about a girl haunting my very room never came to mind.

I throw the note book at the foot of my bed and rest my head deeper into my pillow. "What to write?" I try throwing my pencil onto the desk near my window but I miss and it rolls onto the floor. I rest my hands over my eyes and think about my life.

Ever since my mom and dad became working parents it felt like things were hard as we drifted apart. They were always so distant, I wouldn't think poorly of them now. We moved here from Minnesota because both my parents found great job offerings.

We moved to Oregon so my mom could achieve the job she found in Washington and my dad could ride over to the job he found in California. My mom's here more than my father but it still wasn't much. They wanted to stay as close as they could to me as possible considering the lesson they learned from when I was 11.

My 11th birthday party went by in a flash. There was no celebration because it seemed as if my parents completely forgot! When I woke up they were gone so excitement filled me. I thought they were going out to buy birthday party decorations but that dream slowly faded when they didn't come home until 1 in the morning the next day. They found me crying on the brown leather couch in the living room and quickly remembered.

After that, I ran away to my best friend's house. She opened the door while her parents were in the living room and snuck me into her room. We pretended we were princess for a good 2 hours. They found me only because Jenny's parents called them and told them I moved in to Jenny's room with out her parents consent.

They came up to give Jenny some lemonade and cookies then saw me as I "wished the magical icky prince away." Do not judge me. That was long ago. Now I'm here in Oregon and I hate every minute of it. We moved here last week and I started going to this dumb high school. My parents found this "great" home. In their eyes its amazing but in mine's... lets just say I prefer less cobwebs.

The house has a purple gloom. It's eerie. My room is in the tower attached to it! Yes, a tower! It tumbles over the building casting a long shadow. People run when they past it! People including me! "It just needs to be touched up by some paint and new floorboards!" My mother grimaced. The floor boards cracked under her feet just as she said this, making her jolt back then try playing it off with a nervous smile.

I nestle my head deeper into the pillow. What am I going to do? Fail? All I could hear were my even, regular breathing. My notebook that lies at the foot of the bed, light clashes  over its white pages. Mom and Dad are at work until Tuesday. My birthday. I rise and slowly defended from my creaking bed. I walked against the cold stone like floor and walked over to the small desk in the corner of the room, away from the boxes which my bed sat.

Looking down at the calendar became a routine for me. "Sunday" it read. I picked up a stow away sharpie from the draw of my desk. I gripped it's smooth edges as I circled two days ahead on the calendar. "17!" I marked it and drew a small balloon around the number. soon I would be 17! This seemed to lighten the dim room's mood.

Then the lights flickered.

A flash of darkness erupted through my room and panic struck me like a bullet to the chest. "A power outage?" My aderline levels went down as I calmly slid on the cold stone floors to the white rug. I approached one of the smooth cardboard boxes and opened the two flaps enclosing me from its contents.

My hand brushed around lots of different things. A pack of trident gum which I threw in here yesterday, 3 books I got last Christmas, a binder filled of blank paper, a drawing kit which I used to sketch and hold my paint, My paintbrushes in which I used to love making dance around my canvas as they created a stunning image, unused copy paper, and finally a small pouch decorated with a floral design.

Zipping open the package I look inside. 3 black slender flashlights. I grip one and flick its switch checking it for power. One. Good. I checked the second one and flicked it on. Nope. Then I checked the third one and pressed it's button. Good.

I slip the two flashlights into the big pocket of my Stanford University sweatshirt and continued searching for the lavender scented candles my mother packed in case of a situation like this. I find them and as my hand crept inside the box the power went out. "I didn't get the matches!" I frantically whisper.

I'm stirred with panic as I try to remember where I left the matches, as I stare into the empty abyss which once formed my room. I couldn't see the outline of my bed or anything else so I quickly fumble with the flashlight in my hands. As it was about to slip out of my hands,  I grip it and flip the switch.

A white light beam shines through out the whole room brightening it and taming my anxiety. I go over to my dresser and open it revealing a clutter of un taken and un cared for stack of papers. I shuffle through the mess until my hands clasp onto a small square box shaped item. "Bingo." I mutter to myself.

I strode back to the box and pick up a candle and place it on the desks surface. Unsuccessfully I strike one match. No flame. I strike it a second time. No flame trickles in the darkness. I strike a third time. No such luck. I smothered the match's head just in case a flame wants to suddenly spark and toss the match onto the desk. I strike a different match and it sets aflame warming my face with its golden fire.

Quickly I lit the candle and blow out the match. Smoke stains the air. A grey foggy puff traveled through the vacant space but I swipe it away with my hands making myself cough. The light made the room seem more brighter yet so much smaller.

I settle on the chair pushed into my desk. "How did the power outage start?" I mumble to myself in curiosity. I look out the tall glass window and see no storm. Just a dark sky and a few sleeping houses. My breaths pace starts to quicken.

A shuffling of footsteps.

A loud crash following its absence.

I wave the flashlight around to the area where I last heard the noise. A box fell over, but what caused it to? I step closer to the box and see a hole, cardboard shreds scattered across my white rug. Something dug into the cardboard box? Termites?

I've never had termites before. But I know termites don't work that fast. I start carving my hand into the freshly made hole. I lift my hand and something slides between my pale fingertips.

A strand of bright golden hair.

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First Chapter!

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