This is for the YOUR CHOICE under paranormal and horror.

Over a century ago, before mass murders and serial killers became more abundant in the minds of the general public, the crime of the decade was committed in a small, peaceful village in Villisca, Iowa. The crime is commonly known as the Villisca Axe Murders. Now, for those who cringe at blood and have a small stomach for gore and other grisly details, I suggest you quit while you’re ahead and read no further. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The tragedy went down on the night of June 10, 1912. The J.B. Moore family and the Stillinger sisters, who were staying over that night at the Moore's family house, were brutally murdered in their beds. Their heads were smashed in with the blunt side of an axe, which had been stolen from the grounds of the estate. When Marshall Horton, a neighbor and family friend came in to check that next day, he found a horrific sight.  In the master bedroom, Sarah and Josiah B. Moore, the Moore parents, lay motionless in the bed, their heads smashed into their pillows. It was estimated that they had been hit around 20 to 30 times with an axe; first the blunt side, then later the sharp. The dresser mirror had been covered by the killer with a white sheet, and he or she had left gouge marks on the walls and blood splattered everywhere. Inferring from the pool of blood at the foot of the Moore's bed, the killer had spent some time wallowing in the glory of what he had just done, then moved on to the next room.

In the pallor bedroom, the shades on the windows were drawn tightly, but the forms of two people could still be made out under the sheets, even in the semi-darkness. There were dark stains of blood, and one little arm dangled out over the side of the bed. Ina May and Lena Stillinger were friends of 10-year-old Katherine Moore, who had invited them to stay the night. Both had their heads smashed in as well. The mirror was once again covered, a kerosene lamp lay at the foot of the bed. The bloody axe used for the killings was found propped up against the bedroom wall. Judging by the position of Lena Stillinger’s body, she had been the only victim who had attempted to fight off the attacker.

The final room, the south bedroom, held the Moore children and the same gruesome sight as the other bedrooms. In one bed lay the body of the Moore's oldest son, Herman. He lay on his stomach, his head turned to mush. In another bed was Katherine Moore, head beaten in and dress covered in blood. The bodies of the two youngest boys, Boyd and Paul, were also found their heads gouged in like all the rest. All the bodies were found the same way, mangled, heads turned into brain purée, bloody and disgusting.

Many people tried to explain what happened that night. Perhaps the killer broke in to the cellar while the family was at their Sunday evening church, then snuck out while they were sleeping and killed them. Others actually accused people, one of which was Sarah’s brother in law, Lee Van Glider, who was prone to violence and had a brush with the law before. Another suspect was Reverend Kelly, a crazed preacher who traveled around the country. Most concluded it was a passing serial killer, who had seen the axe and thought, ‘There's my weapon, I'm going to do something with it’.

The thing that irked authorities the most, and what made it hard to prosecute and charge anyone, was the lack of evidence. The killer had removed the blood from his hands and clothes, all the doors were tightly locked, as well as the windows, and the curtains were still drawn, not a smear of a hand print on them. So the case was closed down, never to be investigated.

In 1930 reports of paranormal activity in the house began to pop up. A pair of newlyweds, Homer and Bonnie Ritner, had rented the property, unbeknownst of its grim history. They reported apparitions of a man sleeping at the foot of their bed, and hearing footsteps and noises all over the house with no logical explanation. When they complained about the disturbances to their neighbors and members of the community, they were finally told about the history of the house.

After that, they refused to sleep in the house, so they set up a bedroom in the barn, but the strange occurrences remained, continuing to haunt them. Doors would randomly swing back and forth at whim. They would close a door only to see it open again right in front of their eyes.

In the 1970's a local bank bought the house and used it as rental property. Renters and guests reported sounds of crying children, laughter, and strange voices. They would awake to find their clothes strewn all over the room and their dresser draws pulled open. Lamps would fall out of nowhere, and objects would be moved by unseen hands. Some had recorded audio, video, and photographic evidence of paranormal activity. One tale tells of a skeptical renter, sharpening a knife. It flew out of his hand and stabbed him in the eye.

No one had dared try to explain what happened that night in over three decades. No one had tried to reopen the case and figure out who was responsible for the murders. At one point a couple even decided to restore the house, and open it up for tours. With such a gruesome and mysterious history, who would think that the case of the Villisca Axe Murder House would be opened up again over a hundred years later by two Irish teens?

Present Day…

It was a cloudy, overcast day as we drove through the cornfields of Nebraska in the Soolivan Family forest green Mercedes. I stared out of my window, like the artists you see in sad music videos, at the dismal sky above. Wind from the rolled down car window buffered my face, making my eyes sting.

“Mom, can you roll up the windows?” I complained. I glanced over at my brother who had his eyes secretly glued to his phone, even though mom had confiscated them at the beginning of the ride. He must have snuck an extra one into his pocket, as he has a secret drawer full, just in case he gets grounded from another one of his antics. My mom silently fulfilled my request, rolling up the windows; a cool feeling was left on my skin. I sighed deeply and leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes.

“Why are we even doing a job at this house?” my brother asked, putting his secret phone away in the pocket of his black jacket. He said it quietly, so I knew it was directed towards me. Well, then again, why would it be directed towards mom?

“It's the Villisca Axe Murder House, one of the most haunted places in America,” I hissed, “It was on the top of dad's list for jobs he wanted to do. He was going to get to it next before ‘You-know-what’.”

                “So how detrimental is it, on a scale of one to ten?”

                “Thirty-five, easily.”

                “Are you trying to get us killed?” I rolled my eyes at my incompetent brother. My dad had been paranormal investigator, meaning he made sure ghosts went where they were supposed to and they didn't hurt other people. When we were little, he would take us along, and show us all the tools he used to suck the ghosts into oblivion, but a year ago mom decided ghost hunting was too dangerous for the family, even though our blood line had been doing it for hundreds of years. After failing to convince our father to give up ghost hunting, she quit. So we secretly helped our dad out, getting knowledge and information, learning techniques, etc. We even got our own weapons; Keith a crossbow, and a dagger for me. They were made out of special steel, made for killing ghosts, forged hundreds of years ago and passed down through generation after generation. Disastrously, our dad was involved in a fatal car accident, 6 months ago. My mom decided to plop us into school (before we hadn't had enough time to go to a real public school from moving around the country so much), and settle down in the middle of Tombstone, Arkansas. Thankfully, even though she retired from the family business, my mom still had a liking for spooky places and ghost stories. The minute summer hit, she packed up our things and set out for a “Haunted America” road trip. Behind her back, Keith and I began doing jobs on our own, taking after dad. Every actual haunted place we stopped at became a job for us. The house has been my suggestion, as its story was not like any other I had come across.

                “What are you two talking about?” my mom asked cheerfully. I came up with a quick lie.

                “I think Keith stole my charm bracelet.” My brother turned and gave me disbelieving look, but I waved him off. It was easier to keep the whole brother-and-sister-feud thing than risk mom finding out about the jobs we've been doing. My mom made a face in the rear view mirror.

                “Honey, you shouldn't argue with your brother.” I almost sighed in relief that she bought our alibi, but instead stared out the window as we crossed the Iowa border. Boredom is my specialty.

                “So, Sheena, tell me about the house,” my mom requested excitedly, her thick Irish accent heavily emphasizing my name.

                “Err,” I stuttered for a second, before aligning the facts in my head. I explained all about the murders, as the two sat quietly in their seats.

                Keith stared at me unblinking. He had heard all this before, while we were doing research, and was very familiar with the supernatural history of the house. Mom, on the other hand, squirmed in her seat with excitement.

                “Sounds exciting!” She chirped, attempting to break the silence. I nodded unenthusiastically. Silence settled over the van, and I began to stare out the window again, eventually falling deep in thought.

It was close to nightfall by the time we had reached the motel right outside of Villisca. It was a quaint but modern room, with a TV and two beds. Setting our suitcases down, my brother flung himself on one of the beds.

                “I call this one!” he yelled. I gave my mom a look. We both rolled our eyes in a, boys are so immature, manor.

                “I guess I'm sleeping on the couch tonight,” I sighed, flopping down and wriggling uncomfortably on the brown couch like a fish. Keith let out a small evil laugh.

                “Revenge for the whip cream in the pillow case trick.” Thinking harder, he quickly sat up and looked at me, a bit scared, “Please don't do that.” Now it was my turn to evil laugh. Keith just shook his head, and settled back down to play on his phone, probably playing Flappy Birds; by the way he smacked the screen over and over again.

A few hours later, my mom called lights out while smearing a coat of red lipstick.

                “I'm going up to the supermarket for a bit. Make sure the doors are locked, and do not open them for any reason. I expect you both asleep by the time I get back.” We both nodded, and my mom slipped out of our motel room, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the room. My brother ran over to the couch and sat down next to me, grabbing my novel I was reading out of my hands.

                “Hey!” I protested, “I was reading that!” He rolled his eyes, haphazardly throwing the book over his shoulder.

                “We only get three days here, Sheena. We need to plan.” He emphasized plan. I raised my eyebrow a bit.

                “Keith, it's fine. We always plan way too much.”

                “And how many jobs have we failed due to over planning?”

                “You can't start a sentence with the word ‘and’.”

                “Well I just did.” He continued to pester me more till I narrowed my eyes and threatened to tell mom where he was for three days over winter break. He backed off with wide eyes instantly. Ah, the perks of having something to hold over your twin brother's head.

He snatched the remote off the coffee table and flipped on the TV. He scrolled through channels till he found one that apparently appeased him, so he could watch TV while he worked out our battle strategy. He often did that, randomly calling out questions to me. Truth be told though, he was an amazing planner.

                “Didn't mom say we had to go to bed?” I asked, not wanting to have him nor I get in trouble and moved out before we could finish the case.

                “Aww, cute little Sheena worried about getting in trouble with mommy,” he rolled his eyes, “How paranoid.”

                “Says the guy who's so OCD he has to make sure that we know what we're doing every second on our umpteenth job.”

                “We seemed to be getting almost no readings here,” the TV interrupted. I craned my neck to look at the screen, and then gave Keith a look.

                “Are you seriously watching that paranormal investigator show?” I asked, sighing. My brother has an addiction to watching lame supernatural shows, and constantly commenting on what their doing wrong.

                “And here we are, in the Villisca Axe Murder House,” the TV blared. I hopped up from my seat, taking a new one on mom's bed so I could see the TV better.

                “They're doing our case?” I asked incredulously. Keith was too engrossed in the TV show.

                “Well of course you’re not getting any readings you idiots! It's day time! Ghosts aren’t active in sunlight!” he shouted at the TV. I picked up my novel and made my way back to the couch, while Keith continued to shout insults at the poor guys doing a horrid job at ghost hunting.

                I was deeply into my novel once more, when something happened on Keith's TV show, that caused him to pause it and run over to let me know. Grabbing my arm, he dragged me back to view the scene. He rewound the show, and then played it for me.

                “The EMF reader is coming up to a 14!”the guy on the TV exclaimed.

                “What's the point in this?” I muttered out loud. Keith shushed me. The guy continued to walk through the house, now dark.

                “We've reached a cold spot,” he concluded, showing a thermometer to the camera. I became uninterested, till they came to the Moore children's bedroom. The EMF reader was shown to the camera, which was spiking to a 32.4. My eyes widened. That was an extremely, and dangerously high reading.

                “I see something!” the guy shouts. I squinted my eyes as a small flash of blue light appeared on screen. There was a scream from outside the camera's view, sounding like the host of the show. Then the camera man dropped his camera to run. Keith and I both stare at the television in horror as the screen went black and credits for the TV show started playing. I quickly grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. Not daring to breathe a word about what we had just witnessed, I made my way back to the couch and pulled a blanket over me, setting an extra pillow on the floor. Keith turned out the light.

                “Sheena?”

                “Yeah Keith?”

                “What did we get ourselves into?”

                “I have no idea, but this is going to be an interesting three days.” I closed my eyes after answering, and proceeded to try to let sleep overtake me. I was interrupted a couple minutes later by Keith.

                “Goodnight Sheena.”

                “Goodnight Keith.”

                ”Don't let the ghosts bite!” He laughed and I chucked the extra pillow at his head, missing by a long shot.

                It was the next day, and I noted various things as we approached the house for our 1 o’clock tour. First, a painted sign that read ‘Villisca Axe Murder House, June 10, 1912’ was hanging outside of the house. I snickered to myself. Second, it was obvious that the house had been renovated, with a fresh coat of paint and new floors.

“Hello!” a perky, freckled tour guide greeted us, once we were inside the house. “Welcome to the Villisca Axe Murder House Tour!” Leading us to a line of sweaty tourists, we carefully slipped in the back, setting into motion the same routine we do for all tours. The tour guide proceeded to give us a detailed history of the house, as Keith and I took readings with the GH [ghost hunting] equipment (we stole it from mom after dad died before she could sell it) in each room; Keith recorded everything on his phone.

After a couple rooms with almost no activity, we were getting frustrated. We had some close calls with mom seeing the equipment, but nothing to show that's onto us (she was way too absorbed in the tour to even notice).

“This is useless Sheena. Ghosts aren't going to be active at 1 o’clock in the afternoon,” Keith hissed, putting away the equipment.

 “We're going to have to find a way to stay the night,” I agreed. We both sighed, and then turned our attention back to the tour. Suddenly something began beeping like crazy. It was coming from Keith's backpack. The tour guide stop talking and all heads turned towards us.

“What is that?” the tour guide asked, staring us down.

“Uh,” Keith stuttered, “It's just my phone. Sorry.” The tour guide sighed and muttered something about teenage rudeness interfering with her tour. Then put that perky smile back on her face an continued talking about the room we were in; the Moore children's bedroom. Keith pulled the beeping device out of his backpack, then went bug-eyed and nudged me.

I gasped loudly. The EMF reader was at a shocking 32.1, which is high for the day time, or even in general.

“Record it!” I hissed. “What's the base line reading?” A base line is used to determine exactly how much paranormal activity there is, that way you know if your reading is accurate.

“1.4,” Keith reported. Suddenly the temperature dropped drastically, causing all of us to shiver.

“Sheena, do you need your sweatshirt?” my mom asked, interrupting us. I gave Keith a look and psychically urged him to take a thermometer reading while mom's attention was on me, then turned back to my mother.

“No, it's ok mom.”

“Are you sure sweetie? Because I brought this just in ca-“

“I said I was fine.” Mom sighed and turned back around. Parents can be so annoying.

“Did you get it?” I whispered in a low voice. He nodded.

“Almost 20°F.”

“It was 80⁰ when we first got in here. There has to be something going on for it to drop 60°,” I murmured.

“No dip Sherlock,” Keith retorted, rolling his eyes. Suddenly a loud crack came from one of the rooms, and I realized our tour group was gone. Keith and I raced around till we found where the tour group was, afraid it was too late. Both of us breathed a sigh of relief as soon as we found the group, everyone still with their limbs still on their bodies, and their hearts and throats intact. The only thing out of the ordinary seemed to be the shards of a ceramic vase, scattered on the floor.

“There are strange vibrations here,” a plump, dirty blonde woman called out.

“Madam Trinka-” our tour guide started.

“Hush child!” Madam Trinka interrupted. The tour guide flashed a look of irritation across her face, but then maintained the plastic-y, doll-like smile. Madam Trinka closed her eyes, and then waved her hands around like she was trying to swat an invisible fly.

“Venha, fantasma que não pode seguir em frente, venha me conte seus problemas, pois posso ouvir você para fora,” Madam Trinka chanted. A broom went flying at her head.

“What'd she say?” I whispered to Keith, who was typing something out of his phone.

“Come on, ghost cannot move on, come tell me your problems, because I can hear you out.” I let out a snort.

“This is what psychics have come to, chanting random junk in Portuguese.”  We both sniggered. Suddenly Madam Trinka opened her eyes.

“I need two volunteers!” she demanded, scanning the tour group, till her gaze focused on where Keith and I were. “You two!” she exclaimed pointing to us, “You have the perfect auras!”

“No,” my mom said sternly, abruptly putting a protective arm around Keith and I. Madam Trinka narrowed her eyes, then turned away to pick on two other unsuspecting victims.

“Mom she just said that to get revenge for us laughing at her lame attempt to be psychic. She has no idea what she's doing,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to mom, who still hadn't removed her arm.

“You never know, Sheena,” my mom muttered, dropping her arm. She was still tense as a taut rubber band, but at least we got the measurements done before something riled her up.

We were so engrossed with mom that we failed to notice Madam Trinka sprinkling what I think was sugar crystals over her new ‘assistants’ then chanting more junk. A loud noise came out of the mouth of one of the victims. It made my ears want to bleed, the irritating sound of a cat being dragged down a blackboard.

I knew she wasn't playing after that. That, no matter how good of special effects guys you hire, cannot be replicated. My head was spinning in a million different directions. The first assistant collapsed, curling up in a ball, and shaking back and forth in some type of convulsion, like a dying spider. The crowd was excited; they thought this was all just entertainment, or that the psychic had it under control.

Mom, was a bit tense, old training tactics that are used on jobs still a habit for her. As she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, Keith and I tensed. The second assistant collapsed next into a crying fit.

“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, the killer has proven me right. He is-“Madam Trinka started. Before she could even finish her sentence, a painting fell, knocking her out cold. At the same moment, I wondered if it was bad to laugh at this.

Shortly after, our tour came to a stop, leaving both Keith and I with no clue what to do.

“That was the planned end of the Villisca Axe Murder House Tour. Please visit our website, and those of you brave enough to spend more time here, we do offer overnight trips,” the tour guide lady chirped, sweat forming on her brow, trying to play it off like they meant for three people to collapse.

Keith elbowed me, “Overnight stays!” We looked at each other with wide eyes. Jackpot, our way in to get rid of the ghost.

Later that day, Keith and I were hung out in a quaint little smoothie shop, discussing the overnight trip to Villisca Axe Murder House we were going to do tomorrow.

“So, how much is it, like thirty or forty bucks?” I asked sipping a strawberry banana smoothie.

“Four-hundred-twenty-eight dollars,” Keith reported. I almost did a spit-take with my smoothie.

“WHAT?” I exclaimed. Keith shrugged.

“You’re in luck though. With all our savings money and a couple extra twenties from mom, we'll have enough money to go.”

“We can't let mom know what we're doing!”

“Ya think I don't know that?”

“That's it,” I concluded, defeated, “We're going to have to quit.” Keith stared at me, shocked, like I was an alien from another planet.

“We can't quit,” he fumbled with his backpack and pulled out his phone, shoving the screen with our readings in my face. “You see this? You rarely get these in the night time, during a job, let alone in broad daylight. This isn't an ordinary case Sheena and you know. People, who have been hard core skeptics, were turned into full blown ghost believers by dawn. We can't pass up this opportunity.” I smiled, then set my smoothie down and began to applaud. Keith gave me a weird look.

“You could be a public speaker, you know.”

“Does that mean you're in?”

“Heck yah.”

“So now there's the matter of mom.” We both looked at each other and simultaneously groaned.

Back at the motel room, we walked right into the room arguing in hushed tones about how to ask mom for money.

“We need to trick her into getting the money,” Keith argued. I shook my head.

“She'll eventually find out you idiot.”

“Well then how do you suggest we do it, Miss Genius?” I gave him a smirk.

“Like this.” Before he could say anything, I turned and walked over briskly to where my mom was standing. “Hey mom?”

“Yeah sweetie?”

“Can Keith and I have money?”

“For what?” I almost rolled my eyes. What was with the interrogative mood?

“To stay the night at the Villisca house.” My mom gave me a dangerous look. I played up my best puppy-dog eyes, and she sighed loudly

“That isn't going to work every time. Except maybe this time. Let me get you the money.” Keith stared dumbstruck as mom pulled out four crisp Ben Franklins out of her purse, handing them to me.

“Why are you all of a sudden carrying around huge rolls of money?” Now it was my mother's turn to roll her eyes at me.

“I went by an ATM while you two were at the smoothie shop and picked up the money. I knew you two would want to spend the night ever since I heard the tour guide announce it.” My mother turned back to whatever she was doing and I sashayed back over to Keith, waggling the money in his face.

“Game, set, matched, and OWNED! Honesty rules!” I concluded, being a bit overly hyper. Keith opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.

“By the way, both of you are paying off at least half of that,” my mother called over her shoulder. Keith turned and gave me a wry smile.

“Honestly has its repercussions.” I shook the money in his face and considered slapping him with it.

“Let's see how funny you think you are tomorrow night.”

“I thought minors weren't allowed to stay overnight without an adult,” Keith muttered as he drove my mom's Mercedes up to the house,  his hands gripping the steering wheels tight as an obvious sign that he was stressing about our 4 o’clock deadline.

“Our own grandparents think we're twenty. We looked eighteen at the least.” After getting out of the car, we nervously walked up the pebbled pathway to the house. A different man greeted us.

“A quick walk-through tour,” he said, showing us the different rooms and barn. “Food, water, and electricity are provided in the barn.” He tossed me the keys. “Put those on the kitchen counter and make sure to leave no later than 9:30.” I nodded, and he walked out of the house, shutting the door and locking it. Keith flinched at the click of the lock.

                The minute he left, both Keith and I began to set up equipment. Soon the table in the parlor was riddled with thermometers, EMF readers, tape recorders, digital cameras, flashlights, and a just-in-case-of-an-emergency cell phone. Splitting up the devices, we stuffed them into our pockets, took a baseline reading outside the house, and quietly waited for night to fall.

                “This is so boring! I thought it would be a bit more exciting,” Keith moaned, staring out the window at the pool of orange on the horizon. A small clatter on the stairs caught my attention, and my ears perked up. He opened his mouth to complain again but I shushed him.

                “Did you hear that?” I whispered.

                “Hear what?” I frowned. Was I hearing things?

                “Nothing, never mind,” I said dismissively. After another half an hour of waiting, it was finally dark. I flicked on my flashlight, it's yellow beam of light illuminating a large diameter of area. Keith flicked his on too.

                “Ready?” he asked giving me a Cheshire cat grin. I pulled the EMF recorder from my pocket.

                “Ready.”

Starting at the blue room where the Stillinger sisters slept, we took EMF readings, photos, and temperature readings. After barely anything, we went through each room on the ground floor. I sighed and let my arms droop.

“Keith this is useless. We should just check the Moore children’s room. That's where the highest EMF reading was this morning.”

“Sheena, we need to check every room. We can't just-.” Keith's lecture was cut short by the door to the parlor swinging back and forth, and a loud crash came from upstairs. “You know, you're probably right. Let's go check the bedroom out.” He scurried up the stairs like a mouse. I rolled my eyes, and climbed up after him.

A huge cold spot the minute we entered the room.

“N-n-nineteen degrees,” Keith reported, teeth chattering. A sudden wind swept through the room from an unseen window. Keith began rapidly taking photos, before the camera died. Suddenly the wind picked up more and more electronics died. I managed to get a 48 on the EMF reader, before it's screen went black as well.

                Suddenly the sound of children crying began to echo in the room, building up louder and louder, some of it reverbed like they were speaking through layers of bubble wrap. Keith and I froze. The wailing began to make me feel like I was sinking, and the room’s temperature didn’t help the matter either. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, an apparition appeared. The apparition of Katherine Moore. She looked just as she had in the old photograph I had seen of her.

                She wore a what I could only presume to be an old white nightgown, ripped and shredded in places and completely soaked in scarlet blood. She wore matching white and red lacey gloves, but no shoes. Her ink black hair was done in an elegant curly ponytail, fitted with a blood-red bow. She stood, hands at her side, expressionless, fat crimson drops of blood rolling off her and pooling around her feet in an almost melodic manor.

“You see her too, right?” Keith whispered out of the corner of his mouth to me. I silently nodded. Katherine let out a deep sigh.

                “Incompetent idiots. I can hear you, you know! Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm deaf.” I wondered how a ten-year-old had such a large and insulting vocabulary.

                “Why are you here?” I asked, curious. I thought the killer’s ghost would be here, not just a victim's. Katherine gave a cruel smile, rubbing her bloodstained gloves together.

                “That's cute, two kiddies trying to play ghost hunter.” Keith reached for his crossbow and I unsheathed my knife, pointing the blade at Katherine to emphasize.

                “We're not playing.” She completely ignored us and began to make a small pace back and forth across the room.

                “I assume you know the rule that only the wicked ghosts coming back?” she arched a small eyebrow at us. I had remembered when dad drilled us in Ghost Hunting 101. Only wicked souls are doomed to walk upon the earth. The victims always are peacefully rested, despite having been killed. And only ghost hunting weapons hurt. A ghost’s form is only solid if it feeds on the souls of living ghost hunters. By the looks of it, Katherine was hungry for a good soul and Keith and I were a burger and fries combo. She continued pacing, as if waiting for something. Then she turned to us and gave us a look I see teachers give me when I don't know the answer to a question my hand wasn't raised for. “Put the pieces together you retards!”

                Suddenly it all made sense; why Katherine was here, why there was no signs of the break in, and why the axe was from the estate.

                “Why, Katherine?” Keith asked in a soft voice, “Why would you kill your family and your own best friends?” Katherine gave him a withering stare.

                “Best friends? Those screeching banshees are not my friends, let alone best friends. I was repulsed when they were asked to stay the night, those babbling idiots.” She gave an acidic laugh that should not be coming from a young girl. “But then again, they say idiots rule the world, you know what I mean?” I gave a nod. I was having a slightly friendly conversation with a homicidal ghost. How lovely.

                “So, what made you go on a killing spree?” I asked, trying not to let my voice go up a few octaves.

                “I inherited my father's pride and mother's overprotective nature. My parents never really cared about me. Then there were my brothers, ugh! I was always being compared to Henry, and I was supposed to be a model for Boyd and Paul. It was always, ‘Katherine, why can't you be more like your brother, Katherine don't hit the youngsters they don’t know better’,” she made talking motions with her hands and quoting her parents in a high pitched voice.

                “But-“I was interrupted by more of Katherine's spiel.

                “After ten years of pent up anger, then finding out these little mistresses of evil were invading MY home, I found the families axe and, well,” a wide, malicious grin spread across her face as she finished, “I decided to put it to good use.”  The blood on her dress began to drip faster, pooling around her feet.

                “All those attacks were you?” I asked. She nodded.

                “No traces of blood were found because everyone thought that, hey if the girl is dead, then there's no way that could be their blood on her dress,” Katherine explained.

                “And there were no finger prints because you wore gloves,” I finished. She nodded.

                “Wait,” Keith interrupted, “you killed yourself?” Katherine blushed and let out a cough.

                “That was a minor accident. I was trying to get Lena to stay still. That little devil kept trying to talk me out of it. Eventually she gave up and tried to wrench the axe from my grasp. Bad idea. I killed her, but ended up killing myself too. Next thing I know, I'm looking at my own lifeless body and dragging it upstairs to my room.”

                “Why are you still here?” I asked, “You got what you wanted.”

                “Thoughtless low life girl, I came back, to make sure no one stepped foot on my rightful property!” Katherine shrieked. Keith and I both gave each other a look, a look that we both translated as their being more to the story than what she was telling us. Keith aimed his crossbow at Katherine's head.

                “We can't let you hurt more people.” Katherine's eyes turned as black as coal.

                “Just like the others, they wouldn't listen to my reason either.” Reason, I thought skeptically, there is no traces of reason here at all.

                “Katherine we just-“I started. Katherine held out a bloodied hand to silent me.

                “I get it,” she said, giving a sweet smile, “And one more thing.” Keith and I nodded simultaneously. Katherine's voice dropped down to a demonic pitch. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” She launched herself at us, both Keith and I scrambling to get out of the way.

                She stood back up, panting heavily like a dog, a ghostly axe in her hands. Her murder weapon. Thrusting my knife at her, I made an attempt to cut her throat. Instead, I caught a blow to the stomach and my blade sliced her arm. Katherine howled in pain, and sliced her axe down, trying to lop off my arm. Of course, ghost weapons can't hurt you, but it felt like someone was driving hundreds of tiny needles into my skin.

                “Go Sheena!” Keith cheered. I looked at him in disgust.

                “It might be nice if you stopped standing there like an idiot and help me!” I growled. I frowned. Katherine's rage was really getting to me. Keith’s arrow sprouted from Katherine’s forehead. She went cross eyed then reached up and yanked it out by the shaft, black ooze beginning to run down her face from the wound. While her attention was off, I quickly tripped her with a swipe of my legs. She fell down on the floor with a thud, my blade poised right at her heart.

                Surprisingly, tears began streaming down her face, the darkness in her eyes resided, and the blood began to fade into almost nothing.

                “Please… don’t…” she whimpered, “I don’t want to die…” She curled up into a pathetic ball, sobbing, and her hands in her face. I lowered my knife, and knelt down next to her.

“Katherine…” I started. She looked up with an evil grin on her face, then stuck her hand through my forehead and disappeared.

                “Sheena…” Keith warned. I opened my mouth to speak, but Katherine's voice came out instead.

                “She knows you moron. I may not be able to hurt you as a ghost, but let’s see how fun it is when you get murdered by your own sister.” I, I mean Katherine, pounced on Keith, my knife scraping open a gash in his stomach. He stumbled backward, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

                “Now,” she breathed to me, “Let’s see how suicide feels!” A tingling, gut wrenching feeling burned its way up to my forearms, my own soul fighting control, and at the last moment I ducked and the blade grazed my shoulder.

                “Stop!” Keith's voice rang out. His crossbow was loaded and raised, blood blossoming on the front of his shirt.

                “You wouldn't kill your own sister, would you?” Katherine crooned. Keith ignored her.

                “Where did she touch you?” I shakily pointed to the spot on my forehead where Katherine's cool hand was. I found myself lunging out, and Keith taking an uppercut to the face. I imagined myself punching Katherine in the face, her crumpling to the ground unconscious and found myself in control of my body. Taking a few shaky breaths, I brought the knife up right to my forehead, then after finding the spot where she touched me. The only way to get rid of a ghost was to touch the area it possessed you from with the steel from ghost hunting weapons (don’t ask me why this is a rule, I have no idea). I stabbed the knife through my forehead.

                Agony washed over my body, and a scream emitted from my mouth that wasn't my own. Finally the noise died down. Katherine was gone. The knife clattered to the floor, coated in ooze and blood. Suddenly I was engulfed in a hug from Keith. I noticed that dried blood was crusted to his shirt and one eye was swollen shut. Now it was my turn to cry.

                “I'm so sorry,” I sobbed, burying my head in his shoulder.

                “You didn't have control. Besides, you were a hero.” He made me face him. “And I am proud to call you my sister.” I sniffled, the socked his arm.

                “Ya big lug.” He frowned, staring at the room. We picked up our weapons, and decided to leave a little earlier than planned.

                “That was sad, that a little girl could be that desperate,” I noted, getting into the car and stealing one last glance at the now ghost-free, Villisca Axe Murder House. Keith nodded, getting into the driver's seat.

                “Really is.”

                “How's your stomach?” I asked, feeling guilty. Keith gave a shrug that made me want to smack him upside the head.

                “Fine. Stings a little but she really didn't get me that deep.” I appreciated how he said ‘she’ instead of ‘you’.

                Back at the motel, we ducked in and out of corridors to keep from being seen, with our ragged bloody clothes and all. Finally when we got to our room, dawn was beginning to break and mom was awake. She looked us up and down, then, with a hard, cold glare, she let out a low growl. She defiantly knew what we had been up to. I waited for the screaming.

                “KEITH AND SHEENA KERR SOOLIVIAN!”

This is going to be a long summer. . .