I. Of Presences and Apparitions
or the art of starting a conversation

September 1st

The girl with the red hair and the big blue eyes awakes a fine September morning for her first day back at school. Her name is Anne, and she doesn't feel very excited about school or anything in general.

"Good morning, Miss Cuthbert," she says with the usual monotonous tone in her voice.

"Anne, how many times do I have to tell you?", Marilla says. "You can call me Marilla"

"Of course," Anne nods. "I'm sorry"

"Now, eat your breakfast or you'll be late for school"

Well, at least she hasn't said something along the lines of "call me mom". That was one of the good things about the Cuthberts. Neither of them had mentioned the so dreaded words mom and dad.

The thing is Anne Shirley was an orphan. Her parents died about six months ago and she had been adopted by these two siblings — Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert. She arrived then in this little town in the middle of nowhere, barely months ago. Obviously, being "the new girl" by the final week of May, she caught no one's eye at school.

That's why Anne Shirley has no friends.

It's not like she cares much about that tiny detail, anyway. She's planning on moving out as soon as she turns eighteen. She'll have graduated and will be looking for a job, coining money to pay for her own studies. It was a plan — her plan, and no one would ever get in her way.

Why would she want to stay in this town where nothing ever happens?

Well, nothing besides the dead-boy-thing.

If she went straight to school, she'd find the memorial they've arranged around the dead boy's locker. It's covered with photos, flowers and handwritten notes. A few people are gathered around it.

"It's like watching a grave everyday" a raven-haired girl says, eyes fixed on the locker decorated with pictures of a curly haired boy with sparkly hazel eyes.

"I know," another girl, with golden locks replies. "Sometimes I wish we knew what happened"

"I still remember that day at the lake, when they dragged him out-"

The raven-haired girl shivers. Clearly, the memory of the body being dragged out the lake hasn't left anyone's mind in weeks.

As for Anne Shirley, she's skipping first period today. She waved Marilla and Matthew goodbye and turned left instead of right in her usual way to school. She's heading to the local library, where, hopefully, she'll find an answer for the innumerable questions she's been asking herself for the past few weeks.

"Hello, Anne!" the librarian, with her usual excitement, welcomes her in.

"Afternoon, Miss Stacy," she says politely.

"Looking for anything specific or just another novel to binge in one night?"

"Uh..." Anne hesitates for a bit. "I was kind of leaning to paranormal novels... based on real life events?"

"That's quite specific"

"Well, yes," the redhead blinks twice, trying to come up with an explanation. "I just like those kind of movies so I thought maybe I should keep my eyes off the screen and simply read about the topic for a change"

"I see," the woman nods. "I believe you can find something between sections 85a and 85c"

"Thanks"

She quickly finds herself betwee shelves, with her fingers stroking the spine of a few old books. Nothing catches her eye — it's all just Stephen King, Ray Bradbury and a few novels that sound familiar due to the movie version.

That's it.

None of them can give her an answer.

None of them can explain the fact that she's been feeling a presence for the past few weeks.

It all began one day here, at the local library. She was in the basement looking for some poetry book that she can't even remember now. Only she, Anne Shirley, was allowed to go down to the basement, where Muriel kept the old, dusty books that no one ever wanted. That's why Anne began to call it "the lost section". Well, she was there — at the lost section, piling books one on top of another, when she could've sworn she'd heard something sniff. Anne, of course, didn't fall for the classic scary movie stereotype of "Hello, who's there?!", but did take a look around. However, she found nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A few days later, she saw something. She wasn't as unsure as she was with the library event. Anne knew, this time for sure, that something was following her the day she was making her way back from the store. Marilla had asked her to buy some flour and the girl was simply elongating the walk, walking down the park (it was particularly pretty this time of the year) on back home to get some air. It was dark already and she is sure that she saw something hide beneath the bushes when she turned around at the noise. But she kept walking.

And then, of course, the bathroom thing. She was at school this time, washing her hands. There was no one else there — she was sure... right? But again, if she was all alone, then why did she hear the creek of the door, as if someone had just walked out?

Anne lived and relived these events each and every day. It couldn't be possible that she was going mad, could it be? She hoped not. Deep inside, Anne wished she was one of those people who didn't believe in ghosts and other paranormal stuff at all. Although she didn't believe that much, there was a part —as minimal as it was— of her who did wonder about the what-ifs of a paranormal world, parallel to the real one.

And now, here she is. Checking every single label, author and title, trying to find something that could tell her what is wrong with her.

It's after fifteen minutes of a seemingly fruitless search when a purple and golden spine catches her attention.

"Of Presences and Apparitions: An Introduction to Spirits and Occultism by Artemis Blackwood," she reads out loud.

The back of the book doesn't explain much. It seems like some kind of handbook or a spiritualism-for-dummies kind of thing.

But it was better than nothing.

She quickly waved Muriel Stacy goodbye and headed to school.

Nothing interesting happened that day. Just a few boring lessons and lunch-time on her own, as per usual. The rest of the day went by pretty slow, considering that all that was on her head was the purple and golden book she was safely keeping on her backpack.

That night, Anne went to bed earlier than usual. She headed to her room right after dinner and when Marilla Cuthbert asked if everything was okay, she simply told her she was tired.

Truth is she stayed up until past 3 a.m., reading the book she got from the library. From her research, Anne has learnt two things:

1) If ghosts existed —and the book had convinced her that they did—, they roamed the living in some sort of limbo, searching for answers, looking for a way to finally rest in peace,

and 2) said tormented spirits always stayed at the place where they died and looked for specific people from their past life to help them into their final rest.

With that, the girl who thought that she had been seeing ghosts, put the book under her bed —she didn't want Marilla to find it or she'd believe Anne was still traumatized or going crazy about her parents' death— and tried to sleep.

The lights were off and she was starting to become more relaxed about the last few weeks' events. She was sure now that she's been ridiculous. Why would a ghost haunt her? She was still "new" to Avonlea. Nothing, no one here had anything to do with her and with this unperturbed and serene thought, she soon fell asleep.

It was probably the wind what woke her up. Septembers in Avonlea could be quite the romantic scenario, especially at night, when the wind would move the trees and tap the windows.

It was when Anne turned to her side and slightly opened her eyes, when she saw it.

She saw something.

Like a human silhouette, standing beside her desk, close to the window.

"Non sense, Anne", she mentally tells herself. "It's just a shadow"

Just. A. Shadow.

Anne tries to be rational, to think about all the occultism and spiritual theory she's just read. There's no way a ghost is haunting her. Then why does feels a stripe of sweat running down her neck?

She tries to shake those thoughts off her head and closes her eyes, gripping the sheets tighter.

"Just fall asleep again, Anne. Soon morning will come. Fall asleep, Anne"

Suddenly, the sound of the wind and the tree branches hitting her window stop.

Then, a phantasmagoric whisper:

"Anne"

"Holy sh-!"

Anne doesn't have time to react. As she opens her eyes, she watches how the shadow —that looks more like a boy— suddenly covers her mouth with his hand, muffling an incoming scream.

"Please, don't scream"

Wide eyed, Anne tries to pinch herself. "This has to be a nightmare," she thinks. "This definitely is a nightmare"

"And don't pinch yourself either. You're not dreaming" his voice, which sounds slightly familiar, tries to calm her down. It's soothing.

He quickly takes his hand off her mouth, allowing her to speak.

"Shit, shit, shit"

"Hey, don't be scared," he raises his hands as a sign of peace, or so Anne thinks. It's not like she can see much, just a silhouette and nothing else. "I'm not here to hurt you"

She's still breathing heavily.

"Okay, perhaps that wasn't the best way to start a conversation"

The girl still doesn't talk at all and the ghost realizes he might have messed up a little. Perhaps coming into someone else's room at 4 a.m. wasn't a good idea.

Anne hears the barely audible creak of the wooden floor, so she guesses the ghost has kneeled down beside her bed.

"Hey, look at me," he whispers.

"Stop telling me what to do!" she says, covering her whole face with her blanket. Why would she want to face a ghost anyway? "Why am I even talking to you? You're not real"

"But I am real"

What the ghost does next, annoys her a little.

As if he was walking around his own house, he switches on her night lamp. Anne hear the clic sound it makes and feels the light coming through the blanket. But she's still not planning to take a look at whatever he is.

"Look at me," he insists, his voice his a whisper. "I'm not that ugly"

"Are you sure you're not disfigured?"

"I promise I'm not disfigured," his voice suddenly his a mixture of a whisper and a little chuckle. "Look at me, please"

Anne's eyes peak from under the blanket.

"Wait a minute," she says, scanning the ghost's face. "You're Gilbert Blythe"

"Yes"

"Holy shit," realization hits her as she sits up in her bed. "You're dead"

"I'm not dead," he murmurs. "I'm here"

Anne doesn't know what gets into her, because before she can even process it, she's grabbed her copy of Song of Myself from her night table and she's whacked Gilbert Blythe's ghost over the head.

"Go away!"

He doesn't even seem to bother about the book thing. He simply reaches for it and takes it off her hand, raises his eyebrows as he reads the title and places it on the night table again. His fingers brush hers, and she realizes his touch is cold.

"Anne, I'm not dead"

"Well, then this is all paranormal stuff because you're definitely dead!"

Anne considers for a second that he might be one of those tormented spirits that don't even know they're dead and are doomed to roam around this sort of limbo as corrupted souls.

Or maybe she's been reading that book too much.

"If I was dead, you'd be talking to a ghost," he says, very very quietly.

"Of course I'm talking to a ghost!" she says. "I just need to find myself an exorcist"

"Anne, I'm not a ghost," he says again. His voice tells her that he's at the edge of his patience.

"Prove it"

Gilbert Blythe's ghost scans the room. With silent steps, almost as if he'd been practicing, he tears a piece of paper from one of the notebooks that rest on her study desk.

Looking straight at her, with an unimpressed look on his face, he cuts his index fingertip with the paper.

"See? I'm bleeding," he murmurs, showing his barely bleeding finger now to the girl. "Ghosts don't bleed"

Anne looks at his finger, then at his face, then the finger again, then at her window that must've let him come inside. Or maybe she didn't come in at all because he is, in fact, a ghost.

"But... but I went to your funeral," she protectively covers her chest now with the duvet. "In July"

"There was no body"

"Because you were cremated!" she says. "Or, or you weren't, because you're right here"

"So you believe me," he takes a step closer to her bed, but doesn't kneel down as he did before.

"I didn't say that"

"But you're considering it"

Anne looks at him, huffing. "Damn it"

"You do believe me, right?"

"Why... why are you here?"

"I need help"

"With?"

"A... situation"

"But we weren't friends before you... died. We were just classmates for a few weeks"

Anne remembers him. They shared a few clases together but never spoke a word to each other. He was sort of Avonlea's golden boy, soon doctor-to-be, great basketball player and apparently, quite charming and always nice to everybody. She, on the other hand, was no one.

"Yeah but... you're smart, aren't you?"

"I am," she says, crossing her arms. "Your point?"

"I need you to help me"

"Help you?!" she scoffs, her blue eyes narrowed. "I'm not helping you, you faked your death! That's illegal"

"Let me explain. Can I sit?"

His eyes drift to the edge of her bed.

"What- No! No, of course not!"

He's about to say something else when she speaks again. "Have you been watching me?" she asks. "Following me?"

Gilbert Blythe knows there's no point in not being honest at this point. She's smart enough to tell if he's lying or not.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I've been following you for a few weeks"

Anne's heart skips a bit. So it was true. Something —well, someone— has been following her. He knew all her movements, her lame routine and even where her room was.

"My room," she says. "How did you know-"

"I live-" he says, then corrects himself. "I lived the house right across the street. I waved at you once"

Anne pauses for a second to try and remember. Yes, it's true. A few days after she moved in to Avonlea, the boy from the house in front of the Cuthbert's waved at her from his window.

"You didn't wave back," Gilbert whispers.

Anne's about to reply when the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor makes her lose it. She doesn't have time to react, because Marilla Cuthbert suddenly opens the door.

"Anne?! Are you talking to yourself again? It's a school night"

"I- I didn't do anything, Marilla! He- he- it was his fault!"

"He, who?" Marilla looks at her with furrowed eyebrows.

Anne's eyes, who were fixed on Marilla, suddenly turn to look at where Gilbert was standing.

Nothing.

Just like that, the boy, or the ghost, is gone. The sound of the wind has returned and she's all alone in her room with a pissed-off Marilla Cuthbert standing at her door.

"N-nothing," the girls says with a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, it... it was just a nightmare"

___