Whim Online Magazine Issue 8

I loved it all, but my favourite activity was telling ghost stories. They took on a much deeper meaning for me on the night I was convinced the veil was thinner and the dead walked among us. My friends teased me for it, nicknamed me “Willa Whimsy”, but I remained steadfast in my beliefs. I never needed tangible proof of something to be sure of its existence.

I come to the end of the street, cross it and walk into the cemetery. Smiling again, I cast my mind back to when I convinced my friends to come here and tell ghost stories. It wasn’t hard; being non-believers none of them were afraid we’d incur the wrath of some disgruntled spirit, annoyed at our impertinence.

The children’s laughter grows fainter as I walk deeper into the graveyard.

The wind whistles through the trees, whipping my hair in front of my face and I shiver. As if on cue an owl hoots in a tree nearby. Finally I reach my destination and come to a standstill in front of a headstone. There’s a bouquet of fresh roses in front of it and a card sits atop them.

“We love you - Mum, Dad and Big Sis ,” it reads simply.

I feel tears sting my eyes, then turn my gaze to the somewhat weatherbeaten headstone’s inscription just below the photograph of a dark haired teenage girl in a pale blue dress; In loving memory of Willa Woods.

Beloved daughter, sister and granddaughter.