Chapter One
I sat on the window seat in my old room. Boxes of clothes, books and other objects were stacked up against the walls around the room. The walls were still the same hardwood brown from the last family that came to live here. I sighed and looked out the window to see a moving truck. The new family has finally arrived. They should prepare for hell, my Hell. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I'm a ghost. A seventeenth century ghost living in Salem, Massachusetts. My name is Isabella Stone. In 1692, I had been publicly executed, accused of witchcraft. A young boy stepped out of the driver's side of the truck and looked up at the house. He looked up to my window and his eyes narrowed slightly. I shuddered, feeling like he could actually see me. An older woman got out of the car and he turned to her. He said something and she looked toward me but her eyes filled with confusion. He looked back up at me and then headed into the front door. I growled in my throat with annoyance. I got up and pushed a box of clothes onto the floor in anger.
"Looks like they're staying," I muttered. The bedroom door suddenly opened and I stood face to face with the boy. I realized that he wasn't much of a boy. He was the same age as me, seventeen. He had short black hair and bright brilliant brown eyes. He was staring directly at me still.
"Who are you?" he asked me.
"Y-you can see me?" I stammered, stumbling back and bumping into the wall.
"Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I?" he replied. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he said chuckling. He moved closer to me. "What's your name?"
"Isabella," I whimpered in fear. "Y-you're not going to try to get rid of me, are you? You're not going to make me move on to the other side? Please, I don't want to leave. This is my home."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down. What are you talking about?" he asked, confused.
"Zak, who are you talking to?" the woman from before asked as she came to the door.
"Oh, to Isabella," he said. She looked around the room but didn't see me.
"Um, there's no one else in here," she told him, brushing her dark hair back behind her shoulder. He looked at me.
"But sh-," he stopped. "Never mind. There's no one here. I'll be down shortly, mom." She nodded and left. He turned back to me. He lowered his voice, "Why couldn't she see you? What are you?"
"I'm a ghost," I answered. He leant back against the wall in amazement.
"A real ghost," he breathed.
"You're not going to make me leave, are you?" I asked, worried.
"Why wouldn't I? This isn't where you belong anymore," he told me.
"This is my home!" I fumed, angered, stepping toward him. "I refuse to leave! Not unless my father burns for what he did to me!" A box flew into the wall behind him and I gasped. I backed into the corner and slid to the floor. I wrapped my arms around my knees and held them to my chest. I buried my head in my arms and cried quietly. "Just go away," I sobbed. "I want to be alone." He knelt down in front of me and placed his hand an inch from my cheek. I shuddered slightly, as if he had actually touched me. I looked up at him through my tears. He smiled kindly at me.
"All right. I won't make you leave," he told me. And the first time, in four centuries, I smiled at him.