Eighteen
She was bored. How could there be nothing whatsoever to do in a house the size of a small mansion? She was eighteen (as of yesterday), it was Friday night, and she was stuck alone in her gigantic house, wandering around with no hope of finding something to keep her occupied.
She sighed, stopping in the middle of a hallway. Why couldn't she be bad just this once and throw a party like any normal eighteen-year-old would when alone in their house? Because Ella Carson was a good girl who never disobeyed her parents, got perfect grades, and wouldn't dare step out of line. She frowned, angry at herself for being a coward. What made it worse was that she had always wanted to go on an adventure like those in her storybooks, but knew that, if it weren't totally impossible for those fantastical things to happen, she would surely be too afraid to do things right. It would be a failed adventure, not even worth considering for a book.
She began pacing again, running her fingers along the wall in places where she couldn't see. Finally, she headed back to her room. Standing in the doorway, she considered her options. She eventually decided on rereading one of the books under her bed. Crouching down, she lifted the trailing covers to discover that there was nothing there—not one thing. She straightened up quickly. The only possible explanation was that there was a burglar in the house; but what kind of burglar stole books?
She grabbed the flashlight off her desk and crept back out into the dark house. Proceeding to the basement, she searched the house from bottom to top; there was no one in the entire domicile. Thinking that the thief must have already left, she turned around, intending to go call the police, when a noise came from behind her. She whirled around to face the room she had just explored and almost passed out from fright; there was a person sitting on the guest bed, reading her old copy of The Wanderer.
He was a boy, a young man really (he looked to be about her age). Wavy blonde hair framed his soft face, a lock falling into one of his brilliantly blue eyes; in other words, he was gorgeous. She stared at him, her heart pounding painfully, until he looked up.
"Hello," he said pleasantly, "This is a good book you have here."
"What are you doing in my house?" she asked breathlessly.
"Oh, I've always been here," he responded, smiling benevolently.
"Umm…I live here," she said, bewildered.
"Well, I lived here before you did. I just, sort of," he gestured around vaguely, "stayed."
"Oh." She couldn't think of anything to say to that. "Are you a ghost? If so, why can I see you?"
"Yes, to your first question. You turned eighteen, to your second question," he answered.
"What does my turning eighteen have to do with anything?"
"Some people, when they turn eighteen, can gain the Sight. That means that you start to be able to see us," he said.
"Oh." Again she was left with nothing to say. She considered for a moment, trying to comprehend this information, before she realized that this was what she had been looking for all night.
"Hey, do you want to watch a movie with me, or something?" she asked hesitantly.
"Sure, if you let me borrow your books," he said.
"Okay." She smiled.