So, this is a fic I wrote for last Spook Me Multi-Fandom Ficathon 2021 at LJ and my first attempt in writing a horror story in English. This is also my first All Human Spuffy fic, so be gentle. Also special thanks to O524 for agreeing to beta my work. And to honeygirl51885 for the lovely banner that you can see in my EF and AO3 accounts under the same username and inside the fic with the same title. Anyway, I won't keep you long. Please enjoy the story!

(O.O)

My grandmum taught me that people often hated things that they didn't understand.

As a child, I grew up with a special gift that made me different from the rest of the children my age.

What is my gift you ask?

Well, to quote a kid from a famous horror film, I see dead people.

They walk around like normal people. Some look worse than others but they are there and I see them. And that scares people.

But I'm not here to give you a sob story of my life. I'm here to tell you a ghost story.

My ghost story.

I have plenty of them and believe it or not, not all of them are worth mentioning. But I do have a couple that I want to share with you. The first one is my first experience with ghosts. It wasn't that special but it was the start of my new life, so I think it's worth hearing.

The next one is longer but it's one that still haunted me up to this day. So, without further ado, let me begin my tales.

(O.O)

My first real experience with ghosts happened at school in broad daylight.

I can still remember clear as day what occurred. It wasn't a good memory, but it was definitely one I will never forget. As I mentioned earlier, my life changed that day.

Anyway, I was but a young boy of the age of seven. My parents sent me to an All-Boys Boarding School in Leicestershire, England. We had just returned to school from Winter break and I was enjoying a wonderful conversation with my classmates before the teacher arrived.

As Ms. Chandler called out the names of my classmates, I was quick to notice that she had missed one name in her list.

My best friend, Micheal, wasn't called.

I pointed this out and everyone merely stared at me like I had grown another head.

I never forgot the conversation I had with my teacher and classmates that day.

"Mr. Pratt, I'm sorry to say this but Mr. Lavern is no longer part of this class."

I was confused and turned to the seat beside me, where my friend sat.

"Why? Is he being transferred to another class?" I asked.

"No, Mr. Pratt, he wasn't transferred either."

"If he wasn't transferred, then why are you excluding him from the attendance?" I pointed at my friend as emphasis.

"Mr. Pratt, I'm not including Mr. Lavern because he is no longer part of this class nor will he be going to this school," she told me gently.

"But why?" I asked. I still didn't understand. Was my friend expelled? Was he not supposed to show up to class that day?

"Mate, didn't you check the Facebook status his folks posted on his page over the holidays?" Nathaniel, the boy, who sat on the chair beside Michel's, asked.

No, I hadn't. My father was always very firm on his stance on technology. He always said it was evil and corrupted the youth or some shite that I don't want to remember. Anyway, when I was home for the Summer or Winter Holidays, I wasn't allowed access to any computers like most children my age.

"Will, his family posted to let everyone know that Mike got into an accident during the holidays and he died."

I blinked, still processing what my classmate just said, before bursting into laughter.

"Mr. Pratt!" the teacher chided, "That isn't a laughing matter."

"Sorry, Ms. Chandler. I mean, I would've believed you if Mike wasn't here," I said, still laughing and pointing to the chair beside me.

"Dude, are you crazy? No one's there," James Thomson said from behind me.

I would've glared at the boy, knowing he was always trying to make me look stupid and that he was probably happy to join everyone on this morbid joke.

But as I turned to him, I noticed that the rest of my classmates had varying expressions of concern, disgust, and fear in their eyes as they all stared at me. This had confused me further.

Finally having enough of everyone's looks, I turned to Micheal to ask him to stop joking around because it wasn't funny. It was a jerk move and I was getting pissed off.

My friend merely looked at me with a sad expression.

"I'm sorry, Will."

Before I could ask what he was sorry for, all of a sudden, his face slowly morphed into the most gruesome appearance I had ever seen.

I barely recognized the being in front of me. The Micheal that I was staring back at me was pale, and his eyes, which used to be vibrant green in color, were dull and glassy. His cheeks were sunken and his lips were cracked. He had a horrible gash in his head that went from his temple to his forehead.

I had jumped away from the being that used to be my friend, screaming my heart out.

"Will-" the thing that used to be Micheal croaked, as it stood from its chair and slowly approached me.

Blood was gushing out from its mouth and his words were gargled up. This terrified me so much that I lost consciousness.

The next thing I remember was seeing my parents, who were called to the school after my episode. The teacher told them what happened and I saw my dad glare at me while my mum went white and looked scared.

I didn't understand why, but afterward, my parents took me home so I could see a doctor.

As I said, my life changed that day.

My parents sent me to a mental asylum, and let's just say, my brief stay there wasn't all sunshine and roses. Fortunately, my grandmother found out what happened and took me away. She literally adopted me without so much as a protest from my mum and dad.

When I arrived at my new home, my grandmum took me aside and explained to me what I saw, and told me that I had the gift of sight, or the ability to see the dead.

Not the best of powers and a lot of times it caused me more harm than good growing up with it because people often made fun of me as a kid, and most of the time, they were just scared of the weird boy who saw things that weren't there.

But I didn't mind them, remembering my grandmum's words, I went on with my life and found a way to make use of my gift.

Ghosts, my grandmother told me, were not evil so I shouldn't fear them as most people do.

They were simply lost and it was my job, as someone who can see them, to help them move on into the afterlife.

And it's because of those words that I found my calling as a Paranormal Investigator.

It may not pay well, but there's a sense of accomplishment that I'd feel every time I help people and ghosts. I've worked happily for eight years and never had I feared what spirits were truly capable of until I met one that really wanted me dead.

And this my friends is the next story I will be telling you. My experience of a violent spirit.

TBC

(O.O)