PCHS Writes is designed to inspire more students to write and to write from their hearts instead of strictly within the walls of their required English classes. Annalise Brinton, a Park City High School junior, enjoys creativity and writing horror stories, and her short story “Haunted” make a mark on the judges. Annalise Brinton, a Park City High School junior, is the winner of this month’s PCHS Writes contest. Her short story is titled “Haunted.” Credit: Park Record file photo by Emerson Best Haunted by Annalise Brinton My eyes focus on the man in front of me, not behind. Never behind. Where they are. If I let it slip that something is wrong? Something that would appear this serious in the eyes of anyone else? I’d be taken away. Left with nothing but them for the rest of my years. So, I keep my eyes on Ryan. He holds my gaze, discussing concepts that I don’t fully understand because I can’t be bothered to listen.  Not when she’s right behind him like that, just taunting me. She knows I can’t do anything about her being there. About her hand gently resting on his shoulder. How even though I refuse to look her directly in the eyes, the empty sockets are still the only thing I can focus on in my peripheral. “Now this is where it gets really interesting, Quinnie, if we-” “I have to go to the bathroom.” I cut in without hesitation. “Oh, alright. Come back soon?” I give a slight nod, pushing my chair back from the table. When she stays for longer than twenty minutes, or any of them stay for that long, there’s only one thing that’ll make them leave. I’ll get maybe an hour’s worth of peace, but it’s worth it. I shove the nearest stall door open as soon as I get inside, not surprised to find her already waiting there. “It wasn’t my fault, y’know,” I mutter into the empty air. I know they aren’t there logically, but I can’t help it. They look so real. I search my pockets for anything that I can use, finding only a small pencil. I sit down on the toilet, already knowing that I’ll regret doing this in the future. But until I figure out another way of getting rid of them, this will have to do. I push the edge of my shorts up, far past where they’ll ride back down when I stand up. Then I raise the pencil. Take a deep breath in the same way that I have a million different times. Bring the tip down. Hard. I gasp as the tip pierces through my skin, blood beginning to bubble out around the pencil. The pain still shocks me, even after all this time. I slowly remove it, wincing and gasping again as I have to take it out of my now-sensitive flesh. I wipe the lead off with some toilet paper before hastily shoving the pencil back into my shorts pockets, knowing I’ll most likely have to do it again later. Why didn’t I bring anything better to use to drive them away today? Dang. But it’s too late now, so I’ll deal. I don’t really have another choice, anyway. I’ve only waited too long before acting once before. It started with only one of them, but the longer I waited–the more of them showed up. Until all ten were there, surrounding me. Caging me in. Signaling that they know that I’m guilty.  I pull a bandaid out of my other pocket, feeling my heartbeat through the wound. I went deep this time. Deeper than I intended. But, it worked. She’s gone. I carefully position the bandaid amongst the others, prodding the tops of some of them to check if they’re old enough to remove the protection. Only one of them is ready, a stupid Paw-Patrol bandaid covering the mark. I peel it off, the scar that it left faint and skinny. I remember that day. I had access to an actual small pocketknife. It’s unfortunate that I lost that somewhere, it would be a lot easier than what I had to do today. Trauma is relatively closely related to pain through the brain. I figured it out by accident, but it was more of a happy accident. One time in a desperate dash to get away–I cut myself. Slipped and hit my head on the edge of my kitchen countertop. Miraculously, they went away. Only me for one whole hour of bliss. Me and the memories of them, of course. I see them everywhere, even when they’re gone. Out of the corner of my eye as I turn my head. I sometimes think I feel them, lying in my bed late at night. In the dark. Think I see shadows move across my eyelids as I try to fall asleep, my lamp light on in the same way it’s been for months. I finally push myself up from the toilet seat, pull my shorts over the dozens of band-aids with the addition of a new My Little Pony one, and push the stall door back open. The bathroom is empty. It’s the best view I’ve ever seen. I head back out to meet up with Ryan once more, but I can’t find him. Only my abandoned plate on an otherwise-empty restaurant table. I head back over with a slight frown. But, he left money for the bill. So, whatever. I’ll let it slide. At least they aren’t here for once. One entire hour of peace, in exchange for just a little bit of pain. I’d make that trade a million times in a million lifetimes, and I have the scars and bandaids peppered across my legs and arms to prove it. The post This month’s PCHS Writes story contest gets ‘Haunted’ appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less