Poppy is an almost-eleven-year-old from Brooklyn, NY. She likes drawing, reading, writing, and basketball. Poppy is currently working on a novel that is soon to be published somewhere... somehow. You can see her other works of art in this online magazine.
“The road near my house was the pinnacle of fright.
Not the road itself. The road was fine. It was what was on the road that was creepy.”
The road near my house was the pinnacle of fright.
Not the road itself. The road was fine. It was what was on the road that was creepy.
Normal stuff was there. Cars, bikes, motorcycles, passersby. Nothing you wouldn’t really expect. Except, I saw something different there.
People. Countless people, milling through their daily lives. And not just people from now, either. The people were dressed in pelts, or large petticoats, or tight-fitting leggings and Rollerblades. People with loincloths, people with fancy tuxedos, children, adults, the elderly. They were all doing their own thing, stuck in their own little world. And they all shared the same feature, a pale green glow, making them see-through and ghostly.
Maybe they were ghostly. Maybe they were ghosts. Maybe they were lost souls, and this was just a rest stop to get where they were going.
It wasn’t on any other blocks, either. Just this specific road, 18th Street and Butler. And it didn’t seem like anyone else was bothered by all the ghosts — ahem, ghostly figures — or they didn’t see them at all.
Every time I walked past the road on my way to school, I slowed my pace. Waved to some of them. Sometimes they even waved back. I stopped overthinking it years ago.
I didn’t know what caused it. I didn’t really care, either. I didn’t care until they all disappeared.
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