Ellie de Florette, 1
Unless you are a tourist, moving to places other than your hometown is something you are not particularly enthusiastic about.
I think my father felt exactly like that twenty years ago when he had decided to move to Kansas.
Leaving a mansion on Pacific Coast Highway in California must have left him a kind of trauma, now that I think back.
In my memory a week before moving, my father looked really depressed. That afternoon he took me out to the front porch of our house. He sat in a rocking chair with me on his laps. It took me about ten full minute to realize he was staring up the sky.
"Why is the sky so blue?" I asked, pointing up to the sky.
He didn't reply.
"Why is the sky so blue, dad?" I asked again awhile later.
That's all he said. So I gave up.
"Why is it blue like that?"
He muttered as if he talked to himself after another ten minute
"Why?" I said.
"Because it feels blue," said my father.
I didn't get what he was trying to say at that time, of course. Later I learned that that's his way of saying, Our house will be foreclosed and we will soon move out.
We moved to Kansas.
It was virtually in the middle of nowhere. The closest town from there was 20 miles away.
A house stood on the brownish plateau; but it wasn't nice.
It looked like a ghost house that would appear at dusk and disappear at dawn.
Rolling hills, sporadically sprawled bushes, dead thistles, brushing wind, and a run-down house. It was totally out of place.
The paint on every doors and aisles were peeled off, revealing bare beige wall.
The front porches and the guest house were in desperate need of comprehensive repair - in other words, total reconstruction according to father.
The stone wall were infested with moss and the shingle roof looked too damaged to keep out water leak or windstorm.
It was only after a few days passed since we had arrived that I woke up in midnight.
Something licked my neck.
Through my bedroom windows ajar, a winter storm was raging.
Slipping out of the bed, I lumbered toward the window.
Then my eyes met a reflection on the half-fogged window when a lightning flashed across the room.
I turned around, and my whole body turned cold and frozen.
There was a ghostly figure in a nightgown levitated off the floor with her deadly gray hair blowing in the air.
I nearly soiled my pants.
I said to myself that if I couldn’t dare to knock myself out unconscious on the floor, I might as well face the ghost myself.
Incredibly that’s what I did.
“Who, who are you?” I said, feeling my stomach lurch.
“Ellie, Ellie de Florette,” she said hoarsely.
That’s how I met Ellie, the ghost.
Before I met Ellie, I had thought that all the ghosts would look horrific.
Sunken eyeballs, spider net like gray hair and ghastly dress. Always creeping behind you.
They would appear behind you when you looked at the mirror, but if you turned around, you would know you were all alone.
Ghosts, apparitions, and illusions were all the same, different names to me.
I thought they were all something without real substances, that is, spiritual. Misty and foggy.
Every time you stretch your arms it will slip through your fingers.
But Ellie was anything but that. Ellie looked as if she were just out of bed, having overslept.
There was nothing like eerie ghostly with her. So very often I forgot that I was in the company of a ghost, not a girl. That particular confusion persisted throughout our relationship.
Ellie drew near to me.
"What do you want?" I gasped.
I think what I would have liked to say was, "This is my room. You shouldn't intrude like this. This is a felony!"
And I immediately regretted it.
When you have found a stranger, especially in the middle of night and in your room, the chances are that you are encountering a serial killer or a sleepwalker who can possibly turn to a serial killer or even either of your parents that will turn to a heartless killer of their own children for some petty reasons like being emotionally distraught after divorce and so on and forth.