text: The Ghost Child There once was a child named Wren, an eerie looking boy of 8. He had long raven black hair and grey eyes, giving him the appearance of a shade or a dark villain. He was thin as a stick and pale as a corpse. He lived in a house at the far edge of the town, a miserable part of the neighbourhood. He had no family nor friends. His parents died when he was young and no relative was willing to take care of him. He tried making friends but made none. Anyone who saw him would always run away because he looked scary. Every time he tried to be friends with kids his age, they would be pulled away by their frightened parents or guardians. They were so afraid, they thought they looked at the Devil straight in the face. They would always warn their children not to get near him and tell stories of the "Ghost Child". As the story became popular throughout the town, the more people would turn away and scorn him. He could never go outside during the day but only at night, for fear that he would be killed by them. He could only see the outside world through the boards on the barred windows and watch the other children play. By nightfall, it was safe to leave his refuge. He begged on the streets for food. Never cared for money because he never learned how to use it. In lonesome nights, he would visit old shops or rummage through garbage to beg or look for something to eat. Most of the time, he would be met with a stone to the face or a stick on the arm but there are others that took pity on him and gave him scraps. However, that wasn't the only reason why he would wander around. He would sometimes search for toys and dolls, thrown away by others. Broken and abandoned. Just like himself. He would take them home and fix them up. It was the only thing he felt comfort with. There were plenty of toys on the old shelves around his room. Stuffed animals, meticulously mended, as if they look like it came from the shop. Dolls, excellently repaired, like it was created by its maker. It continued like this for about four years. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* On the night of his twelfth birthday , he finally snapped. The weight of infamy is too heavy to handle. In bitter despair, he wailed in agony. He had a toy in his hand, still unfinished. He threw it across the room. It broke when it made contact with the wall. He threw a tantrum and his screams can be heard outside. It continued for a whole minute. Then he stopped. The walls, already dilapidated, was riddled with holes. The bed was attacked with the tools he used for repairs and several pieces of wool flew from it. His eyes stared emptily on the ceiling then down to his worktable. A pair of silver scissors, gleaming in the moonlight, shone in his eyes like a star. He took it and examined it closely. Simple in design and sharp to the touch. These were the scissors that he mended the toys with care. And the ones that will end his misery. He pointed it to his chest, right on his heart. But before he could do it, he heard a voice. "Stop!" it cried. A girl's voice. He froze and dropped the scissors. He turned around and glanced at the doorway. A little girl wearing a blue ballerina's attire was by the door. She had short hair, white as snow, and golden eyes, the color of honey. She was not alone. A couple also stood behind her. A blonde woman in red with grey eyes and a tan skinned man with raven black hair. Wren had not used his voice when his parents died. It sounded coarse and gravelly yet retaining the child who owned it. "Mom?". She nodded. "Dad?". He nodded. He slowly approached them but hesitated to touch them. *They were dead.* He knows this. He saw them die. But it felt so real. He touched their hands. They are there. He couldn't hold back the tears and neither did they. The parents bent down to hug their son tightly, and Wren did in return. "That's not all, Wren," said the mom, in between tears. "There other people waiting for you outside," said the dad. "And they want to be friends with you." He could not believe it. *Friends?* He abandoned that hope long ago. Who would be friends with the Ghost Child. The girl led them outside the room and he could see the inside of the house. It's not the old gray walls and empty halls that he was familiar of, it was the complete opposite of it. The halls were colorful and everything looked new. The house feels warm and comfortable. But that's not all. There are also people there. A lot of unfamiliar and strange faces, and they are all smiling at him. It seems they are glad to meet him. Wren was baffled by their reactions. *Why would they be glad to see a child of a specter?* They went to the dining room. He could smell the wonderful food prepared in it. And it was a feast. Roasts, soups, sweets and garnishes galore. The table could barely stand due to the weight. He was seated at the middle of the table with his parents at his side. From the kitchen on the left, a cake was brought in. It was lit with a candle and it was placed in front of him. He looked at his parents to ask what is it for. "It's your birthday, Wren," said Mom. "It's for you." She held his cheeks. "Our little friend." He blew the candle and they all cheered. It was the best night that he could ever wish for. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* It was morning outside and the light brightened up the gloom. The people outside, woke up and readied themselves for the day. The children went to school and the adults go to work. However, a handful of people stood outside an old house. They heard a scream the night before and they decided to find the source. Others speculated that it was a demon or a ghost but others knew it was the fabled "Ghost Child". They quietly entered, lanterns and axes at the ready. Searching the halls and rooms for the phantom. A man stumbled upon a room with the door slightly open. He motioned for the others that he found it. They opened it. And saw the "Ghost Child". Or what remains of him. The child was slumped over a pool of blood and a pair of scissors, pierced in his heart. Surrounded by dolls and toys. He had a smile in his face. And it was proof that he was only a kind child, deserted by a cruel world. (First time posting here.