We decided that once the candle burned out, we would never speak of it again.
James lit the match, put flame to wick.
“The ghost was a young boy, maybe ten,” I said.
James shook his head. “It was a girl, Grace,” he said. “Maybe fifteen, almost a woman.”
My eyebrows rose. “He had peach fuzz! And he wore a tie. Blue. With dark stripes.”
“A red dress,” James said. “Grace. We saw different people.”
Silence hung between us. The flame flickered. Sputtered. Died.
We left it at that, and spent our time there with spirits we would never understand.
Author’s Note: I had an image of two people who needed to speak about a strange experience, but when they started speaking things only got cloudier. This story was what resulted.