Touching but not Feeling

It had all started when I was little.

The woman looked decayed. She had long, black hair that curled around her face. It floated, almost. Her pale blue dress was from long ago. It had white cuffs around her wrists, and it ruffled from the waist down. As she hovered about, she picked up her dress as if she could still walk.

The thing that scared me the most was her face. It looked delicate, fragile. It was tinted a sickly, pale blue, but her dead, black eyes seemed to seep into me. Part of her face looked like it had caved in. But she was done with bleeding. Her head always leaned to one side, as if she was endlessly curious. But I knew better. It was broken.

I hadn't figured out that I was the only person who could see her until I tried to show her to my dad.

"Daddy, look at my new friend!"

"Who are you talking about?"

"Angaleik, of course!"

"Honey, there's no one here but you and me."

"Can't you see her?"

"No, honey."

Angaleik was my friend. She could not talk on her own, she could only repeat phrases.

That's how I found out about her death.

Angaleik was a ghost.