There’s a junior high girl in my house…

This happened when I was in junior high school.

I was in the art club, and I was talking to the young female teacher at a sketch meet. I was unable to see ghosts myself, so I was terribly interested in other people’s stories.

“Miss, have you ever seen a ghost?” I asked the teacher in the same tone I always used. It turned out she had, and she told me her story.

It happened six years prior, but there was a ghost in her house. The first time she saw it, she wasn’t especially concerned with it. She often saw ghosts, so it was like, “Oh, another one.” The ghost was a junior high girl, wearing a dress, and she was standing at the end of the hall looking down at the ground.

That same day, when she was sitting on the tatami mats in her room, she saw the girl sitting on the stairs, staring at the ground. Seeing her around the house more and more often, the teacher started to get a little frightened, so she described what the ghost looked like to her mother. When she did, her mother looked at her with a strange expression.

“That sounds like the daughter of the architect that built that house. There was an accident during construction and she died. She came to see the house while it was being built.”

After that, the teacher began seeing the ghost around the house more often. She wanted to mention it to the architect, but she was unable to get in contact with him.

Upon hearing her story, my heart froze. It wasn’t that I was scared. It was that I suddenly realised who she was talking about.

That girl was my older sister, who died in a traffic accident six years earlier. And the architect she couldn’t get in contact with was my father, who committed suicide five years earlier.

The biggest shock was that my sister hadn’t yet moved on. I wanted to do whatever it took to help her. I explained to the teacher about the accident, and the very next day I went over to her house.

My mother wanted to go with me but was unable to escape work, so she entrusted me with everything and I went by myself.

The teacher greeted me at the door. She guided me to the room where she often saw my sister. It was a dim room without much sunlight. I got angry at myself, not realising that my sister was in such a lonely place all by herself.

The teacher left me alone, and I pleaded with my sister.

“I’m sorry I left you here all alone for so long. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. But I’ve come for you now. You’re not alone. Come on, let’s go home. Let’s go back home.”

Halfway through I started crying.

What did my sister think of me? How could I let such a cruel thing happen to my kind and gentle sister? I sat there crying until I felt a soft tapping on my shoulder.

I turned around. A young girl was standing there, a complete stranger, with a dreadful look on her face. She looked at me, grinning in satisfaction.

“You’re going to take me home?”

I still don’t know whether my real sister is resting in peace or not.

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