The Crumpled Mirror by Elizabeth Loea (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

in the last few days, but somehow, the circle was a welcome reminder that there was something familiar left in this world.

Even if that familiar thing reminded me all too much of the prospect of my death.

I saw Vivi’s back as I stepped into the clearing. Toto’s claws sunk deeper into my skin and I wondered, for a brief moment, if he could see Vivi. Oddly, myrelief at seeing her was overwhelming. Vivi was a tiny figure in the distance, dancing along the top of the fence that surrounded the house. I watched her dark curls lift in the breeze as she spun, and for once, the sight of her didn’t feel like a threat or an admonition.

I realized in that moment that I’d never really seen Vivi as a child. When you’re little, you never think of other children as kids—you just think of adults as some far-off, aspirational age. As I got older, Vivi was a ghost, aging alongside me even as she remained the same physical age. Besides, I’d always thought she was imaginary, and figments of the imagination age with the people who imagine them.

Now, though, I knew she was a real ghost. She was the remnant of a girl who’d died at eight years old. She might have grown older at my side, following me around on my adventures, but she was still a child, plain and simple.

And I hadn’t helped her. I hadn’t offered her the slightest kindness after the first year. I’d thought she was imaginary. I hadn’t worried that she was an actual person, with actual feelings, growing up trapped at my side without anyone to help her.

Gods, I was a terrible person.

As she danced along that fence and I approached, I realized how scared she must have been.

At last, when I was only ten yards away or so, the girl I thought was Vivi turned her face to mine.

Hello, she said, in a voice that was not human at all.

My mind made a sound like a boulder dropped into a lake—a threatening plonk, discordant and jarring.

“You’re not Vivi,” I said.

The girl who was not Vivi cocked her head to the side. From afar, she’d looked similar. Her dark hair bobbed in the breeze. Her brow was similar in its delicacy, her shoulders slender, her form lanky for her age.

But this definitely wasn’t Vivi. Her eyes were a different color, her face a rounder shape, her jeans lighter and her coat navy rather than black. Beneath it, a bedazzled shirt peeked out. The girl gave me a venomous smile and hopped from the fence.

The ground shivered beneath her weight. A little splinter sundered the grass like a comb through hair. It ended at my toes, but I felt the earth continue to shift beneath me, and Toto hissed at the ground.

My name is Cecelia, she said. The woman you were just talking to named me Cecelia Mandragora. I am now called simply Cecelia.

Cecelia, my mind repeated. She was too close now, slow and deliberate in her movements but clearly hostile. I took a step back and she blurred, a fizz in the air, until she was right in front of my face, hovering high enough off the ground to press her nose to mine.

Toto yowled and jumped off my shoulder. He raced toward the house, but fortunately Cecelia ignored him.

And you’re Clementine, she said. But you’re not really named Clementine, are you?

I scrambled for my board, but she folded a tiny hand around it and yanked it from me with some inhuman strength. I didn’t want to look away from her, but I watched as she flung the driftwood behind her. It spun through the air, faster than a car on the freeway, and slammed into the gate she’d just danced on. Toto was already through the gate, but he ran faster at the noise.

I heard the splintering of the wood and knew I had no easy way out.

I don’t like liars, she said. My father sent me because he doesn’t like liars, either. So you’re going to tell me what your real name is, hm?

“I didn’t know—” I started. “I didn’t know your dad could see ghosts.” It was a silly thing to say, but if you’re ever confronted by the ghost of your crush’s dead sister, you try coming up with something clever. Then you’ll see how hard it is.

She blinked up at me with eyes that should have been learning to read, or watching Disney Channel, or crinkling with smiles as she played with friends. Instead, she was translucent—dead—and the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.

I don’t mean that man, she said. I mean my father. The one who’s raised me. The one who taught me my value.

That was not a good sign.

“Who would that be?”

He found me, dead and alone. He offered me love and kindness when my brother refused to acknowledge my presence. He’ll bring me back to life soon. If you tell me your name, he’ll bring me back.

Resurrection. That was an eerily familiar story.

She smiled, unaware of my moment of recognition. I’ll tell you his name if you tell me yours.

I didn’t have time to think. The voice in my head was screaming at me, telling me to run, and for once, I listened.

The ground roiled beneath my feet as I sprinted for the mansion, but I managed to keep my footing somehow. The grass rippled like the scales of a snake, the thorns of the flowers tearing at my pants. I didn’t try to glance back. Running was useless, but my heart overflowed with fear. I couldn’t stop running if I ran into a wall at that point.

At the top of the stairs to the entrance, I glanced back. She hadn’t even followed; Cecelia watched me from the clearing, her arms crossed, and gave me a smile that said everything she could do if she caught up to me.

I stepped through, letting Toto in after me, and glanced back again. Cecelia was still there,