Hello, my name is Matilda Anne Charts II and I am dead. I died around 700 years ago and that may seem like a long time, but when you're dead, time really seems to fly by. I previously lived on the coast in a tiny town. "Where the rolling hills meet the sea." Is what my mother used to call it, but its proper name was Captain's Town. It was a pretty place. It had wide-open fields and trees that reached high to the stars and darling sand beaches that held back the blue roaring water. We only had a few neighbors and I could name everyone in the town if I so wished. Well, at one point I could, that is. Which isn't really that impressive since the population of the town was small and always declining. We lived on the outskirts of Captains town, about a two-block walk. Most people lived and worked in the small close quarters of central Captains Town. Other than us and the farmers who needed the extra space for their crops.
In town, there was the baker and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. They were both very sweet to our family and would occasionally have conversation with my mother. They were both rather large in size, probably due to the amount of leftover bread they ate. I particularly enjoyed the baker's company. He would always hum a tune will he worked and on special occasions he would make a small cake. They granted me the chance to try a slice once on one of my visits to town. It was heavenly. You could say they were my family's only true friends, and they took the death of both me and my mother very hard. I heard the baker did not make bread for a whole week and the rest of the town became quite angry. But who knows if that is true? I only heard it through whispers and I have been told no one should trust whispers, for they are easily misheard and even more easily bent from the truth. I would like to think he mourned us, but not too much. For it makes me happy that someone cared enough to be sad about our passing, but it would weigh heavy on my heart if they could not regain their usual happiness after our deaths.
Then there was the butcher. I never took a liking to the butcher and he could say the same for me. He was quite scary. He carried around a rather large knife where ever he goes and was missing a finger. He also had a rather sour attitude towards children, one of which I have never seen. I thought maybe a child had bitten his finger off, so he does not trust them anymore. So we tried to be as sweet to him as possible, but he never showed the same kindness back.
There were few more notable people in the town. There were only two other families with children, but we only played together once. Which in all truth was fine with me since the only girl my age was ill-tempered and a boast. Her name was Pacifica. Her father was the shoemaker, and they lived in the finest house in town. She was spoiled and always had new shoes, which she liked to tease me with. Her nice shoes and the fine house she lived in never made me jealous. It was her brother. He was fifteen and oh so handsome. Blonde hair framed his oval face, that was typically covered in mud and dirt. He had deep blue eyes, unlike anyone in my family. He was lanky but strong and wanted to be a shoemaker, like his father. I never talked to him, for he was always busy when my family and I came into town every Monday morning. It was a silly childish crush. But a few years after I died, he came down to the beach and sat there looking out on the ocean. He was still good-looking, but in an older way. He has grown quite a bit taller and his face had lost its color. As if the childish spark had been sucked clean from him. His eyes were sad now, and he held them mostly closed, concealing their deep beauty from the world. I sat next to him, although he could not see me for the few hours he was there. It was the first time I had company since my death. It was nice not to be alone for once, even if he didn't know I was present. Then he picked up and left and never came back to the beach.
There was the Stoneman and the Weaver. They were brothers. They did not like each other which is unbrotherly like. Brothers are supposed to stick together and sisters are supposed to fight, not the other way around. No one really knew why they were not fond of each other. They were close the years before, then one day they hated each other. I believe everyone thought they would get over it, but they never did and they were enemies till death. There was the Grocer and the Carpenter and the Cook and a few ladies who did not work and simply danced around all day.
Then, of course, there was us, the Charts family. We were not outcasts in our town, but no one had any particular fondness for our family other than the baker and his wife. Therefore, we spent most of our time together. It was just me, my two little brothers Henry and John Charts and our mother. My brothers were only five and seven when I died. I loved them both dearly, but I always despised them just a little because it was obvious that they were our mother's favorite. She would take them to the beach and leave me at home. She would give them the last piece of bread at dinner, even if I asked for it first. She bought them anything they wanted in town or did anything they asked. I tried not to let that get to me, but as young as I was, I needed my mother's love, which I greatly lacked. My mother's lack of love for me, of course, is not their fault. It is not like they forced my mother into loving them more, but it was always easier to blame them than to blame my mother. Sometimes I thought it was my fault, and not that she loved the boys more, but it was she loved me less. Sometimes I would think that it was because I was a girl and my mother preferred boys. But most times it was Jhon's and William's fault for no good reason. It just was the easiest for me to accept. I have regretted every bit of sourness that I showed to the boys over the course of my short life. They in no way, shape, or form deserved it, and they were always good to me. Well, almost always. And were thankful to have me as a sister. I just wished I had shown the same appreciation back and that I would have realized how lucky I was to have them when I was still alive.
They were both very handsome for boys their age. William has hair like me and our mother. Light brown, but it was a lot curlier than either of ours. He had light green eyes that were like nothing anybody had ever seen before. That is at least what everyone always said. His cheeks were always rosy, and his large, toothy smile was part of his everyday outfit. Despite being the youngest, he was quite smart in a 5-year-old kinda way. I believe he grew up to be a genius and I can only hope that he did great things with his life.
John, on the other hand, had dark brown hair that matched his eyes perfectly. As if when he was being made, the color from his hair washed down his face into his eyes. He was tall for his age and was almost as tall as I was. He was quite clumsy and had a terrible tendency to fall over a lot and drop any fragile or expensive item he somehow got his hands on.
Then there was me. I seemed to be a mix of my family. As if they were all thrown in a large mixing pot and combined to make me. Even though I was the eldest child. I have my mother's face shape and John's eyes. I also take after my mother in her hair; long and light brown. And I seem to have William's rosy checks, but they are dotted with freckles. I would say I have a pleasant disposition, but I presume everyone would say that about themselves. I would say that I am the most sensitive in the family and probably the nicest. That is until you cross me, then I can be quite rude and stubborn. Qualities I fear I take from my father.
And finally, my mother. I am named after my mother; Matilda Anne Charts the first. My mother was one thing I remembered clearly from my life. She had long, light brown hair that went past her shoulders. It was mostly straight till the end when it turns up in a light curl. She was quite peculiar to other people in Captains Town for the way she wore her hair. Which makes no sense to me. Others have no right over my hair nor hers, so why would they judge her for it? But that is beside the point. She had large light brown eyes which were her best feature in my opinion and most others as well. What can I say? My family has a tendency to have amazing eyes. She wore a flowing white dress that ended at her ankles and had long sleeves that were loose and free. She wore a dark brown leather corset on top of her dress that cupped her chest and ended above her waist so she could lean over freely without restraint. She never wore shoes. She loved the way the grass and sand felt on her feet and saw shoes as nothing but a device to stop those lovely feelings. She was a marvelous lady. She was patient and tender and beautiful. But she was not very smart, nor did she think things through. Which is more than likely why I died. After she left me to play by the cliff and left. I have not the slightest clue why she left me there, but she did, and I got up and walked over to the edge of that cliff and fell off.
But I always wondered if she had done it on purpose. My mother did not seem like someone that would kill but on the over hand you must be totally dull to leave a child by themself near a cliff. It was a thought and my mother was not bright-minded, but she was not dull. My father, on the other hand, was quite bright and artistic. At least from what I heard. I never knew my father that well. In fact, I could never recall his name or even what he looked like. But I always assumed he had the same hair and eyes as Jhon. He was always out in faraway places, trading the art he made with the rich for money and food. He kept us alive until he didn't. First, it was me, then my mother, to the black death, then the boys. My mother and brothers did not become ghosts. Maybe it was because it was truly their time to go, or maybe they did, but I can't see them. I may never know, but what I do know is I am a ghost, and no one likes ghosts.
I stay inside my old house most days but sometimes I go down to the beach where I died. It is a charming place. It is quite small and secluded, but beautiful. Towering cliffs surround the beach, making it mysterious and private. A narrow path zig-zags down the cliff to the beach. The sand is always warm, and the ocean is always blue. This place has been the only place that has not changed a bit since I died and I love it. The only thing wrong with the beach is it lacks a headstone in the place I died. I was never moved or taken to a graveyard my body lay there decomposing for so many years. All that is left of me are the bones of a child buried deep in the sands. It was not my mother's fault that I never got a headstone or a cross. For she fell ill mere days after my death and died not five days after that since she had no doctor. I had hoped that my father would come back and give me a "proper send-off" but to my dismay, he never came home, not for me nor my mother or my brothers. And I have grown to hate him for it. Now he is long dead, but I continue on in the ruins of my old house.
It is covered in cobwebs and dust. Spiders of all types make their home in the high ceilings and door frames. The house is slumped over on one side and part of the roof is broken out. The large hole in the ceiling is the only place light can find its way into the dark and depressing place. Vines and plants grow from the walls and floors, slowly taking over the house more and more day by day. The wood is rotting and splintering. The doors squeak and the floorboards creak, waling of the toll the years have taken on it. Mold grows in the cold, wet corners of the house. There is also a small family of mice that made their home in the cupboards. They are quite nice, actually. They aren't afraid of me and I consider them my pets, so I allow them to stay. The once bright and elegant house is now nothing but a dump. The vibrant floral wallpaper that had once traced the walls has faded and peeled. The books in the library have grown old and water has caused the writing to bleed down the pages like waterfalls from each and every word. The high ceilings have sunk, threatening to collapse at any moment in time. And my bedroom. The painting of me as a baby has fallen to the floor and tore itself to shreds on the way down. My stuffed animals lie around the ground stone cold and no longer full of fun, like they were when I was alive. John's and William's room is the only room in the house that lay empty. Cleared out when they were taken away to an orphanage. The back door to the house lay on the ground, ripped off its hinges. And worse of all, my mother's skeleton lay in her bed. She lay there on her back; her arms lay crossed over her stomach, covered in dust and bugs. I have not gone into the room she died in since she started rotting. The house has been ruined by time. Time has ruined one of the last things I had. And it will keep trying to take everything, but I will not let it.