The ghost of 1923
What if that orphanage never burnt down? What if the caretakers saved us? What if I never knew about the box in the kitchen?
I wasn't the only kid there. 20 of us little kids were in that fire in 1923. 20 of us suffocated in the flames around us. The caretakers were the only ones who survived since they ran away. But each caretaker left us in the orphanage where the flames reduced us to ashes. Horrid is what it is. Nothing but pure horror as the caretakers stood outside the smoldering hot building, listening to the cries of the children not one bolting inside to save them. 4 years old I was. 4 years old, engulfed by flames along with the other kids who were almost the same age as myself.
Even after 100 years, the memory is still brighter than the sun engraved within my thoughts. Pardon me for not introducing myself. The name's Alaxceis Robbert Vargazi however the others prefer to call me Alex. I am a 4-year-old girl who taught herself how to speak as if I was an adult. I was one of the orphans who suffocated in the flames in 1923. You may be asking yourself "How did the orphanage go up in flames?"
May 23, 1923, All children were gathered around the round table for dinner time served by a male caretaker named Sam. Sam was 16 and was the chef at the orphanage that loved cooking for small children like us. He loved to make us chicken soup which was one of my favorite dishes he made. After dinner time, we were all told to head to our assigned rooms to rest for the next day that awaits. No one treated us with disrespect in that building. However, they were not so smart when it came to baby proofing the orphanage. They would always leave out at least one thing that was dangerous out on accident. One of those accidental times, someone left out a box of matches. None of the kids dared to touch it because A: No one knew what it was, B: We did not want to cause trouble.
I sat in my room, my little pea sized brain pondering on what to do besides getting some shut eye. The window in my room creaked while wind soared through it. Then it hit me. Sam had put away the matches in a cupboard inside the kitchen locked with a key. A 4-year-old playing with matches. What could possibly go wrong?
I hopped off my fluffy bed then opened the big door that separated my room to the main house. I tiptoed down the massive flight of stairs and trotted all the way to the kitchen. My body was far too small to reach for the light that illuminates the kitchen, so I had to do it alone in the dark. Without fear, I began to shuffle myself around the kitchen to find a key. I looked like a little blind woman trying to find her glasses that she dropped onto the hardwood floor placed below me. The key, which sat in a corner of the room, offered a small ray of light lit by the glowing moon from the window above.
I grabbed the key and tried to feel my way to the keyhole which was only a few inches from me. I had managed to put the key in the hole and obtain said matches. I stared at them for a long while clueless on how to open them. A specific side of the box had a rough side that I could feel in the palm of my hand. I began to push random sides of the box to see if a genie or something would happen. To my surprise, the box slid open with one gentle push. I frowned knowing the was just sticks that I could feel with my fingers. I scurried up the wooden staircase into my room to further investigate. I hopped onto my bed with the matches in hand and stared at them for a long while. I had noticed that the end of the stick was a brick color of red. It was coincidentally the same color as the rough part of the side of the box. I grabbed a stick with my left hand a stared at it once more. Without notice of my actions, my pea sized brain took the stick and began to roughly scrape it against the rough part situated on the side of the box. With enough friction, the stick began to glow a mass of orange, red and blue. It also was very hot. Shocked I was of the heat, threw the glowing stick onto the floor. I remember the screams of horror of the caretakers and the cries of the children.
I wanted to escape the orphanage and watch it burn while I stayed safe. The flames were so high that I couldn't leave. I began to panic myself not knowing what to do at all. The caretakers, everyone of them survived since they managed to leave when the flames were still little. I watched as the children and myself burned to our death. Each kid cried however I did not. I looked up to the flames, smiled and ran into them as if it were a game. Each piece of skin bursting to flames and leaving nothing but a small skeleton of my body.
100 years or so later, I now suffer as a ghost forever trapped in the rubbish of the burnt orphanage that was once my home. I cannot leave no matter what and I am always surrounded by the dead corpses of the children that I have murdered without thought. But I have not stopped there. I won't ever stop for a long time...I want more. More murder. More kids screaming. More blood.
What if I didn't die?
Credited to Creepypasta fan29
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