My name is Emily Rose. I am eight years old, and I am haunted.


Have you ever been to a haunted house? I’m sure you have, and I’m sure your found it quite amusing. I used to think so, too. But to me, my skull is a haunted house. My body is the aching roots that stem from evil and grow deep into the earth, twisting their way through the museum below the sea and soil, and burring themselves deep within the earth’s warm core. My body is a slave to my brain, and yet my brain is just a pawn to the king. The truly evil king who haunts me. My leader. My king. My sir.

Who are you?


My name is Emily Rose. I am eight years old, and I used to be normal.

Once upon a time there was a girl. She was little in every way you could imagine; small, twig-thin, and naïve. The world was her blanket, the soft cushion of her mother’s flesh, pricked with goose bumps, for you see, the world feared her. Everywhere she went people would avoid her, yet stare. She had mousy brown hair that did not appear mousy, but modest. She had cream skin that was not pasty, but silken flesh. Her eyes were steel daggers protruding from her heart, but her smile was the sun, hugging you close. She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was lonely.

She was me.


My name is Emily Rose. I am eight years old, and I do not know why this happened to me.


Mommy told me I am possessed. She said she was d***ed for creating me. She said she’d meet me in h***. She said this was my fault. She said she loved me. Daddy never said anything. Not after Mommy left us. Mommy left after just the first haunting. She said the lord was inside me. She said she would go plead for my life. She said the blood she poured was cleansing.


I wonder if she meant for her or me.


My name is Emily Rose. I am eight years old, and I am completely alone with my demons.