The Sepia Recruits

In the biting cold of early February, I woke with a start, my bladder demanding attention. My small, two-story house in the rural town of Ashford, Vermont, was silent, save for the wind rattling the old windowpanes. The bathroom was downstairs, and as I shuffled to the top of the staircase, I noticed a faint, ghostly glow emanating from the living room below.

I froze. There, in the middle of my cluttered living room, were two young girls, no older than ten, dressed in what appeared to be naval uniforms. Their forms were translucent, like smoked glass, and their colors were washed out, the deep navy and crimson stripes barely distinguishable. They were not standing on my worn carpet but seemed to be in a vast, open field, their movements expansive and carefree, as if they were playing tag on a sunny beach.

My heart hammered, but I couldn’t look away. They were playing a game of chase, their laughter silent. The one nearest me, with hair cropped short and a hat askew, suddenly paused. Her head turned slowly, and her gaze met mine. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, and I saw her eyes, dark and empty, like voids that had once held life. Then she broke into a run, not towards me, but across the room, her feet passing through my armchair as if it were air. She vanished into the wall, and the other girl, after a moment of confusion, followed, dissolving like mist.

The air in the room grew cold, and I stood there, shivering, unable to move. I finally forced myself to go downstairs, my bare feet silent on the creaking steps. I flicked on the light, but the living room was empty, save for the usual shadows. I checked every corner, every cupboard, but there was nothing. I told myself it was a dream, a trick of the mind, but I knew better.

The next night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when I heard a soft, rhythmic tapping from the living room. I crept in and saw the two girls again, now clearer, their uniforms more defined. They were playing with a skipping rope, but the rope was made of some ethereal material, and their feet lifted off the ground in a dance that defied gravity. They seemed to be laughing, though no sound came. When they noticed me, they stopped, and the same girl pointed at me, her finger extended, her mouth moving as if to speak. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over a chair, and when I looked again, they were gone.

I began to research, spending days in the local library, searching for any records of naval training schools in the area. I found a mention of a defunct girls’ academy on Lake Champlain, closed in 1950 after a tragic accident. The students were orphans, and one winter, a fire broke out in the dormitory, killing several girls. The names of two were recorded: Eleanor and Ruth. They were inseparable, and their friendsship was legendary.

Driven by an inexplicable compulsion, I drove to the site of the old academy. It was nothing but a burnt-out shell, overgrown with weeds. I walked through the charred remains, my feet crunching on ash. In what used to be the recreation hall, I found a rusted locket with a faded photograph of two girls in naval uniforms, their arms around each other. I picked it up, and a cold gust of wind seemed to wrap around me.

That night, back home, I placed the locket on my nightstand. In the middle of the night, I woke to find the room bathed in a pale silver light. The two girls were standing at the foot of my bed, their outlines shimmering. The one who had noticed me now spoke, her voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere: ‘You have our locket. We were waiting for someone to find us.’

My blood ran cold. ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

‘Eleanor and I, we played a game that day,’ the girl said. ‘We hid in the boiler room, and the fire trapped us. The others forgot us, but you came. Now we can rest, if you return the locket to the lake.’

I looked at the locket on the nightstand, its silver face glinting. I wanted to refuse, but their hollow eyes bore into me, and I found myself nodding.

The next morning, I drove to the lake. The water was dark and still, the sky gray. I stood at the edge, the locket clutched in my hand. As I was about to throw it, I heard a faint giggle behind me. I turned, but there was no one. The locket grew cold in my hand, and I felt a sudden, fierce resistance, as if the locket didn’t want to leave. But I tossed it, and it arced into the water, disappearing with a soft splash.

As I drove home, I felt a sense of relief, but also a nagging emptiness. That night, I slept soundly for the first time in days. But at 3 AM, I was jolted awake by a piercing scream. I ran to the window and saw, in the frost on the glass, the words ‘WE ARE NOT RESTING’ written in a wavering hand.

I rushed to the lake the next day, but the water was calm, and I saw nothing. Yet, as I stood there, I heard the faint sound of skipping rope, and when I turned, I saw them again, standing on the shore, their outlines now stark against the pale sky. They pointed at me, and their mouths moved in unison: ‘You took our game.’ And then they vanished.

Now, every night, I hear the tapping of a rope on my floor, and when I look, I see two ghostly girls playing in my living room, their eyes fixed on me, waiting for me to join them. I never go downstairs anymore, and I sleep with the lights on. But I know they are patient. They will wait until I can no longer resist, and then they will take me to their side, to play their eternal game.