The Accomplice (1-10)

For more check out The Accomplice (11-20) and (21-30)

Chp. 1*****
"Her name was Miss Thompson. They say that once she had a face. I donâ??t believe them. All the other kids tease me, because I'm to a afraid to break into her house. Especially that Tubby Larson. He is so mean.
So one day, I finally went in, but the moment I put my foot on her hard wood floor, I was murdered. Miss Thompson's ghost herself ate my face. All the witches do that. And now I am eternally trapped here forever as a ghost to haunt the little children, like Tubby."

Chp. 2******

"it is possible, though highly unlikely, that Tubby Larson has learned his lesson. After seeing my ghost stab him thirty-two times in a row with a spiritual dagger, maybe he understood how much agony he put me through. With any other kid, the odds of this happening would increase, slightly, but Tubby is stupid. Four years, now, that he's spent in the second grade. I hate Tubby Larson. I also ate Tubby Larson's face. It was ugly anyhow, I doubt anyone will miss it."

Chp. 3*****

"Tubby had an unsually large nose and big floppy ears. He had little, if any, hair that was actually real. His face was scrunched up and his eyes were small and round. There was no beating heart in Tubby. No brain either. Sally Beagle was his cousin. She looked nothing like Tubby. She had two red braids tied with blue ribbons. She wore a blue sundress and, on Sundays, a yellow sunhat. Sally was a sweet girl. Sadly, she is Tubby's cousin. She must die."

Chp. 4*****

"i got much pleasure out of killing Tubby Larson, but even more out of slaughtering his small, innocent cousin. It was...thrilling to spill the blood of innocence. To see her frightened face, and watch her braids burn. Her blue Sunday dress; stained so beautifully. It was a shame that she was Tubby's cousin. She and I could have been friends, if it werenâ??t for Tubby's getting me murdered! Sigh. But there is no use carrying a grudge any longer than their lives. I have avenged myself. That should be enough.... but it isnâ??t."

Chp. 5*****

"so here I sit - or hover, rather, seeing how I am but a ghostly shadow who drifts among the living- by the open window of the widowed Mrs. Beagle. Not only had she lost her daughter -at to my own cunning hand- but also her beloved husband. A man of false truths. A man of no morals. A man who was mayor in the town of Quinnsby Rye, a rather lagging place not too far north of here with much to be desired.
Why is it that I sit here, perched at the lovely Beagles's -or whatâ??s left of them- window? Because. Because I am dead. When you are dead, no one sings to you at night. No one tells you a fairytale. No one mixes you tea while you sit by the fire. No one."

Chp. 6*****

"how is this relevant? You might ask. It is. Why? Because I said so. Have I lied to you so far? No. Not that you would know if I did, but I havenâ??t. So stop asking me questions and listen.
No one does anything for you when youâ??re dead. Except, Tubby Larson's Aunt Beagle. She does several things for me, without knowing it, of course. I doubt she even knew of me as a human, let alone the ghost who killed her daughter. Nonetheless, she does kind things for me.
For instance, she sings to me at night. She does not know I listen, or even that I hear her lyrical mourns. She knows nothing. But I love the woman for her stupidity. She believes that her dead daughter is somewhere in the clouds, gazing down at her as she sings her a sweet lullaby. I have some rather unpleasant news for Mrs. Beagle, that I will so enjoy telling her. Her daughter was murdered. By a ghost. Due to this delightfully sick event, she has joined we ghostly witches and gone to either grieve the loss of her life -as meaningless as it was- or to kill off more of the living. However, I believe that she simply died. She may have become a ghost, but she was too much like idiotic her mother in that she did not have the mind to commit such sociopathic acts as I and Mrs. Thompson, nor that of the self-pity kind. I am not an expert, but I do believe that I am more an expert here than Mrs. Beagle."

Chp. 7*****

â??Mrs. Beagle left a cup of tea on the window sill, as she does every night since I first discovered her nightly cries, and in the morning the cup was empty. She makes some very nice tea. You may sit perched at your desk reading my words and admire my ability to be so cold towards Mrs. Beagle. You may sit there; awestruck at how I just drank the tea Mrs. Beagle sets out for her dead daughter every night. You may think that was very cruel of me. But it wasnâ??t. Youâ??d do the same if a woman mourned the child you killed. If it were not for me, Mrs. Beagle would cry all night long, but instead she sings. If it were not for me, Mrs. Beagle would be very disappointed to wake up each morn only to find that her teacup, the one with yellow roses, were still full. I may have killed her daughter, but I had to. And now, I am helping Mrs. Beagle to believe that her daughter isnâ??t dead at all, but merely untouchable. You may say that itself is cruel. But its not.. I did not make up this lie that her daughter lives on, she did. And I am helping it become real, in Mrs. Beagleâ??s mind.â??

Chp. 8*****

â??Strange. Strange, indeed. I awoke this morn only to find Mrs. Beagle instead of kneading dough for her few live children to eat for breakfast, throwing all her teacups at a portrait hanging above the mantle in her rather inappropriately expensive home. This portrait is of her only daughter, Sally, dead or not, sitting beneath the apple tree strategically positioned in their sickly large front yard. In this painting, Sally wears her blue Sunday dress, as she always had and ever will. I glide upward to look into the widow in what used to be Sally Beagleâ??s bedchamber. I can see a little of the hallway and what appears to be another Beagleâ??s bedchamber. This one a young boy, seven, at most. He is tucked snuggly in his bed, wearing, what I imagine to be the male slumber version of Sallyâ??s blue Sunday dress. There is a woman, in gray and white apparel with a nurseâ??s cap atop her head of aged Latino brown curls. I enter the Beagleâ??s large home, by way of Sallyâ??s window, to get a better view of the happenings within it.â??

Chp. 9*****

â??The Beagle boy, Joshua, as I call him, is sick. Not only is the boy sick, but he is dying. Shame, none of the Beagles seem to last very long. They are a dying breed. I float down the Beagleâ??s massive staircase and into the study in which dwell a grand piano, the portrait of young Sally Beagle, and an intoxicated Mrs. Beagle as she curses and throws anything in sight at the frozen child who hangs above a stony fire place. I have inferred that Mrs. Beagle is blaming Sally for the multiple deaths and deaths to occur within the Beagle family.â??

Chp. 10*****

â??Poor Mrs. Beagle. Tis not Sallyâ??s doing that has brought about these unfortunate events, in fact, I killed Sally. (But you can blame Tubby for that.) Actually, I killed Sally in your own backyard, using her yellow hair ribbons to hang her small body from the apple tree of which she were so fond. Beofre I hanged her, I taunted, or rather, haunted, your sweet Sally Beagle. Four nights I spent using the shadows of your massive home to scare Sally beagle until she wet herself on your precious wood floors. Oh no, it wasnâ??t your wretched dog that pissed upon the expensive oak you boast about so often to your fellow towns women -lies she told you!- it was her, your frightened Sally Beagle.â??