The events unfolded during the summer of 2005, a time when my parents sought to supplement their income by participating in Sunday car boot sales. Reluctantly, I found myself accompanying them, wearing a perpetual scowl and repelling any attempts at conversation from well-meaning strangers.
On that seemingly unremarkable morning, as I strolled through the car boot field, my gaze scanning the array of goods on display, a sight captured my attention. There, neglected beneath a table, sat an old-fashioned porcelain doll, adorned with fiery red curls and dressed in a Victorian-style ensemble. Something about her beckoned me closer, compelling me to rescue her from her current state of abandonment.
Approaching the vendor behind the table, I inquired about the doll’s price. His initial confusion betrayed a momentary lapse as if he had momentarily forgotten that this doll was among his wares. Eventually, he offered a puzzled smile and replied, “5p.” Eagerly, I reached into my small pink Barbie coin purse and handed over the required amount, elated with my newfound acquisition.
Filled with excitement, I eagerly carried my newfound treasure to the stall where my parents were conducting their own sales. With great pride, I presented the doll to them, hoping for a shared sense of joy. However, my father’s reaction was far from what I had anticipated. He recoiled at the sight of the doll, proclaiming it to be the ugliest thing he had ever laid eyes upon. Undeterred, I looked at Emily and offered reassurance, “Don’t listen to him, Miss Emily.” The name seemed to emerge naturally, resonating within my mind as if it were meant to be hers.
At that tender age, I remained oblivious to the fact that I had unknowingly encountered a spirit. All I knew was that the energy emanating from Emily felt comforting and gentle, drawing me toward her in an inexplicable manner. Perhaps it was her innate kindness that initially captivated me, creating an unspoken connection between us. In retrospect, I pondered whether our meeting was a result of fate, a predetermined alignment of our paths, or if Emily, in her ethereal wisdom, somehow recognised that I possessed the ability to offer assistance.
That night marked the inception of my dreams involving Emily. I found myself transported to a bygone era, stepping into the realm of an old-fashioned Victorian classroom. The meticulous decor and vintage furnishings left no doubt about the era in which this scene belonged.
As I entered the classroom, my eyes were immediately drawn to a young girl seated beside an empty desk. Her delicate frame and straight brown hair gracefully cascading over her shoulders made her a striking presence. Without diverting her gaze from the front of the room, she whispered quietly, her lips barely moving as if reciting the words inscribed on the blurred and distorted blackboard. Despite my efforts to concentrate, the writing remained elusive, refusing to reveal its true form.
Suddenly, the girl ceased her murmurs, reaching down and carefully placing something on her desk. It was Emily, unmistakably my cherished doll. Surprised and concerned, I spoke up, asserting, “Excuse me, that’s my doll.” Yet, the girl remained utterly indifferent, rising from her seat with Emily clasped firmly in her grasp. I desperately called out to her, my voice echoing through the room but to no avail. Trapped in my chair, I struggled against invisible restraints, pushing with all my might to break free, yet my efforts were in vain. Panic welled up inside me as I watched the girl walk away, callously disregarding my pleas for assistance.
I jolted awake, my body drenched in perspiration, gasping for breath. Frantically, I searched the bed for Emily, my heart pounding with trepidation, only to discover her absence. She had vanished, leaving behind a profound sense of emptiness and unease.
A heaviness settled in my heart as I became convinced that my father had whisked Miss Emily away during the night. His disapproving glances and unspoken objections to my attachment to the doll made me believe that he was the culprit behind her sudden disappearance. The thought of confronting him and pleading for her return seemed too daunting, for I feared the rejection that awaited me.
Several days passed without any further unusual dreams, yet the absence of Emily continued to weigh heavily on my mind. Unaware of my burgeoning abilities, I couldn’t make sense of what had happened. A lingering unease pervaded my days, and I became increasingly desperate to find Emily. Then, one evening, as I sat in my bedroom engrossed in homework, building up the courage to confront my father a familiar, comforting presence enveloped me once more. Closing my eyes, I surrendered to its gentle embrace, allowing it to guide me. In mere minutes, a realisation struck me with certainty: Miss Emily was beneath my bed, seeking shelter from the outside world, just as she had been when I first encountered her.
Gently brushing her hair from her face, and straightening her clothes, I lifted her from her hiding place and placed her back onto my bed. Little did I know that this act would lead to yet another extraordinary dream that night. Once again, I found myself in the chair, seemingly trapped, as the girl departed from the room. This time, however, the words on the board were clearer, boldly proclaiming, “Follow me.” Hesitation gripped me as a sense of foreboding washed over my being—a stark departure from the usual comfort I felt in Emily’s presence. This dream was undoubtedly connected to the doll, but its meaning eluded me. Who was this girl? Was she Emily’s previous owner? And why was she revealing these visions to me? An avalanche of questions flooded my mind, demanding answers that only following the girl could provide.
Summoning courage, I took a deep breath and ventured out of the classroom. The narrow, dimly lit corridor loomed before me, imbued with an eerie ambience. The girl had vanished from sight, necessitating a meticulous search of the corridors in pursuit. Fear gripped me as I traversed the unnaturally quiet corridors, uncertainty gnawing at my resolve.
After what felt like an eternity of searching the desolate corridors, the girl materialised once more, beckoning me to follow her with a subtle wave of her hand. We proceeded slowly, drawn towards a looming black hardwood door that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the school’s architecture. A deep breath escaped her lips, tinged with hesitation, as she turned the doorknob and entered the room beyond.
Curiosity drove me to follow her lead, stepping through the door and finding myself in a meticulously designed living room that exuded an unmistakable Victorian charm. It was as though I had stepped back in time, surrounded by antique furniture and ornate decorations. The young girl, now seated by the crackling fireplace, gazed into the dancing flames, her hands outstretched to capture their warmth. But the dream had shifted, taking on the quality of a spectator rather than an active participant.
As if caught in a scene from a forgotten era, the girl rose from her seat, her delicate dress catching on an unseen obstacle. Panic filled her eyes as flames began to lick at her garments, their hungry tendrils growing with each passing moment. A gut-wrenching scream tore through the air, reverberating through the room, but before I could intervene or witness the full extent of the scene, I abruptly woke up once more, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest.
Frantically searching my bed once more, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I discovered Miss Emily hiding beneath it. With gentle hands, I brought her out, tenderly brushing her hair away from her face. Though the exact nature of our connection eluded me, it was becoming increasingly apparent that this doll held a tragic past, one that she had shown me in my dreams. The images of her final moments, engulfed in flames, haunted my thoughts, stirring a mix of compassion and curiosity within me. How had she endured such terror? And why did she still linger, tethered to this realm?
My young mind, guided by the wisdom of my grandmother, held a simplistic belief that passing into heaven was the ultimate destination for departed souls. With this understanding, a resolve formed within me—I had to help the girl from my dreams find her way to the realm of eternal peace. But how could I achieve this as a child? Ideas, however whimsical, sprouted in my mind: tying a helium balloon to Miss Emily and watching her ascend into the heavens, or perhaps even tossing her out of an aeroplane during a vacation with my grandmother, believing she would find her own path to the celestial realm.
Luckily before I could do anything to poor Miss Emily the young girl appeared in my dreams again.
We found ourselves back in the familiar classroom, but this time the young girl beside me was in tears. The remnants of her accident were visible, with her skin peeling off and her body resembling charcoal. Her appearance startled and frightened me as a young girl, but despite her distress, she continued to exude the same comforting and kind presence I had felt when I first encountered the doll.
“Emily,” I whispered softly, assuming that was her name based on the echoes I had heard on our initial meeting. She turned towards me, her tear-streaked face revealing a mixture of sadness and vulnerability. In a hushed tone, I asked, “Why are you crying?”
Emily proceeded to share her heartbreaking tale. After her passing, she found herself trapped in darkness for what seemed like an eternity, unable to move or communicate. When she finally emerged from that abyss, she discovered that her once-familiar home had changed. Confusion and fear enveloped her as she watched a new family bustling about, unaware of her presence. Uncertain if these strangers posed a threat, she hid, observing them from a distance.
However, Emily’s yearning for companionship soon overcame her apprehension. When she saw the young daughter of the family playing alone, she revealed herself and asked if they could play together. But as soon as the girl caught sight of Emily, she erupted into screams and tears, frantically calling for her mother, convinced that a monster had invaded her bedroom. Emily, overwhelmed with shame, sought refuge in the first available vessel, which happened to be the doll I had picked up at the car boot sale. The young girl, aware that Emily resided within the doll, secretly placed it in the bag before we crossed paths.
In Emily’s eyes, residing within the doll had its appeal—it offered her a semblance of beauty that she believed she lacked. She expressed a sense of deep sadness and a sense of unworthiness, considering herself ugly in contrast to the doll’s beauty.
I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of empathy for Emily, who had endured such a tragic accident and struggled with her own self-worth. Determined to offer her the friendship she so desperately needed, I extended my hand towards her with a warm smile. “I’ll be your friend, Emily,” I said gently. “My name is Annie, and it’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”
Emily hesitated, her gaze fixed on my outstretched hand. I could sense her uncertainty and fear of opening up to someone new. Understanding her hesitation, I reassured her, “It’s okay if shaking hands isn’t your thing. We can still be friends, regardless.” A glimmer of relief flickered across Emily’s face, and a smile slowly graced her lips.
“Friends,” she whispered softly, affirming our newfound connection. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth and happiness at her response. It was a small step forward, but an important one nonetheless.
As our conversation deepened, I couldn’t ignore the question that had been weighing on my mind. My grandmother’s words echoed in my thoughts, reminding me that departed souls were meant to journey to heaven. I mustered the courage to ask Emily the burning question, despite the sadness it seemed to evoke in her.
“Why are you still here, Emily?” I inquired gently, searching for answers to this enigma. Emily’s gaze shifted away from me, her eyes fixating on the blackboard at the front of the classroom. Her voice, filled with melancholy, carried across the room without facing me.
“Because angels are beautiful,” she uttered softly, the words hanging in the air for a fleeting moment and then Emily just vanished.
As I woke up the next morning, a heavy feeling of disappointment washed over me, knowing that Miss Emily would again be hiding beneath my bed to conceal herself from the world. Without hesitation, I sprang out of bed and hurriedly crawled underneath, desperately hoping to find her waiting there. But I couldn’t find her. Frantically, I scoured every corner of my room, checking every nook and cranny, but Miss Emily seemed to have vanished without a trace.
Filled with a sense of desperation, I resorted to speaking out loud, casting aside my concerns about being overheard by my father. The urgency to help Emily consumed me. “Emily, I’m truly sorry for upsetting you. Can we talk? Not just in my dreams, but here and now,” I pleaded, my voice filled with earnestness. A heavy silence enveloped the room, and I strained to hear a response, but none came. The distant sound of my mother’s voice calling me down for breakfast reached my ears, adding to my mounting sense of urgency.
Realising that time was running out, I pressed on, my words carrying a mixture of hope and reassurance. “Emily, while I’m away at school today, please think about going to heaven. You’re not ugly. The warmth and kindness you radiate drew me to you that day when I first found you. I believe your parents must miss you dearly, and I think you’ll get to see them again. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how we look on the outside. Emily, you are truly beautiful, and you deserve to become an angel.”
With a sigh of resignation, I acknowledged that I had to leave now before I attracted the attention of my parents. I forced myself to focus on the day ahead and went to school, but thoughts of Emily consumed my mind throughout the day. I couldn’t help but wonder where she could be and what her response might be to my heartfelt plea. The ordinary routines of school felt like mere distractions, as my thoughts kept returning to the enigmatic spirit that had entered my life and stirred a sense of purpose within me.
As I returned home later that day, a surge of astonishment coursed through me when I spotted Miss Emily perched on my windowsill, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. A bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and at that moment, I knew exactly what it meant. Emily had listened to my heartfelt plea and found her way to the other side. This was her way of communicating with me, bidding farewell and letting me know that she had found peace.
A profound sense of relief washed over me, intertwining with a sense of purpose. It felt as if I had stumbled upon a calling, a path that was meant for me to walk. The connection I shared with Emily ignited a flame within me, guiding me to help others like Emily find their way to the other side, to help them overcome whatever is keeping them here.
Over the course of the following years, Miss Emily remained a cherished presence in my life. She became a symbol of the profound connection we had shared and a reminder of the transformative power of compassion and understanding. As time passed, I often found myself reflecting on the memories of my departed friend, contemplating the mysteries of the afterlife and the impact we can have on one another’s lives.
Now, two decades later, Miss Emily still resides with me, her porcelain visage etched with the stories of our journey together. She serves as a constant reminder of the beauty that lies within each soul, regardless of its physical appearance. I find comfort in knowing that somewhere in the vast expanse of existence, Emily has found her peace, basking in the knowledge of her inherent beauty and the love she continues to inspire.