She watched the clock spin as she did every day. It was as if she was waiting for something; an appointment, a bus, maybe a delivery. She isn’t bound by time. In fact, it is meaningless to her along with other common things like sleep, comfort, and especially food. She never eats and it shows. Her body is so thin; she almost blends in with the surrounding walls. Or perhaps that illusion is created by her pale skin, almost translucent. She told them it was just the way she was born. She said that it is a rare skin disease that discolors her skin. But, I know it isn’t that. She wasn’t born with this skin. She died and inherited it.

Charlotte is beautiful, one of those faces that you couldn’t forget. She has big, gray eyes filled with sorrow and regret. Her voice has a shaky tendency to it, as if she is about to cry, yet she never does. But I can always see a teary shine across her steely irises, a glaze that catches the sunlight. It is only in the sunlight that I can see the curl in her soft blond hair and the shriveled veins that run under her perfect complexion. She is unbelievably youthful, but her age exceeds anyone I know. Charlotte is graceful and elegant; her dress is Victorian and full. And when I say dress, I mean dress. She only owns one.

I watched Charlotte toy with the pocket watch as she sat in the old, worn chair in the attic. She rested her hand beneath her chin and slowly taps one of her long fingers on her bottom lip. “What do you think it means?” she surprised me. She hasn’t said anything in hours but has just been staring endlessly at the watch. I haven’t minded it. Actually, I have been enjoying the peace and company that Charlotte supplies.

“You mean the watch?” I replied. She found it in her petti coat pocket one day last week and swore she has never seen it before. I believed her, thinking that if she has worn the same coat for three centuries, she must know it like the back of her hand. However, I did find it rather strange that it just appeared there and that it is unrecognizable. Then again, the watch could have been left by the last family who lived here. When we moved into this house last summer, we found stashes of old photographs, letters, and even furniture, like the chair charlotte sits in, left by the previous family. Charlotte says there has only ever been one other family that has lived in this house besides us. They were the ones who built it. And charlotte was their daughter.

“Do you think it’s some sort of message?” she says turning to face me, “a message that I’m running out of time?” as soon as the words are out of her mouth I laugh. “Sam, do you think I’m…dying?”

“Charlotte,” I say, “you aren’t dying, that’s ridiculous. I think you just need to put the watch down and go outside and get some fresh air.” She didn’t laugh at my joke, just stared at the watch. Charlotte doesn’t need fresh air; she doesn’t even need air at all. I sighed, thinking this was starting to sound like a broken record. Every day I try to get her to leave the attic with me, but she insists on staying up in the dusty room. And I leave her, fixated with the watch. I guess that’s the thing about being a ghost, time isn’t wasted on pointless activities because time doesn’t exist at all. Or at least, present time doesn’t exist. Charlotte vividly remembers the past. She tells me about it whenever she isn’t gawking at the clock. She talks of her father who was a doctor and mother who made delicious butternut squash soup. And sometimes, less often than others, she speaks of her sister.

The man Charlotte was to marry was Jacob Thames who was a wealthy Massachusetts land owner. He was a catch, so much of one that he lured in charlottes sister, Emily. Charlotte was never fond of Jacob. He was too cunning, too smug for her taste. She dreaded the idea of marrying that man and secretly decided that she was going to run away on her wedding night. However, Emily got to her first, and murdered her sister a week in advance by naming her sister a witch. When Jacob’s family found out about the scandal, they ordered Charlotte to be hanged, against Charlotte’s parents pleads. They had to murder her. They had to prevent humiliation in their family. That next day, she was hanged, and still to this day has a bruised ring around her neck, reminding her of her past. A past she’s dying to forget.

“You can’t die twice.” I question myself after I say this. There’s a long pause and I think about leaving. I stand to my feet, hoping charlotte would gaze in my direction, tell me not to leave, but she doesn’t. “I’m just worried about you.” I say. I start walking towards the door, pull it open and hear my mom yelling for my father. Dinners ready, but suddenly I have no appetite. In fact, I haven’t had a big appetite in a while. Not since my brother died.

It happened in the spring of last year. My younger brother Ben and I were on our way home from a concert I took him to for his birthday. It was his favorite band. It was raining hard that night, and it was late, I was tired and so was Ben. He didn’t even see me nod off, drift into the other lane, or the oncoming car slam into us. He was asleep when it happened.

My parents wanted to move out of the house that we grew up in. it held too many memories, too many remnants of my little brother. So we moved, six thousand miles across the United States to Massachusetts to a timeworn house. I think my parents picked this place because of that reason. The odd jobs around the house gave my father something to focus on besides the death of his son and the broken down house looked the way my parents felt. Since we have gotten here, my parents have been distant. They walk by me, as if I’m not there. They don’t set my plate at dinner anymore. They don’t ask me how my day has been. I assume it’s just how they are dealing with the loss but, sometimes I wish they would just remember that they only lost one son, not two. Since then, I’ve spent most of my time with charlotte; since she’s the only one who sees me anymore. Ironic enough, I’m the only one who notices her too.

Charlotte stood and glided across the room to me. “Sam, I think there is more to this. Don’t you get an eerie feeling about this watch?” she doesn’t even wait for me to answer. “I know its brash, but I think we are trying to be contacted by spirits.” This time I laugh out loud.

“It’s just a watch charlotte, a watch! It’s not a portal, not a time machine, and it is not a telephone contacting spirits.” I think back to when I used to play the Ouija board with my friends. They would flip if they heard I was friends with a sixteenth century ghost. If only they answered my calls they would know. “Just let it go.” I reach my hand to touch her, and feel my hand against her cold skin. It’s strange that I can tangibly touch charlotte since she is a ghost. I would expect my fingers to slide through her airy skin. However, she is as solid as me.

“I don’t know.” She pulls away from my touch and walks away from me. Great, I think, she’ll never let this go. I sigh and start to walk to the door. It’s hopeless, useless, fighting with her. But then, the unexpected happens. “Sam, wait.” I turn to face charlotte and she is gliding to me, holding the golden watch between her hands. “Maybe your right, maybe I just need to let this whole thing go.” she hands it to me, reluctantly.

“Thank you” I smile and she smiles back but it quickly fades from her face. I can tell she secretly wants to press the issue. I feel the watch’s smooth texture in my palm and closely examine its features; a tarnished top, a rusty chain, beautiful cursive engravings. Then I try to open it and find its latch easy to unlock. And to my surprise, it’s broken, the hands stopped at 3:15. “Hey, charlotte,” she turns to face me. “Why isn’t it moving?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a bit of eagerness, as if she is happy to be back on the subject. I watch the second hand twirl around the clock but am puzzled by the two fixed hands. “It’s as if time isn’t moving forward.”

And that’s when it hits me.

Time isn’t moving forward. 3:15, March fifteenth. The day of the accident. The day my brother died. Ever since the accident things have been different. Things have felt different. Charlotte was right; this watch is trying to relay a message. Time keeps ticking but, I’m not aging.

I look down at my ghostly white hands holding the pocket watch. “Charlotte,” I whisper, “I’m dead, aren’t I?”