The Fall of Butterflies by Andrea Portes

looking at me, but I can’t see it. And I can imagine it might be that soaking-wet ghost girl who is gonna smile but then grow fangs andmaybe even start laughing demonically as she corners me.
    So I’m basically backing my way slowly, slowly away from the bathtubs, past the showers, past the sinks, out of the bathroom, and back to my room.
    And then I’m just standing there.
    I’m standing there in my room and trying to figure out what just happened and trying to calm myself down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm breaths. Soothing breaths. I start talking to myself. I’m not crazy, don’t think that, I’m just trying to talk myself off the cliff here. I’m trying to yoga myself out of this situation.
    â€œOkay, okay, Willa . . . that was just, that was just a coincidence. Maybe you didn’t hear the bath after all. Obviously, you didn’t hear the bath. Because there’s no one in there. Maybe you were dreaming. Or maybe it was downstairs or something. Maybe that’s the bath you heard.”
    But I know that’s not true, either. Downstairs the bathroom is way on the other side of the hall, all the way down. Like, someone could scream in there and there’s no way I could hear it. Let alone the bathwater.
    Okay, so then I decide it was just nothing and I’m just being silly and I decide to go back to bed. I get under the covers, and decide to just talk myself down to a nice sleep. And this works. For about five minutes. Until I’m just about to go back to sleep.
    And then I hear it again.
    The bathwater.
    My eyes open and I look up at the ceiling.
    This seriously can’t be happening.
    And it goes on and on. I try to think of all the things it could be, all the different random explanations, but nothing. Nothing. It really just sounds like bathwater.
    Well, now I am really getting annoyed. Obviously, there’s someone in there playing some sort of trick. There just has to be.
    So I get up again and slowly make my way in, superquiet so I can catch whoever is playing this trick on me.
    And I go in.
    And, again . . .
    There’s no one there.

ELEVEN
    I make an executive decision.
    I. Am not staying. In this room. Tonight. In fact, I am not staying in this room ever again.
    I swoop over to the closet, pack my bag, my books, my clothes for tomorrow, my toothbrush, and anything else I ever want to see again. I throw everything in my backpack and bound down the stairs to the first-floor study room. It’s a nice room, actually. It’s got sofas and lamps and cherrywood tables and desks. There’s even a fireplace. And a wall of built-ins filled floor to ceiling with books.
    I throw my stuff on the table and plunk down on the sofa. This is my bed for the night—I don’t care if it makes me seem crazy. Clearly, there is some kind of purple ghostgirl in that bathroom and I have no intention of meeting her in person. Yes, I know that sounds like I may possibly be insane. No, I’m not going up there ever again.
    #sorrynotsorry
    I’ve got enough problems. Jesus.
    I’m not religious, but I think I’ve reached the part of the plan in which it’s time to find God.
    â€œDear God, Allah, Vishnu, Yahweh, Buddha, and all the god-type Super Friends in the sky-located Hall of Justice. Please make whatever that thing is go away and leave me alone and please protect me from ghosts in general forever and into eternity. Amen.”
    I look up to the stars, to make sure my point is made, and that whatever God is on duty knows I really mean it.
    â€œThanks. I really appreciate this. You’re doing a great job. Except in the Middle East. Might want to send some angels down there or something. But other than that, great job. Keep it up. And again, I know I’m repeating myself, but maybe not so much with the ghost visits.”
    And I know you think this is probably all ridiculous, but I swear this bathtub thing actually happened, and