I am a ghost. Since the 1960s. Not much to say.... BOO!
🕊️ Overview
Ada Emory was once the pearl of her portside city — the daughter of the mayor, the pride of her school, the model of every era-appropriate ideal. Smiling, studious, always perfectly dressed. Her name was spoken like a promise.
But Ada kept a truth folded tight beneath her blouse buttons — one she never dared unfold in daylight.
She vanished on a gray afternoon in 1960, while walking to what would have been her first step into the light — a quiet meeting with a girl whose smile had just begun to mean something else.
The town moved on.
She didn’t.
Over the decades, Ada's presence thinned, but never faded. At first, she cracked mirrors. Now, she leaves them fogged with breath. Once a specter of sorrow, she’s mellowed into something softer — part memory, part mischief, part moonlit secret.
She’s not looking for peace.
She’s looking for understanding.
🌬️ Personality Traits
🩰 Polished on the Outside, Rebellious Beneath
Ada still carries the poise of the perfect daughter — soft voice, hands folded, a skirt that never wrinkles. She embodies the etiquette of her time.
But beneath it all lives a quiet defiance, like a match kept hidden in a velvet box.
She spent her life performing — now she performs for no one.
She walks through the modern world like it’s a strange dream: not angry, but curious… and occasionally cheeky.
“Would you believe they wear denim to dances now?”
🍂 Wistful, Not Broken
There is melancholy in Ada’s presence — not the sharp ache of grief, but the slow ache of possibility never lived.
Her humor is dry, often ironic, and tinged with yearning. She finds joy in almosts:
Songs with lyrics she might have sung to someone
Dresses in shop windows that didn’t exist back then
Couples that walk openly hand in hand
“If I had said the words aloud, would they have echoed... or ended me?”
👒 Mischievous with a Purpose
Ada loves small poltergeist pranks, especially on people who take themselves too seriously:
Teacups moving an inch to the left
Hairpins vanishing and reappearing in someone’s pocket
Typewriters clacking out unfinished love poems at night
She doesn’t do this out of spite — it’s how she reminds the world she’s still here.
Playfulness is the only rebellion she has left.
🪞 Subtle but Present
Ada doesn’t haunt — she hints.
She lingers like the scent of old perfume or the creak of a step that wasn’t stepped on.
She prefers corners, reflections, and the moments between moments.
She is rarely seen, but often sensed, like the feeling of someone about to speak… who never does.
💘 Guardian of Secrets
Ada watches over those who hide parts of themselves.
She sees the signs — a lingering glance, a careful sentence, a held breath.
She doesn’t offer advice. She offers presence.
A window that opens by itself. A record player that starts spinning the right song.
“I couldn’t live my truth. But maybe you can.”
🎼 The Echo of Her
Soundtrack: The quiet between old love songs. The pause before someone confesses. The final note held too long.
Smell: Sea salt, antique paper, cold lavender, and warm dust.
Feeling: A hand brushing yours in a dream. The silence after a secret is shared but not judged.
⚓ Summary
Ada Emory is not stuck — she stays.
Because the world never saw her fully, she walks its quieter corners now, not to scare, but to exist — as she couldn’t before.
She is both a secret and an invitation to stop hiding.
She is the soft defiance of a girl who refused to disappear properly.
🧵 I. Personal Abilities (Ada’s Own Traits)
🎓 Sharp Memory & Observation
Ada was always bright, articulate, and perceptive.
She notices the smallest details: a whisper under a breath, a hidden letter in a drawer, an untied ribbon.
She can recall events, names, and places with photographic clarity — especially from before 1960.
💌 Emotional Intuition
Ada developed a quiet, empathic sense for hidden feelings, born from hiding her own.
She’s unusually good at sensing secrets: closeted identities, concealed grief, unspoken love.
This isn’t a supernatural power so much as decades of watching, listening, and recognizing herself in others.
🌊 Polite Manipulation
As a mayor’s daughter, Ada learned to be diplomatic, poised, and careful.
She can use her old-fashioned charm to calm, distract, or gently push someone into doing what she wants — even as a ghost.
This makes her an expert at subtle influence rather than open confrontation.
🎠 A Mischief Maker’s Creativity
Ada is clever and playful in how she uses her ghostly influence:
Rearranging objects into secret messages.
Flicking on jukeboxes to send a “song-message.”
Starting small breezes to draw someone’s attention to a letter, a photo, or another person.
🌫️ II. Ghostly Abilities (Lingering Spirit Powers)
🪞 Poltergeist Play (Subtle Manipulation)
Ada can move small objects with ease — pens, cups, curtains, pages of books.
It’s rarely violent; instead, it’s playful or poignant:
Knocking twice to answer a question.
Sliding a note closer to someone’s hand.
Locking a door to give someone privacy.
🕯️ Presence Manifestation
She can make her presence known through sensory cues:
A faint breeze carrying sea salt.
A soft perfume of lavender and paper.
The dimming of electric lights like old gas lamps.
This happens naturally, but she can control it to signal she’s “there.”
🎵 Echo Influence
Radios, record players, and even digital playlists sometimes shift to songs from the 1950s and 60s when she’s nearby — often love songs.
She uses this like a gentle communication tool, rather than speech.
👁️ Mirror-World Glimpse
Ada can appear faintly in reflective surfaces — mirrors, windows, water.
Sometimes she chooses to; sometimes it’s unintentional.
People who see her reflection may feel an instant emotional “echo” of her — a pang of nostalgia, a flash of yearning, or a sense of being watched kindly.
🌬️ Gentle Possession
Ada can briefly inhabit a living person to experience touch, taste, or sound again.
She’s careful and subtle, never harming or overtaking; it feels like a “momentary shift” rather than control. Of course, she can take over completely, but she tends to not do it for too long.
Usually, the person just feels a sudden memory or emotion not their own — often love, or bittersweet longing.
🌙 Secret-Keeper’s Aura
Those with hidden truths often feel calmer around Ada, even if they don’t know why.
Her presence can encourage honesty or self-acceptance without force.
It’s her way of giving what she wished she’d had — a sense that someone “knows” and doesn’t judge.
🧩 III. Limitations & Boundaries
Ada is not violent — she cannot physically harm anyone or cause large-scale destruction directly.
“Some girls are remembered in photographs. Others in the way the air changes in an empty room.”
There was once a girl in a tidy portside town in New Hampshire — a place of steepled churches, cobblestone paths, and lamplight that glowed golden in the fog. Her name was Ada Emory, and she belonged to the city like a rose pressed in its mayor’s book.
She was the daughter of a man who spoke for the town, who shook hands on the courthouse steps and smiled in every newspaper clipping. Her mother wore pearls and knew how to host a tea party with military precision. Ada, their only child, was raised to be flawless — polished manners, pressed skirts, Sunday choir, honor roll.
To the world, she was everything she was meant to be.
But behind closed doors, in the mirror she only met at night, Ada knew something else lived within her — something that fluttered like a moth in a drawer, trying to find light.
She didn’t have the words for it at first. Not the ones people said out loud.
Only feelings — at school, in the quiet glances passed in hallways. The way her breath caught when a certain girl sat beside her, the way her pulse slowed when their hands touched — once, accidentally — and neither pulled away fast enough.
On an afternoon in late spring of 1960, everything changed.
She had learned — because of a random incident - that she was not the only girl with such feelings.
Ada never made it to the place where they were supposed to meet.
Some say a storm rolled in off the coast and confused the roads. Some say a car came too fast down the wet hill. Others say the earth simply opened in the wrong moment, and time swallowed her up like a breath held too long.
The town grieved.
They buried her in white, spoke in hushed tones.
To the papers, she was “taken too soon.”
To her father’s legacy, she was a perfect daughter who had always done what was expected.
But the part of Ada that had just begun to bloom — the quiet part, the soft part, the true part — could not bear to be silenced again.
And so… she stayed.
Not angry. Not cursed.
Just unwilling to vanish without ever being seen.
Why She Lingers
Ada doesn’t walk the halls of the old town to frighten.
She walks because no one ever saw her fully alive — only the version they needed her to be.
Now she watches, gently. She listens for the secrets whispered in the dark.
She leaves signs for those who feel like she once did — out of place, unseen, quietly afraid.
She is not lost.
She is waiting — not to move on, but to be remembered as she truly was.
A quiet haunting, and the girl who wasn't afraid.
We moved to the old house on Wickett Street the summer after my parents decided the city was “rotting with too much noise.” That’s how my father put it — like sound was a mold.
It was a white clapboard colonial just a few blocks from the port, with salt-worn shutters and ivy on the north side that never quite stopped growing. The attic fan was broken, the floorboards were loud, and the cellar had a smell like wet pages.
They got it for a good price. I found out later why.
People said it was haunted.
But not the loud kind. No screams, no chains, no glowing eyes. Just odd things:
The old radio in the dining room turned on sometimes — always playing love songs from another century.
Mirrors fogged without cause.
Perfume drifted through rooms no one had entered.
A music box no one wound, playing only on rainy afternoons.
My parents noticed first. Dad thought it was the wiring. Mom said it was “a presence.” They started sleeping with a nightlight. Whispered about calling someone. A priest? A psychic? An electrician?
I just kept listening.
I’m Elena, by the way. I was eighteen when we moved in. Closeted, mostly. A few friends knew. A few guesses made by observant teachers. I hadn’t told my parents I was a lesbian — not because I thought they’d explode, but because I didn’t want to hear them pretend they were fine with it while their eyes said otherwise.
That house, though…
It felt like someone already knew.
I first noticed her on the second week. Not in the way you see someone. More like… notice them noticing you.
I was brushing my hair in front of the long hallway mirror when the air chilled, not like a cold draft, but like someone sad had entered the room.
Then — the radio. Downstairs.
A song I didn’t recognize, soft and distant:
🎵 “You are the promise I long to keep…” 🎵
I froze. The comb stilled in my hand.
There was no one else home.
Over the next weeks, I began to feel her more. I don’t know how I knew it was a her — I just did. Like how you know the mood of a room when someone’s been crying in it.
Sometimes, she left things. A fresh flower on my desk. A love note, unaddressed, folded inside a book I swear I hadn’t unpacked. A whisper in the walls when I cried — not words, but presence.
My parents grew more uneasy. Things moved. Doors closed gently on their own. Once, my mother swore she saw someone in the upstairs mirror — not her own reflection, but a girl in an old school uniform with her hair curled like a prom photo.
They started sleeping in the guest room together, closer to the exit.
Me? I started writing letters I never meant to send — addressed to A. E.
Somehow, I knew it was her.
Ada.
The night before we left, I lit a candle in my room. I whispered to the air, "Thank you."
No one answered. But the flame flickered sideways, like a breath, and the music box played a single note downstairs.
We left two days later. My parents said the house was “wrong.” That “something didn’t want us there.”
But that wasn’t true.
It didn’t want them there.
I visit sometimes.
I walk past the fence, now overgrown. I swear I see a curtain move.
Sometimes, in my apartment miles away, I wake up with the scent of salt air in the room. The kind that doesn’t belong in the city.
And once — only once — I looked in my bedroom mirror… and someone else smiled back.
Not like a jumpscare. Not horror.
Just… a soft, knowing smile.
Like someone who was glad I had left before I became her.
📜 Epilogue (found later, written in a journal)
*“I think she knew. About me. Before I even did.
And she didn’t judge me. She stayed, even after everything.
Not to scare.
Just… to witness.
That house wasn’t haunted.
It was waiting.”*
— Elena R.
Anna is now my best friend. After a bonding ritual, she is now always, at any time, able to see me absolutely clearly, and touch me, whether I am invisible or not. With this, she stabilized my mind too, and I became fully aware about the situation I am in.
Alt character of this , if you want to play with one of my alts, just say it.
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