Jane is dead

The words had become commonplace among the people of the small town of Liverston. "Jane is dead." No one was quite sure how it had happened. There was a young girl, Jane Simmings, who had gone missing early in the year - she had been on her way home from her school's winter dance as far as anyone was aware, but she had never made it home. The police searched for months for any trace of her, but it was as though she had simply vanished off of the face of the earth.

It was during the summer, while some students were playing on the emptied campus, when the words were discovered. "Jane is dead." Written in white paint on one of the walls, in sloppy, quickly thrown up words, the statement sat, staring them in the face. The students' parents had said that they returned home, faces white as snow, as though they had seen the ghost of Jane Simmings herself. After that, the words had appeared in increasing frequency all over town, always in the same white paint and rushed, sloppy writing. On buildings, sidewalks, and even buses, the words became plastered directly onto the brains of the people. Though there was never any proof, it became almost accepted that Jane was, in fact, dead.

Her parents were heart broken, and haunted daily by the words. While to many other people the words eventually became fact, and almost so frequent as to be funny, to them it was nothing short of a curse. The constant reminder that their daughter had simply vanished, and the assurance that she had long since perished. That there was nothing they could do to save their little girl. That they would never see her face again. While the rest of Liverston moved on, they continued to mourn - they could feel their lives coming undone with each new instance of the phrase.

It was Christmas morning when the Simmings' moved out to their Christmas tree, sluggish and sad, missing the ecstasy of a little girl, excited to see what presents Santa had brought them. They had opened their own presents to one another the night before - they weren't sure that they could handle the memories if they did so on Christmas morning. Yet, under the tree sat a single, small box, wrapped in a red bow, with a letter resting against it, addressed to them both.

They were frightened by it. They had no idea where it had come from, or who could have possibly entered their home to leave it. Frightened, they picked them up together, and opened the letter.

It was a blank, white card. No frills. No features. No words or art on the front. They unfolded it, and inside, in the familiar writing, but with new red letters, read "Jane was dead."

"Was" was new.

They tore the box open, and inside was the necklace that Jane's mother had let her borrow for the Winter dance. And then there were tears.