Most of this is true.
I used to believe in ghosts.
Maybe I was only trying to be unique. But I like to think that once, even for a moment, I believed in ghosts.
I remember in the dead of night, when restless sleep was all I could afford, a solitary hand print revealed itself on my wall. The hand print was not made in paint or even, God forbid, blood. No it was something that could only be seen if the light from your doorway glanced across the wall just right.
I remember huddling in my blanket feeling a sudden chill as I stared ceaselessly at that hand print. It was at such an odd angle and at such an odd height that I knew no one in the house could have done it. I started to weave the story of my ghost and exactly why he was trying to escape for if it was for an evil purpose I would have to stop him. But if it was for salvation I would help him, if only to get him out of the house.
I've always had an overactive imagination, even for a child. Whispers began to form in my head, whispers of a ghost who wished only to belong.
His intentions were not cruel, but still he hurt those around him without meaning too. It was a personal Hell, designed by some demented Harlequin that he be trapped in a house where most of the people he hurt were children.
He had been doing a fine job of holding back all of the Pain and Suffering, but still each year, he had to release some of it to loosen the strain.
A broken arm here, an argument there, a few dead pets. But the family was happy.
I thanked my ghost every chance I got and vowed to find a way to help him out of his torture cell.
And then I discovered girls and stopped believing in ghosts.
I used to believe in ghosts.
Maybe I was only trying to be unique. But I like to think that once, even for a moment, I believed in ghosts.
I remember in the dead of night, when restless sleep was all I could afford, a solitary hand print revealed itself on my wall. The hand print was not made in paint or even, God forbid, blood. No it was something that could only be seen if the light from your doorway glanced across the wall just right.
I remember huddling in my blanket feeling a sudden chill as I stared ceaselessly at that hand print. It was at such an odd angle and at such an odd height that I knew no one in the house could have done it. I started to weave the story of my ghost and exactly why he was trying to escape for if it was for an evil purpose I would have to stop him. But if it was for salvation I would help him, if only to get him out of the house.
I've always had an overactive imagination, even for a child. Whispers began to form in my head, whispers of a ghost who wished only to belong.
His intentions were not cruel, but still he hurt those around him without meaning too. It was a personal Hell, designed by some demented Harlequin that he be trapped in a house where most of the people he hurt were children.
He had been doing a fine job of holding back all of the Pain and Suffering, but still each year, he had to release some of it to loosen the strain.
A broken arm here, an argument there, a few dead pets. But the family was happy.
I thanked my ghost every chance I got and vowed to find a way to help him out of his torture cell.
And then I discovered girls and stopped believing in ghosts.
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