(I posted this not too long ago, but I made a few changes)
This is the beginning of my recent story. I was just wondering what people thought of it.
You would never guess the house was haunted. The floors didn't creak, even when being stepped on. Moans and groans couldn't be heard through the walls.
In fact, it looked just like every other house on the block: white pain, black roof, and precisely twenty-two windows, none of which an eerie face could be spotted.
You'd be surprised to find that the house was indeed haunted.
Hello, my name is Charlie Johnson. I've been dead for over a month now. I haunt 17 Whitmore Street.
I wasn't murdered. I'd like to settle that before we begin. A creepy middle-aged man didn't sneak into my room in the middle of the night with a chainsaw. It was just that my heart had never been great. And one night, it just stopped working.
A month later, Mom and Dad moved out. I was their only child and consequently their favorite. I hear that losing a child-- especially a favorite child-- is the worst pain a person can go through. I wouldn't know, but I broke my arm one summer and that hurt really badly.
We weren't very religious. We made annual appearances at the local church on Easter. We were the family that the regulars sneered at, since we weren't “committed Catholics.” I suppose that was the reason Heaven didn't want me.
I woke up, and I was dead. The only bright light was the sun creeping through windows.
I knew I was dead, too. I wasn't one of those people who thought that I'd live forever, that I was infinite. Maybe it was because I wasn't expected to live past infancy, but I'd always accepted the fact that I could die at any moment. I wasn't even scared.
This is the beginning of my recent story. I was just wondering what people thought of it.
You would never guess the house was haunted. The floors didn't creak, even when being stepped on. Moans and groans couldn't be heard through the walls.
In fact, it looked just like every other house on the block: white pain, black roof, and precisely twenty-two windows, none of which an eerie face could be spotted.
You'd be surprised to find that the house was indeed haunted.
Hello, my name is Charlie Johnson. I've been dead for over a month now. I haunt 17 Whitmore Street.
I wasn't murdered. I'd like to settle that before we begin. A creepy middle-aged man didn't sneak into my room in the middle of the night with a chainsaw. It was just that my heart had never been great. And one night, it just stopped working.
A month later, Mom and Dad moved out. I was their only child and consequently their favorite. I hear that losing a child-- especially a favorite child-- is the worst pain a person can go through. I wouldn't know, but I broke my arm one summer and that hurt really badly.
We weren't very religious. We made annual appearances at the local church on Easter. We were the family that the regulars sneered at, since we weren't “committed Catholics.” I suppose that was the reason Heaven didn't want me.
I woke up, and I was dead. The only bright light was the sun creeping through windows.
I knew I was dead, too. I wasn't one of those people who thought that I'd live forever, that I was infinite. Maybe it was because I wasn't expected to live past infancy, but I'd always accepted the fact that I could die at any moment. I wasn't even scared.