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I saw a ghost at the window. She made no movement, only gazed down upon me.
At first I was scared speechless. I made no movement, only gazed up at the melancholy face.
She closed the curtain, turned away, and left the window.
Should I follow? What would happen if I went up to the room and peered in myself?
What would I find? A ghosts' haven? Would they speak to me? I trembled at the very thought. I'd never met a real ghost before.
Still standing there, I realized how foolish I was acting. Of course there was no ghost. It was simply my imagination, playing games.
Yet I was still hesitant to enter the old house. You know, I said to myself, haunted houses are not so uncommon. It could be a ghost. I had not yet completely dismissed the idea.
Realizing that I was still standing there, I finally made the move to enter the house.
I walked up the three steps to the porch, stood in front of the door, reached for the knob, and quickly pulled my hand away.
What had gotten into me? I was being so silly. I gathered my courage, reached for the knob again, and open the door. I realized that I had been holding my breath, because I let out a gasp as I opened the door. But wait, there was nothing there.
I laughed, despite myself. The fear was gone. Mostly.
I took off my jacket, placed it over my arm, and started up the stairs.
I saw a room at the end of the hall that I recognized to be the one with the window and the supposed ghost.
I decided to go inside. This particular room looked like it would be especially beautiful. Oh I do adore old Victorian homes.
I walked towards the end of the hall, noticing all of the quaint black and white photographs on the wall.
And yet the lovely hallway seemed to go on forever. I finally got to the very last door at the absolute end of the dreary hall. I didn't even hesitate at the door this time. I simply grabbed the knob, ignoring the bone-chilling touch, and opened it.
The door was not yet even halfway opened when I felt the wind being knocked out of me. I couldn't breathe. I panicked. I felt something inside of me, and it was cold. It was freezing. It was sad. I was sad. It was depressed. So was I. It felt pain--inside. I felt it too. I ran--panicked--to the window and I unlatched the hinges, opened it, and looked down. I stuck one foot out, then the other, and that is all I remember.
And now, I am again outside the house, staring up at the melancholy ghost in the window. It is me.
And the cycle continues.