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I found the house while sitting in my sunlit apartment drinking coffee on my cozy brown couch. I had my laptop sitting on my folded legs as I surfed through listings for houses in the area. I sipped on my steaming drink as my eyes roamed over the options the site presented to me. I had been at this for hours and was just about to call it quits when I spotted a house that appeared to possess what I desired. Stopping my endless scrolling, I clicked on the house and read its description. It had everything I wanted: two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a basement, and a large backyard. However, there was one piece of the description that made my eyebrows furrow in confusion. The site said the house was haunted.
After reading the description, I called my realtor to inquire about the claim that the house was “haunted.” I did not believe in ghosts or anything; I just wanted to know why someone would make such an outlandish claim. My realtor stated it was simply a rumor to make the house appear more intriguing. She suggested I go survey the house in person, so I asked if she would kindly set up an appointment with the owner. Minutes later, she called back to say it was scheduled for 10:00am tomorrow.
That morning, I put on my heavy coat and a fluffy, pink scarf that protected my bare neck from the fall winds. It was a blustery November day, and the walk from the apartment building to my car was a chilly one. When I arrived at the house, I was pleased by what I saw. The house was pleasant-looking with blue shutters and a wooden porch that housed a swing and some flower pots. I noticed the roof looked a little rough, but I was not worried because I had room in my budget for a few repairs; the house was listed well below my price range. I parked along the curb and waited for the owner to arrive. I blew on my hot coffee mug and studied the house as I waited, wondering, what could be so haunting about this cute little house?
When I stepped through the hand-painted door, I realized why people found the house so paranormal. The air was musty and smelled like it was made out of decomposing old books. In fact, the whole house smelled like it was rotting from the inside out. The way the air flowed, as though it was syrup not gas, created a sensation that made your spine tingle. The owner, Mr. Selve, stepped in behind me and closed the creaking door. He was a strange man with a cartoony mustache and combed, black hair. Once he shut the door, the house became annoyingly dim. The lighting was sparse, but Mr. Selve clicked on what little illumination the poor house provided. As we visited each aspect of the house, I kept a lookout for signs the house was “haunted.” Mr. Selve made rennovation suggestions for each room, but I already knew I did not want this house. Every room was filled with cobwebs the size of pillows, and they covered the dusty windows like erie blinds. The walls had fingerprints and scratches covering them as though they were an ancient people’s hieroglyphics. As if the appearance was not enough, the house constantly moaned and creaked as though the weight of the people inside were too much for its molding frame to handle. Puddles of green liquids patterned the cheap linoleum like a gross, disco dance floor. I was about to speak my thoughts about the creepy house when Mr. Selve suggested we visit the basement. He promised it would change my mind. 
As I walked down the squeaky steps, I felt the claws of claustrophobia begin to suffocate me. I glanced back towards the door and felt the despair settle in the pit of my stomach when I saw the heavy, black door was shut. I sighed and suppressed my panic. When I reached the bottom of the narrow staircase, I paused so Mr. Selve could join me. He smiled wickedly at me as he took the lead. He ensured me this was the house’s best feature. I followed him down a dark hallway, paranoia making my steps more tentative than before, We reached another door at the end of the hallway, and he stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. I gulped as I grasped the cool brass knob. I turned it slowly before flinging open the unpainted door.
I felt my vision go fuzzy and my breath caught in my throat, choking on fear. The room was empty except for a casket that lay in the middle of the room. It was black and had the word “beware” scratched on the side. The walls were bloodstained and scratches were carved out of the drywall. The house really was haunted, I thought as my eyes welled with growing panic. I turned to flee the room but found my feet rooted to the spot. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the laughing. A blood-curdling cackle filled the almost-empty room. That was when I decided I had enough. I screamed, turned, and ran down the hallway and out of the house, my hair blowing in my face and getting caught in my mouth. The last thing I noticed before bolting out of the house was Mr. Selve leaning against the doorframe of that terrible room, laughing at a joke only he understood.




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