My Grandma flipped through the channels with the remote, taking a sip from her diet coke. I sat on the floor, playing with whatever toy she had bought me from walmart earlier. I looked at the clock: it was past ten, my mom would be pissed if she knew I was up. I focused in on the show playing. It was one of those “real life” ghost story shows. After listening in, I determined the over-emotional woman on the screen was wailing about a plant falling over she claimed it had been a ghost in her shop, when realistically, a pot put too close to the edge of a shelf. I continued watching; the longer I listened, the scarier the stories seemed. “What if there;s a ghost in my house?” I thought. It checked out; my house my house was old and who knows who could’ve died in there. I started to think. My floors creaked in the middle of the night. Sometimes I thought I saw the closet open by itself at night. I began to panic. “I can’t go back in there,” thinking of my room, the place where I heard strange things at night. The darkness now felt incredibly menacing; the only light came from the TV and my only savior would be my sleeping grandmother. My grandpa was in the garage. I knew he was a collector of guns and swords, but would these work on a ghost? I wasn’t sure. Being only eight and thinking of ghosts as a threat for the first time in my life, I hadn’t had time to do the proper research to defend myself.


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