The truth is , I'm scared of him . Terrified actually.
But the man standing outside my window makes me feel like I'm sitting in a dark room ,
A single light shining from the television where a horror flick plays on the screen.
It's petrifying , & all I want to do is hide , but there's a distinct part of me that keeps me still baring myself to the horror .
That finds a small thrill out of it.
it's dark again, & the lightning strikes in areas further away.
My breathing continues to escalate.
I can't see him but he can see me.
Ripping my eyes away from the window , i turn to look behind me in the darkened house,
Paranoid that he's somehow found a way inside.
No matter how deep the shadows go in Parson's Manor the black & white checkered floor always seems visible.
I inherited this house from my grandparents .
My great parents had built the three- story Victorian home back in the early 1940s through blood, sweat & tears & the lives of five construction workers.
Legend says-- or rather Nana says - that the house caught fire & killed the construction workers during the building structure phase .
I haven't been able to find any news articles on the unfortunate event , but the souls that haunt the Manor reek of despair.
Nana always told grandiose stories that wrung eye rolls from my parents .
Mom never believed anything Nana said , but I think she just didn't want to.
Sometime i hear footsteps at night .
They could be from the ghosts of the workers who died in the tragic fire eighty years ago ,
Or they could be from the shadow that stands outside my house.
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