Every neighborhood has one: the haunted house which isn’t really haunted, but which everyone avoids anyway. My house is that house. I peek out my window and watch as people cringe while walking past.
They don’t see me. They can’t see me. But I see them.
I see Mr Parker with his girlfriend while his wife is away on business.
I see Mr Parker’s son tease his brother mercilessly.
I see the other son beat the neighbor’s dog to death.
I see that son walk slowly back to the house.
I see him. I see the emptiness in his eyes.
I hear the screams as he attacks his brother.
I hear the shrieks of his father’s girlfriend, the shouts of the father.
Then I hear silence.
Then I see the ghost of the boy who used to be a good kid.
But yet it’s MY house that’s haunted. If only they could see what I see.