By Pauline Chow
Discomfort burned into the back of my neck, while I typed inside an empty house. I cranked the volume of a song that transmitted Amanda’s spirit, *Sunday Kind of Love*. The rolling jazz muted creaking doors and groans. Sulphury scents impaled the room.
“Smudge,” said friends, but I believed in faulty wiring and bad plumbing. The cat went missing yesterday.
As letters materialized in the steamy bathroom mirror, I felt her presence. I reached for my glasses and slipped on wet tiles. My foot rocketed upwards. I floated mid-air, facing the specter that tried to warn me of my impending death.
This is too small amount of words to scare me this badly!
I knew something was terribly scary when you were alone in an empty house.