“It’s thundering outside. The leaves rustle as if ghosts are passing through them. As I am writing this, the winds outside howl like dogs in a hunt. Here in my room, it is not much better. I am seeing things. The draft which passes through the hole in the wall creeps on my skin, telling my soul to come out and play with them. I try to rid myself of the feeling by writing about this. Suddenly, a silhouette passes over the page of written paper…”
Who has not heard of this kind of story during Halloween? I certainly have. The stories which mothers tell to their children to spook them are passed down generation by generation. When the kids ask the mothers in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom with them, what reason would there be other than the reason that they were scared stiff by the stories? And even though they are the ones who tell it, they scold the children for bothering them. How ironic. And yet, those exact children tell the stories to their children, and those children to their children, until the stories fade away to nothingness.
I wonder why