“It was a dark and stormy night,” the old man grumbled under his breath as he listened to the eerie sound of twigs brushing the side of the house.
In his youth, the house had terrified him. More precisely the fact that there were ghosts in the house had terrified him, but as he ventured out into the world as a young man, he learned that the ghosts were out there too. They were everywhere, so why be afraid of one specific location?
His nature as a prankster won him many friends, but few lovers. So, as an old man, the ghosts helped the house to not feel so lonely.
His chest was starting to feel tight; Lawrence assumed that it was time. His eyes flicked to the writing desk in the corner, atop which sat his final will and testament in which he declared that the house go to his nephew Charles, and his toothy grin widened. The family would be surprised by that one; it was no secret that he didn’t particularly like Charles.
He was having a hard time breathing now. The icy slush in his veins ached and his chest spasmed, threatening to send the book toppling to the floor, but Lawrence clung to it. It was important to him that his body be found clutching the old tome of ghost stories to which he had added a story about hauntings by a certain lonely old man of his twerp of a nephew. Nobody would look very closely at the book at first, but Charles would eventually, Lawrence would make sure of it.
As the reaper appeared over him, the old man nodded his head.
It was finally his turn to do the haunting.
Listen to me read it here: