Home town ghost stories contains serious and often distressing events

and is not intended for all audiences.

Viewer discretion is advised.

The night was heavy and still when the husband jolted awake.

The air in the house of 1579 Benedict Canyon Drive was colder than it had any right to be.

He blinked into the dark and felt it, something watching him.

At the foot of the bed stood a man, pale, silent, wearing a worn Superman suit that sagged on his ghostly frame, like it didn't

quite belong to him anymore. The fabric across the chest was torn, jagged and stretched,

like he'd try to rip it off and couldn't. The face was familiar.

In that way that old TV stars feel familiar.

But the eyes, dark hollows, weren't even eyes at all, just empty sockets, staring.

The husband's breath caught in his throat. He tried to move, tried to scream,

but the cold seeped into his bones, rooting him in place. A faint smell of gunpowder drifted

through the room, sharp, metallic. The ghost didn't move, didn't speak, just stared.

His shaking hand found the lamp on the nightstand.

The soft light filled the room, and the figure was gone.

But the cold stayed.

All night, he heard footsteps in the hall, floorboards creaking,

whispers that vanished the moment he tried to focus. And just before dawn, a voice rose from the

dark beside the bed. I can't take the suit off.

No anger, no fear, just a quiet, bitter truth.

He turned on the lamp once again.

...