My name is Duncan Ruggle.

The night in question began when I sat down at my little desk in my little room at about

six o'clock and called my good friend Stoney.

Hey, man, it's Duncan!

Very cheerful, it was I.

He was surprised to hear from me, all right.

I tried to put his mind at ease, put all the usual pleasantries out there, and just when

it started to sound like he wasn't afraid of me, I gave him the pitch.

I told him about the opportunity.

One night only, this very night, and unexpected chance never to be repeated.

The Sigiletti House.

The Sigiletti House.

How many times had we talked about going to the Sigiletti House at night at night?

And now, now, there were a set of circumstances I didn't want to explain just yet.

I had not only been given access, but I was going in with a professional, certified ghost

hunter.

When I think about how Stoney's imagination must have lit up at the sound of that, and

when I think about his voice as it sounded over the phone, like a little kid forgetting

all his troubles because Christmas had come two months early, I feel bad for him.

I do.

I feel sad for him, but only for a second.

He wasn't sure about going, he wanted a lot of details, but I was dedicated to teasing

...