And there I go, I was talking to my friend Mike and my cousin Emily. Mike had come from

out to town to visit and we spent the evening catching up. It had been quite a while since

I last visit, so the three of us were up late, chatting away and swapping stories.

Emily and Mike had bundled up on the couch in the living room of our apartment while

I sat across from them in the squeegee, tired recliner I've hauled from my last three

places. We'd been talking for so long that the day

turned to night and we hadn't bothered to turn the lights on, so we now sat in the dim

glow of the street lamps below. The three of us, since the day we all met, loved

sharing spooky stories and positing the things we could never manage to explain.

It was around 10pm and Mike had just finished reminding me of the strange things he noticed

in my childhood home whenever he visited. Strange noises at night, footsteps while everyone

was asleep. The usual haunted house stuff. Creepy, yet innocent and easily explained

away. Emily had stayed there for some time a couple

years ago before we moved into our first apartment together and attested to the overall bad

feeling the house gave off, especially when she was alone. She actually surprised me by

how emotional she was while remembering it all. She's from another country and moved

in with me and my family on a visit to Visa, which meant she couldn't work without a permit.

Everyone else in the house, however, would be out of the house most of the day working,

which left Emily by herself. She explained to me how isolated and

oppressed she'd feel when she was alone there, even though she would normally revel

in the times she had to herself. There was something about that old house that made

her feel differently. After some time, Emily calmed down and we continue

...