The lonely swing set out in the field was moving in the darkness, and all I could do was stare through the kitchen window.

It was another January at home, what used to be my home, and then turned into it again.

This time though, there was no family around, no parents, and almost no neighbors.

My parents refused to sell it, despite it being worth almost a million dollars by the time

they were older.

Instead, they died in it.

Now it was mine to sell, Well, half of it, at least.

It was large, too big for me and unnecessary for them.

They stopped cleaning the upstairs area where the dust and cobwebs made it unlivable for me.

So I too started avoiding it. They had a room by the kitchen, a guest

bedroom that I stayed in. It had its own bathroom, its own entrance even. And at times, I would

forget how long I had lived there. It was every January when I would think that this year,

really this time, I was going to

sell it.

This is the story of an inner haunting, whether inside of your own body or as an extension

of it, a thing we can escape.

My name is Edwin, and here's a scary story.

The house had a large field out front, a swing set, too old for anyone to use, but I remembered

all those times out there, a barbecue grill, filling up the air with white smoke,

only to disappear by the edge of the trees.

My cousins used to love coming over to the house to play on that swing set, and as we got

older, we started adventuring into the wooded area, right behind the house.

...