This time, it was summer. Horror movies did not even haunt the cinema at that season, not that year. I was in my teens,15 or 16 at the time; my mother called me to tend to her endless chore list. I came around the corner from my bedroom to the stairwell, and came face to face with a woman. She wore a brown calico dress, was white, and had her hair pulled back in a bun. She stopped just short of the top stair. I looked straight into her face – and saw only blank flesh. With a visible “pop” she disappeared, and a familiar shiver ran through my body – at last, I knew what that sensation was, as she must have passed right through me.
I came downstairs and told my parents what I saw. My father made a sound of vague interest, and my mother immediately insisted I hadn’t seen a damn thing. She was quite fond of telling me I wasn’t experiencing what I was actually experiencing; unless it happened to her, it didn’t exist.
The woman on the stairs looked to be in 19th century garb. While the town I was born in was settled around then, the house was one of those 1930s tract houses. That one I only ever saw once.
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