In haunted houses, I find solace.
But I am not a ghost. I think.
Cobwebs like the forgotten threads of memories, ghosts like whispers of my past.
No one understands.
They call it strange, a fixation they can’t wrap their minds around.
“Do you like the scare?” they ask.
It’s not about the scares (but yes).
It’s about the stories held in peeling wallpaper, in footsteps across worn-out floorboards.
Friends, family, lovers. They laugh at first, snap selfies with posed screams.
And then they leave. Even some of the ghosts seem to tag along with them. No invitation to follow follows.
They forget. Move on to the next haunt, the next new thrill.
But I stay.
Forever entranced by rooms that reek of old perfume and something darker.
A house that remembers.
Yet, the ghosts grow quieter. Even they retreat into the walls, into shadowy corners.
Leaving me truly alone.
My sanctuary becomes my isolation. In a world that rushes forward, I remain a relic.
I love haunted houses.
Even if there are no ghosts.
And so, I haunt myself.
AI EDITOR NOTES:
- No spelling errors or egregious grammatical issues were found. The sentence structure and style align with the reflective and introspective tone consistent with your writing voice【10†source】.
The post beautifully captures the eerie yet melancholic atmosphere, with its rich imagery and emotional depth. The balance of isolation and introspection resonates, staying true to the themes and style outlined in your writing bible.