Just the breeze?
Roger had never been more offended. He was a dreadful phantom who haunted the 200 year old hotel. He had been a guest who died in the bathtub, classic phantom story. But his work wasn’t appreciated anymore.
That’s not a breeze, he wanted to say. That’s me haunting you.
He was terrifying to look at, three black teeth, matted hair, torn clothes. The whole business of dying in a bathtub had given him perfectly soulless eyes. He could scratch under your bed when you were trying to sleep, he could show himself for half a second and have you doubting your eyesight forever. He was good at his job.
But every time he slammed a door to make the guests jump, they would tell their children it was “just a breeze”
How would you like it if I called you “just an ice cream eater”, he wanted to ask.
Haunting came with a certain loss of identity that nobody had warned him about.
He sulked silently in the corner when a rough wind came in through the window and slammed the door shut.
“I think that was a ghost” whispered a frightened child.
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