Simon said the barn was haunted; and he was usually right.
My Dad said one day someone would get killed there; the roof was dangerous. Dad was usually right too, though everyone said he was a worrywart.
Nothing stopped us playing there though. The roof creaked but held up fine. Sometimes we’d sense something… a watchful presence of some kind, rustling, heavy breathing.
Simon said ghosts were more evil than people; they did things we could never imagine.
Dad was partly right, but Simon screwed up on both counts for once.
You never could tell Simon anything.
And certainly not now.
It’s another dark one I know, but in my defence (defense for my American friends ;)) I have written a frothy one and a childrens’ story already this week. I’m not really in need of therapy… at least I don’t think so…