I want to believe in ghosts so bad that it hurts.
When I was a child, my parents rekindled their marriage by booking rooms in dusty, old B&Bs, inns, and plantations. They’d creep through the hallways while the owners were sleeping. They’d hold their K2 EMF Meter up to glass-eyed, cracked porcelain dolls, gasping when their Infrared Digital Thermometer started detecting a change. They’d snap pictures of dark, empty rooms to peruse over later, always searching for things unexpected, things hiding among the antique furniture and the yellowed wallpaper.
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