The Ghost

I am so glad it's not in the middle of the night. It scares me now: it would terrify me if it were dark too. Things crunch and crackle when smashed into walls, windows, and when whisked off the floor, swirling madly in the angry current of air.

It whistles around buildings, through tiny gaps of open windows, and moans; it's a ghost. In the day it's just a wild current of air blowly fiercly. Yet at night, it's an evil spirit knocking at my window, moaning, 'It's cold, it's cold! Let me in!' The tears patter softly against my window, yet in daytime it's only the leaves.

The ghost isn't getting to me, he isn't, he isn't. I think he's gone away, maybe he's given up, and gone to terrorise some other innocent victim, a wailing in the night. But no, he's back, pleading this time, he's not as angry as before. The clock strikes midnight. He gets angry again. 'Is that the time?' he asks rhetorically, and slams the window. It opens again, and slams louder, he wants in.

"No!" I cry. The window's going to shatter, and send drops of glass all over me. I can feel it.

The window opens once more, but is shut gently. He's so unpredictable, this ghost. Is he angry, or annoyed? I wish this terror would end. I'm getting scared. When is he going to strike again? One minute he rages at me, throwing things at the window, banging it, keeping me awake and frightened: the next, he's calm and repented... but not for long.

He bangs on the window and wails, I open my eyes. It's just a fierce raging wind, letting off steam by throwing leaves about. It takes more than a strong wind to scare me.

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