The streets were quiet tonight. Not unusual for this time of year. The subtle, crackly-crisp air filtered through the autumn leaves to ruffle the hair of the passersby.

I missed it, having been dead for some time now myself, but I still enjoy walking the streets and pretending to be a part of it all. Oh how I missed it.

On this particular night I was out wandering around, more out of boredom than anything else. I often walk by the spot where I was killed. I don’t want to, mind you but my legs just sort of take me there as if they have a mind of their own.

I seem to be doomed to relive that moment again and again like some sort of cosmic joke at my expense. As I passed the doorway I felt the familiar chill pass through me, followed by the excruciating pain in my chest. I always gasp and clutch my chest, desperate to alleviate the pain.

Then I end up cowering in the cursed doorway, sobbing and shaking as the memories come flooding back to me. This time, as I cried, I felt a hand on my shoulder.