A ghost, I think

I passed the old house, very late one night, on a walk with the dog (tiny, useless in a fight). She wasn’t a ghost, or violent, and the spooky creak of the trees didn’t sound exactly like her fists slamming against the door. But it was close, and, at that moment, I preferred a bigger dog.

The story was: the deficient young girl had been locked out by mistake. She wailed through to dawn. No one moved. Her parents slept with earplugs. The next morning’s scene is still a neighborhood secret.

It’s much scarier when you don’t know the truth.