I have plenty of legitimate reasons for not liking ghost stories. I’m an introvert, and things like roller coasters and hot sauce used to just be too much stimulus for me to handle. But now I love spicy food, and I’m going to Six Flags with my cousin this summer, so that’s not it. I have an overactive imagination. Give me a scary premise and I’ll be seeing things out of the corners of my eyes in less than an hour. But that’s not it, I crave ideas. I stay up too late all the time, and I love the ideas behind horror, I can deal with the rush of fear.
No, I don’t think it’s any of those things. I think it’s because of my ghost, the one that follows me around to family events and through old school pictures, the face I’ve half escaped from, the skin that never fit on me. There’s a whispered she and a tremble of misunderstanding when I am properly introduced, and my ghost is there in full masqurade if I feel forced to save your feelings.
No, the reason I don’t like ghost stories is because I’m already living in one.
Here’s I Never Liked Ghost Stories.
Lee writes words. 