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Page 30 You’re dead—dead as far as any human would say. But you aren’t dead from you stand point, because you can feel yourself floating, drifting into a house—passing like television waves through walls and doors and floors, your image invisible. Floating and not always silent, but like a sometimes moaning, sometimes howling, wind that whips through trees, rattles windows and sends shafts of air past flicking candles, your presence hovers through time. Then it moves and is felt. Live people—solid people—walk, run and stumble. One gasp, another screams: terrors in their eyes, their chest tight, panting, gripped by fear. The ghost that haunts them is you. THE END