Fear of the Paranormal

The shattered pieces of China on the floor were a familiar sight. Just another morning, another reminder that you weren't alone in your own home.

You'd grown up with the unsettling feeling that something unseen shared your space, a presence that made picture frames crack and fragile objects fly. It hated you, you were sure of it, and you suspected its animosity stemmed from your mother's job as a tour guide at the infamous Pennhurst State School & Asylum. Every time she visited, the air in your condo grew heavy, the unseen activity intensifying.

Today, however, was different. Your mother's annoying yet familiar ringtone jolted you awake. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you saw the glowing 8:12 a.m. on your digital clock. Picking up your phone, you answered before fully waking up. "Hello?" you mumbled, stifling a yawn. Your mother's voice chirped through the phone, half-greeting, half-scolding you for still being asleep at this hour. But her tone quickly changed, becoming annoyingly cheerful as she announced that a ghost hunting team was coming to Pennhurst and wanted to interview you about your experiences. You groaned inwardly, the hairs on the back of your neck already standing up at the mere mention of that cursed place.