The_StoryTeller

Alone I stand, By the door of my house, See the kids playing outside, Wish they'd call me too. They hate me, I think sometimes. They look at me, feigning ignorance, But I see their smiles, The mirth in their games, the joy in their frolic. I often try to go to them, But I get scared..."what if they don't like me?" Which wasn't as obscure as I'd like it to be. I had seen them point towards me and talk in whispers. Sadly, they used to be loud enough for me to hear them. I had heard one say, "Mother told me not to  play  here." "Why? ",was the question asked. "She says that a little boy,probably ten,had died here. But his ghost still lives on." I shake my head in despair, at the ridiculous excuse just made. I have been living here since I don't know when. But I never came across a ghost. That too of age ten.