Game‌‌of‌‌the‌‌MInd‌ 

‌
Friday‌  ‌
When‌‌I‌‌walked‌‌through‌‌the‌‌aisles‌‌of‌‌the‌‌7-Eleven‌‌across‌‌the‌‌street,‌‌an‌‌item‌‌on‌‌the‌‌shelf‌‌  
caught‌‌my‌‌eye,‌‌bringing‌‌back‌‌memories‌‌of‌‌a‌‌mystery‌‌that‌‌stumped‌‌the‌‌world‌‌six‌‌years‌‌ago.‌  ‌
 ‌
It‌‌was‌‌October‌‌1994.‌‌I‌‌was‌‌still‌‌in‌‌college,‌‌frantically‌‌sending‌‌resumes‌‌to‌‌find‌‌any‌‌job‌‌I ‌‌
could‌‌possibly‌‌find.‌‌Suddenly,‌‌a‌‌very‌‌mysterious‌‌pop‌‌song‌‌exploded,‌‌easily‌‌climbing‌‌its‌‌way‌‌to‌‌the‌‌  
#1‌‌spot‌‌on‌‌music‌‌charts‌‌all‌‌over‌‌the‌‌world‌‌seemingly‌‌overnight.‌‌That‌‌annoying‌‌song‌‌was‌‌played‌‌  
almost‌‌a‌‌hundred‌‌times‌‌in‌‌the‌‌course‌‌of‌‌only‌‌a‌‌week.‌  ‌
 ‌
However,‌‌just‌‌precisely‌‌five‌‌days‌‌after‌‌the‌‌release‌‌of‌‌the‌‌song,‌‌just‌‌as‌‌quickly‌‌as‌‌it‌‌ 
appeared,‌‌the‌‌song‌‌just‌‌seemingly‌‌disappeared.‌‌Searching‌‌for‌‌it‌‌on‌‌the‌‌Internet‌‌would‌‌have‌‌  
returned‌‌the‌‌infamous‌‌"error‌‌404."‌‌Strangely‌‌enough,‌‌DVDs‌‌of‌‌the‌‌song‌‌disappeared‌‌from‌‌  
people’s‌‌homes.‌‌Over‌‌time,‌‌the‌‌song‌‌also‌‌disappeared‌‌from‌‌people’s‌‌minds;‌‌most‌‌people‌‌can’t‌‌  
even‌‌remember‌‌the‌‌name‌‌of‌‌the‌‌song.‌  ‌
 ‌
Now,‌‌it‌‌was‌‌2000.‌‌I‌‌had‌‌an‌‌adorable‌‌daughter‌‌named‌‌Jenny,‌‌though‌‌she‌‌was‌‌in‌‌foster‌‌  
care‌‌somewhere‌‌in‌‌Britain.‌‌I've‌‌found‌‌a‌‌pretty‌‌decent‌‌job‌‌that‌‌I’m‌‌happy‌‌with,‌‌but‌‌I‌‌never‌‌got‌‌that‌‌  
mysterious‌‌song‌‌out‌‌of‌‌my‌‌mind,‌‌and‌‌I‌‌found‌‌myself‌‌asking‌‌myself‌‌the‌‌same‌‌question‌‌everyday:‌‌  
what‌‌happened‌‌to‌‌it?‌  ‌
 ‌
That‌‌was‌‌until‌‌now.‌‌The‌‌item‌‌in‌‌question‌‌was‌‌a‌‌VHS‌‌tape‌‌labelled,‌‌“Sunday‌‌Tempest,”‌‌  
and‌‌attached‌‌was‌‌a‌‌photo‌‌of‌‌a‌‌very‌‌sad-looking‌‌man.‌‌The‌‌title‌‌brought‌‌back‌‌memories,‌‌and‌‌I‌‌was‌‌  
now‌‌certain‌‌that‌‌that‌‌was‌‌the‌‌name‌‌of‌‌the‌‌song.‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌took‌‌the‌‌tape‌‌up‌‌to‌‌the‌‌cashier.‌‌“How‌‌much‌‌for‌‌this‌‌tape?”‌‌I‌‌asked.‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌cashier‌‌was‌‌shocked‌‌when‌‌I‌‌showed‌‌him‌‌the‌‌tape.‌‌“Are‌‌you…‌‌are‌‌you‌‌getting‌‌this‌‌as‌‌  
a‌‌gift‌‌for‌‌someone‌‌else?‌‌For‌‌revenge,‌‌maybe?”‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌local‌‌cashier‌‌was‌‌a‌‌slimy‌‌character.‌‌He‌‌didn’t‌‌give‌‌a‌‌shred‌‌of‌‌care‌‌about‌‌his‌‌job;‌‌he‌‌  
just‌‌wanted‌‌to‌‌get‌‌paid‌‌and‌‌leave.‌‌The‌‌fact‌‌that‌‌he‌‌was‌‌the‌‌least‌‌bit‌‌interested‌‌about‌‌my‌‌  
purchase‌‌concerned‌‌me.‌  ‌
 ‌
“Nope,”‌‌I‌‌replied.‌‌“I’m‌‌getting‌‌it‌‌for‌‌myself.‌‌By‌‌the‌‌way,‌‌where‌‌did‌‌you‌‌get‌‌it?”‌  ‌
 ‌
“Never‌‌seen‌‌it‌‌before.‌‌It‌‌looks‌‌like‌‌you‌‌just‌‌found‌‌it‌‌on‌‌the‌‌shelf.”‌  ‌
 ‌
“Interesting,”‌‌I‌‌thought,‌‌as‌‌I‌‌paid‌‌for‌‌the‌‌tape‌‌and‌‌exited.‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌went‌‌home‌‌to‌‌my‌‌cozy‌‌bungalow.‌‌It‌‌was‌‌a‌‌pretty‌‌small‌‌house,‌‌but‌‌I‌‌was‌‌pretty‌‌pleased‌‌  
with‌‌it.‌‌My‌‌room‌‌was‌‌also‌‌pretty‌‌standard.‌‌Posters‌‌of‌‌my‌‌favourite‌‌rock‌‌bands‌‌on‌‌the‌‌walls,‌‌and‌‌  
also‌‌a‌‌hunting‌‌rifle‌‌mounted‌‌on‌‌the‌‌wall‌‌given‌‌to‌‌me‌‌by‌‌my‌‌grandfather,‌‌which‌‌he‌‌claimed‌‌to‌‌be,‌‌  
quote‌‌unquote,‌‌“going‌‌to‌‌save‌‌me‌‌one‌‌day.”‌‌Yeah,‌‌right.‌  ‌
 ‌
As‌‌soon‌‌as‌‌I‌‌found‌‌my‌‌VHS‌‌player‌‌in‌‌my‌‌closet,‌‌I‌‌put‌‌the‌‌tape‌‌into‌‌the‌‌player‌‌and‌‌hit‌‌  
“Play.”‌‌However,‌‌to‌‌my‌‌surprise,‌‌a‌‌very‌‌disturbing‌‌audio‌‌had‌‌played‌‌instead:‌  ‌
 ‌
 “‌You‌‌have‌‌no‌‌idea‌‌what‌‌you’re‌‌doing‌,”‌‌the‌‌audio‌‌began.‌‌“T‌ his‌‌song‌‌should've‌‌been‌‌  
erased‌‌from‌‌existence.‌‌Do‌‌you‌‌even‌‌know‌‌where‌‌this‌‌came‌‌from?‌‌Allow‌‌me‌‌to‌‌explain.‌  ‌
 ‌
This‌‌song‌‌was‌‌written‌‌by‌‌a‌‌elderly‌‌man‌‌in‌‌the‌‌‘60s‌‌using‌‌a‌‌guitar.‌‌The‌‌man‌‌was‌‌a‌‌recluse,‌‌  
working‌‌as‌‌a‌‌lighthouse‌‌keeper.‌‌Now,‌‌the‌‌woman‌‌fell‌‌off‌‌the‌‌top‌‌of‌‌the‌‌lighthouse.‌‌The‌‌  
authorities‌‌ruled‌‌it‌‌as‌‌an‌‌accident‌‌and‌‌did‌‌not‌‌investigate‌‌further.‌  ‌
 ‌
Now,‌‌the‌‌man‌‌was‌‌devastated.‌‌He‌‌did‌‌not‌‌believe‌‌it‌‌to‌‌be‌‌an‌‌accident.‌‌He‌‌thought‌‌  
someone‌‌pushed‌‌her‌‌off,‌‌even‌‌though‌‌no‌‌one‌‌was‌‌at‌‌the‌‌lighthouse‌‌that‌‌day.‌‌After‌‌all,‌‌grief‌‌  
heavily‌‌distorts‌‌the‌‌mind.‌‌He‌‌could‌‌not‌‌bear‌‌to‌‌live‌‌without‌‌his‌‌wife,‌‌nor‌‌could‌‌he‌‌believe‌‌the‌‌  
sheer‌‌idiocy‌‌of‌‌the‌‌authorities‌‌who‌‌let‌‌her‌‌“killers”‌‌get‌‌away.‌‌He‌‌wrote‌‌the‌‌song‌‌“Sunday‌‌  
Tempest”‌‌(as‌‌his‌‌wife’s‌‌death‌‌was‌‌on‌‌a‌‌Sunday),‌‌then‌‌he‌‌threw‌‌himself‌‌off‌‌the‌‌lighthouse‌‌the‌‌  
next‌‌day.‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌was‌‌a‌‌member‌‌of‌‌a‌‌rock‌‌band.‌‌One‌‌of‌‌the‌‌members‌‌of‌‌our‌‌band‌‌was‌‌a‌‌delinquent‌‌and‌‌  
indulged‌‌in‌‌stealing‌‌things.‌‌So‌‌one‌‌day,‌‌he‌‌broke‌‌into‌‌the‌‌abandoned‌‌lighthouse‌‌and‌‌stole‌‌the‌‌  
VHS‌‌tape‌‌with‌‌the‌‌song‌‌on‌‌it,‌‌and‌‌we‌‌decided‌‌to‌‌release‌‌it‌‌as‌‌our‌‌own.‌‌The‌‌man’s‌‌dead,‌‌we‌‌  
thought.‌‌No‌‌one‌‌will‌‌ever‌‌have‌‌to‌‌know‌. ‌ ‌
 ‌
But‌‌the‌‌man’s‌‌soul‌‌was‌‌too‌‌stubborn‌‌to‌‌be‌‌at‌‌peace.‌‌He‌‌could‌‌not‌‌rest‌‌while‌‌his‌‌wife’s‌‌  
killers‌‌remained‌‌on‌‌the‌‌loose,‌‌and‌‌was‌‌even‌‌more‌‌furious‌‌when‌‌he‌‌found‌‌out‌‌that‌‌his‌‌song‌‌was‌‌  
stolen‌‌and‌‌commercialized.‌‌So‌‌he‌‌came‌‌back,‌‌and‌‌that's‌‌when‌‌our‌‌band‌‌members‌‌started‌‌dying‌‌  
off‌‌in‌‌these‌‌bizarre‌‌accidents.‌  ‌
 ‌
One‌‌of‌‌our‌‌band‌‌members‌‌walked‌‌into‌‌a‌‌busy‌‌highway‌‌mistaking‌‌it‌‌for‌‌their‌‌home.‌‌  
Another‌‌shot‌‌himself‌‌in‌‌the‌‌mouth‌‌mistaking‌‌the‌‌gun‌‌for‌‌a‌‌bottle‌‌of‌‌wine.‌‌Another‌‌microwaved‌‌his‌‌  
dog’s‌‌metal‌‌bowl‌‌mistaking‌‌it‌‌for‌‌instant‌‌noodles.‌‌That’s‌‌when‌‌I‌‌found‌‌out‌‌that‌‌the‌‌ghost‌‌had‌‌the‌‌  
horrific‌‌power‌‌to‌‌manipulate‌‌the‌‌minds‌‌and‌‌perceptions‌‌of‌‌others.‌  ‌
 ‌
So,‌‌somewhere‌‌in‌‌the‌‌heavens‌‌a‌‌deity‌‌of‌‌some‌‌sort‌‌decided‌‌that‌‌this‌‌song‌‌was‌‌too‌‌  
dangerous‌‌to‌‌exist.‌‌His‌‌heavenly‌‌light‌‌sought‌‌out‌‌to‌‌wipe‌‌out‌‌all‌‌traces‌‌of‌‌the‌‌song,‌‌on‌‌the‌‌  
internet,‌‌on‌‌CDs,‌‌on‌‌radio‌‌stations.‌‌However,‌‌he‌‌missed‌‌this‌‌tape...‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌must‌‌destroy‌‌it.‌‌I‌‌must‌‌destroy‌‌this‌‌tape‌‌to‌‌end‌‌all‌‌this...‌” ‌ ‌
 ‌
But‌‌the‌‌tape‌‌was‌‌still‌‌intact,‌‌almost‌‌in‌‌mint‌‌condition.‌‌So‌‌either‌‌this‌‌was‌‌some‌‌sort‌‌of‌‌  
prank‌‌or‌‌whoever‌‌recorded‌‌the‌‌audio‌‌failed‌‌to‌‌destroy‌‌it.‌‌But‌‌it‌‌wasn’t‌‌a‌‌prank.‌‌The‌‌song‌‌played‌‌  
directly‌‌after.‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌lyrics‌‌were‌‌definitely‌‌how‌‌I‌‌remembered‌‌it.‌‌However,‌‌this‌‌version‌‌sounds…‌‌distorted.‌‌  
The‌‌beat‌‌sounded‌‌far‌‌more‌‌ominous‌‌than‌‌the‌‌song‌‌that‌‌was‌‌on‌‌the‌‌radio,‌‌and‌‌the‌‌quality‌‌of‌‌the‌‌  
audio‌‌was‌‌awful.‌‌However,‌‌the‌‌final‌‌line‌‌sent‌‌shivers‌‌down‌‌every‌‌nerve‌‌in‌‌my‌‌body.‌  ‌
 ‌
“‌This‌‌was‌‌no‌‌accident.‌‌I‌‌will‌‌avenge‌‌you…”‌‌‌was‌‌the‌‌final‌‌line‌‌of‌‌the‌‌song.‌‌Yeah,‌‌this‌‌  
definitely‌‌sounded‌‌like‌‌it‌‌would‌‌have‌‌been‌‌written‌‌by‌‌the‌‌ghostly‌‌keeper,‌‌as‌‌if‌‌he‌‌would‌‌have‌‌  
returned‌‌from‌‌the‌‌dead.‌  ‌
 ‌
 I‌‌quickly‌‌pulled‌‌the‌‌VHS‌‌tape‌‌out‌‌of‌‌the‌‌player‌‌and‌‌locked‌‌it‌‌in‌‌a‌‌cabinet‌‌out‌‌of‌‌pure‌‌  
superstition‌‌and‌‌fear.‌T‌ his‌‌can’t‌‌be‌‌happening…‌‌‌I‌‌thought.‌G ‌ hosts‌‌don’t‌‌exist,‌‌do‌‌they?‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌rest‌‌of‌‌the‌‌day‌‌went‌‌off‌‌without‌‌a‌‌hitch.‌‌I‌‌browsed‌‌the‌‌internet‌‌and‌‌viewed‌‌my‌‌favorite‌ 
show,‌S ‌ outh‌‌Park‌,‌‌because‌‌its‌‌humour‌‌was‌‌irresistible.‌‌    ‌
 ‌
That’s‌‌when‌‌I‌‌found‌‌out‌‌the‌‌apple‌‌I‌‌was‌‌eating‌‌was‌‌a‌‌little‌‌too‌‌crunchy‌‌for‌‌its‌‌own‌‌good.‌‌It‌‌  
was‌‌a‌‌lot‌‌less‌‌juicy‌‌and‌‌tasted‌‌different.‌‌That‌‌was‌‌when‌‌my‌‌mouth‌‌started‌‌aching.‌‌I‌‌rushed‌‌to‌‌the‌‌  
bathroom‌‌mirror‌‌and‌‌that‌‌was‌‌when‌‌I‌‌saw‌‌it:‌‌I‌‌had‌‌bitten‌‌into‌‌a‌‌lightbulb‌‌mistaking‌‌it‌‌for‌‌an‌‌  
apple.‌‌My‌‌mouth‌‌was‌‌bleeding‌‌profusely.‌‌That’s‌‌when‌‌I‌‌knew‌h ‌ e‌‌‌was‌‌there.‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌rushed‌‌out‌‌and‌‌exited‌‌the‌‌bathroom.‌H ‌ e’s‌‌here‌,‌‌I‌‌thought.‌I‌‌‌need‌‌to‌‌escape‌.‌‌I‌‌reached‌‌  
the‌‌door‌‌leading‌‌to‌‌the‌‌hallway,‌‌gave‌‌the‌‌knob‌‌a‌‌pull,‌‌and…‌  ‌
 ‌
On‌‌the‌‌other‌‌side‌‌of‌‌the‌‌ivory‌‌door‌‌was‌‌hellfire.‌‌What‌‌was‌‌supposed‌‌to‌‌be‌‌an‌‌ordinary‌‌  
hallway‌‌had‌‌become‌‌a‌‌fiery‌‌landscape‌‌resemblant‌‌of‌‌the‌‌Underworld.‌‌The‌‌flames‌‌were‌‌blue,‌‌red,‌‌  
green,‌‌and‌‌every‌‌colour‌‌under‌‌the‌‌rainbow.‌‌The‌‌immense‌‌heat‌‌tormented‌‌my‌‌skin,‌‌and‌‌alarm‌‌  
bells‌‌were‌‌ringing‌‌in‌‌my‌‌brain‌‌to‌‌get‌‌away‌‌from‌‌the‌‌fire.‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌fires‌‌started‌‌spreading‌‌to‌‌my‌‌bedroom.‌‌I‌‌grabbed‌‌a‌‌blanket‌‌and‌‌started‌‌flailing‌‌at‌‌the‌‌  
flames‌‌to‌‌smother‌‌them,‌‌begging‌‌that‌‌the‌‌flames‌‌would‌‌just‌‌disappear.‌‌But‌‌nothing‌‌was‌‌effective.‌‌  
Soon,‌‌the‌‌blanket‌‌caught‌‌fire,‌‌and‌‌I‌‌was‌‌left‌‌with‌‌nothing‌‌to‌‌fight‌‌the‌‌fire‌‌with.‌‌I‌‌was‌‌forced‌‌into‌‌  
one‌‌unseared‌‌corner‌‌of‌‌the‌‌room,‌‌and‌‌just‌‌as‌‌the‌‌fires‌‌were‌‌about‌‌to‌‌consume‌‌me...‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌blinked,‌‌and‌‌the‌‌fires‌‌disappeared.‌T‌ hat’s‌‌strange‌,‌‌I‌‌thought,‌w ‌ asn’t‌‌the‌‌bedroom‌‌just‌‌on‌‌  
fire‌‌just‌‌now?‌‌‌As‌‌the‌‌adrenaline‌‌went‌‌away,‌‌I‌‌looked‌‌past‌‌the‌‌door,‌‌and‌‌no‌‌traces‌‌of‌‌the‌‌fire‌‌were‌ 
there.‌‌Not‌‌even‌‌an‌‌ash,‌‌despite‌‌the‌‌hallway‌‌being‌‌full‌‌of‌‌flammable‌‌objects.‌‌It’s‌‌almost‌‌as‌‌if‌‌the‌‌  
ghost‌‌staged‌‌this‌‌fire‌‌just‌‌to‌‌torment‌‌me.‌  ‌
 ‌
 ‌
 ‌
 ‌
It’s‌‌been‌‌two‌‌days‌‌since‌‌the‌‌fire‌‌scare.‌‌I‌‌looked‌‌on‌‌the‌‌internet‌‌for‌‌a‌‌way‌‌to‌‌contact‌‌the‌‌  
ghost‌‌so‌‌I‌‌can‌‌ask‌‌him‌‌to‌‌leave‌‌me‌‌alone.‌‌According‌‌to‌‌the‌‌dark‌‌web,‌‌what‌‌I‌‌needed‌‌were‌‌  
candles,‌‌chalk,‌‌and‌‌some‌‌sort‌‌of‌‌portrait‌‌or‌‌statuette‌‌of‌‌the‌‌deceased.‌‌Obviously,‌‌a‌‌random‌‌site‌‌  
no‌‌one‌‌has‌‌ever‌‌heard‌‌of‌‌couldn’t‌‌have‌‌been‌‌the‌‌most‌‌reliable‌‌source,‌‌but‌‌I’m‌‌desperate.‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌candles‌‌and‌‌chalk‌‌are‌‌simple;‌‌I‌‌keep‌‌some‌‌of‌‌those‌‌around‌‌the‌‌house.‌‌I‌‌set‌‌up‌‌my‌‌  
little‌‌seance‌‌according‌‌to‌‌how‌‌the‌‌instructions‌‌on‌‌the‌‌internet‌‌said:‌‌draw‌‌a‌‌little‌‌five-pointed‌‌star‌‌  
on‌‌the‌‌floor‌‌with‌‌chalk,‌‌then‌‌put‌‌candles‌‌on‌‌each‌‌corner.‌‌The‌‌portrait,‌‌though,‌‌might‌‌be‌‌a‌‌little‌‌bit‌‌  
tougher,‌‌since‌‌I‌‌didn’t‌‌know‌‌much‌‌about‌‌the‌‌man.‌  ‌
 ‌
But‌‌then‌‌I‌‌remembered‌‌the‌‌photo‌‌attached‌‌to‌‌the‌‌VHS.‌C ‌ ould‌‌it‌‌be?‌I‌‌‌opened‌‌the‌‌drawer‌‌  
where‌‌the‌‌tape‌‌is,‌‌and‌‌looked‌‌at‌‌the‌‌photo.‌W ‌ ell,‌‌it’s‌‌worth‌‌a‌‌shot,‌‌‌I‌‌thought.‌‌I‌‌placed‌‌the‌‌photo‌‌  
on‌‌the‌‌chalk,‌‌and‌‌the‌‌photo‌‌ignited.‌‌Then,‌‌the‌‌power‌‌went‌‌out.‌S ‌ o‌‌it‌‌is‌. ‌ ‌
 ‌
 The‌‌shape‌‌I‌‌drew‌‌out‌‌of‌‌chalk‌‌also‌‌set‌‌fire.‌‌And‌‌something‌‌in‌‌my‌‌head‌‌then‌‌screamed‌‌at‌‌  
me,‌‌“L‌ ook‌‌behind‌‌you.‌”‌‌I‌‌nervously‌‌tilted‌‌my‌‌head‌‌back,‌‌and‌‌I‌‌was‌‌not‌‌ready‌‌to‌‌see‌‌what‌‌I‌‌saw.‌‌  
Not‌‌by‌‌a‌‌long‌‌shot.‌  ‌
 ‌
Behind‌‌me‌‌was‌‌the‌‌lifeless‌‌corpse‌‌of‌‌a‌‌little‌‌girl.‌‌Its‌‌facial‌‌expression‌‌displayed‌‌nothing‌‌  
short‌‌of‌‌absolute‌‌terror,‌‌yet‌‌its‌‌complexion‌‌was‌‌chalky-white,‌‌as‌‌if‌‌it‌‌had‌‌been‌‌drained‌‌of‌‌every‌‌  
ounce‌‌of‌‌blood‌‌in‌‌its‌‌body.‌‌I‌‌felt‌‌sick‌‌to‌‌my‌‌stomach,‌‌and‌‌a‌‌closer‌‌inspection‌‌of‌‌the‌‌corpse’s‌‌face‌‌  
made‌‌me‌‌vomit‌‌right‌‌on‌‌the‌‌floor‌‌at‌‌the‌‌cadaver’s‌‌feet.‌‌This‌‌corpse‌‌was‌‌no‌‌stranger.‌  ‌
 ‌
It‌‌was‌‌Jenny‌.‌‌My‌‌own‌‌daughter,‌‌dead‌‌on‌‌the‌‌floor.‌‌You‌‌should‌‌have‌‌seen‌‌how‌‌traumatized‌‌  
I‌‌was‌‌when‌‌seeing‌‌her‌‌dead.‌W ‌ ait‌‌a‌‌minute,‌I‌‌‌thought.‌‌Jenny‌‌was‌‌in‌‌Europe‌‌with‌‌her‌‌foster‌‌  
parents.‌‌There‌‌was‌‌no‌‌way‌‌she‌‌would‌‌be‌‌here‌‌in‌‌America.‌‌Furious‌‌that‌‌I‌‌had‌‌been‌‌tricked,‌‌I ‌‌
grabbed‌‌the‌‌rifle‌‌hanging‌‌on‌‌my‌‌bedroom‌‌wall‌‌and‌‌pulled‌‌the‌‌trigger‌‌on‌‌the‌‌corpse.‌  ‌
 ‌
The‌‌body‌‌disappeared.‌‌Or‌‌rather,‌‌it‌‌was‌‌never‌‌there‌‌in‌‌the‌‌first‌‌place.‌‌The‌‌bullet‌‌went‌‌  
through‌‌the‌‌wall.‌‌The‌‌“corpse”‌‌was‌‌another‌‌clever‌‌illusion‌‌thought‌‌up‌‌by‌‌the‌‌ghost.‌‌“Your‌‌cheap‌‌  
tricks‌‌won’t‌‌work‌‌on‌‌me!”‌‌I‌‌hollered‌‌with‌‌all‌‌my‌‌strength.‌   ‌
 ‌
A‌‌distinct,‌‌unpleasant‌‌odour‌‌filled‌‌the‌‌air,‌‌smelling‌‌like‌‌burning‌‌seaweed‌‌and‌‌muddy‌‌  
seawater.‌‌Luckily,‌‌I‌‌had‌‌already‌‌emptied‌‌my‌‌stomach‌‌on‌‌the‌‌floor.‌‌A‌‌deafening‌‌voice‌‌was‌‌heard.‌‌It‌‌  
was‌‌unbearably‌‌loud,‌‌almost‌‌as‌‌if‌‌the‌‌ghost‌‌was‌‌screaming‌‌directly‌‌in‌‌my‌‌ear.‌‌    ‌
 ‌
“Is‌‌that‌‌so?!”‌‌The‌‌booming‌‌voice‌‌exclaimed.‌  ‌
 ‌
“Why‌‌must‌‌you‌‌torment‌‌me‌‌with‌‌your‌‌powers?!‌‌Wouldn’t‌‌your‌‌wife‌‌want‌‌to‌‌be‌‌at‌‌peace‌‌  
with‌‌you‌‌in‌‌heaven?”‌‌I‌‌asked.‌  ‌
 ‌
“My‌‌wife‌‌is‌‌gone!‌‌There‌‌is‌‌no‌‌heaven!‌‌I‌‌am‌‌forever‌‌condemned‌‌to‌‌spend‌‌eternity‌‌on‌‌this‌‌  
world!‌‌And‌‌when‌‌I‌‌heard‌‌that‌‌song‌‌playing‌‌from‌‌this‌‌quaint‌‌little‌‌hamlet,‌‌I‌‌was‌‌mad‌‌because‌‌that‌‌  
song‌‌belonged‌‌to‌‌me‌‌alone!‌‌It‌‌is‌‌the‌‌only‌‌material‌‌possession‌‌I‌‌have‌‌that‌‌reminds‌‌me‌‌of‌‌my‌‌wife,‌‌  
so‌‌I‌‌was‌‌the‌‌one‌‌who‌‌erased‌‌the‌‌song‌‌from‌‌the‌‌public!‌‌And‌‌now‌‌you‌‌die!”‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌felt‌‌a‌‌burning‌‌sensation‌‌on‌‌my‌‌finger.‌‌Another‌‌illusion‌‌flame;‌‌this‌‌time,‌‌it‌‌was‌‌black.‌‌I‌‌did‌‌  
not‌‌feel‌‌any‌‌pain.‌‌He‌‌won’t‌‌fool‌‌me‌‌again.‌  ‌
 ‌
But‌‌strangely‌‌enough,‌‌the‌‌fire‌‌did‌‌burn‌‌my‌‌hand.‌‌Even‌‌though‌‌there‌‌was‌‌no‌‌pain,‌‌my‌‌skin‌‌  
started‌‌getting‌‌damaged.‌‌Soon,‌‌the‌‌fire‌‌spreads‌‌to‌‌my‌‌body.‌T‌ his‌‌can’t‌‌be‌‌real‌,‌‌I‌‌thought.‌‌I ‌‌
rushed‌‌to‌‌the‌‌mirror,‌‌only‌‌for‌‌the‌‌flames‌‌to‌‌be‌‌seen‌‌in‌‌the‌‌bathroom‌‌mirror.‌‌That’s‌‌when‌‌I ‌‌
realized,‌‌in‌‌horror,‌‌that‌‌the‌‌flames‌‌were‌‌real.‌‌Very,‌‌very‌‌real.‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌rolled‌‌frantically‌‌on‌‌the‌‌carpet,‌‌hoping‌‌that‌‌the‌‌flames‌‌would‌‌smother,‌‌but‌‌to‌‌no‌‌avail.‌‌    ‌
 ‌
“You‌‌cannot‌‌possibly‌‌smother‌‌a‌‌demonic‌‌flame!”‌‌the‌‌voice‌‌shouted.‌  ‌
 ‌
I‌‌cried‌‌out‌‌in‌‌pain.‌‌“If‌‌I‌‌won’t‌‌make‌‌it‌‌out‌‌alive,‌‌I‌‌will‌‌at‌‌least‌‌protect‌‌others‌‌from‌‌your‌‌ 
grasp!”‌‌I‌‌said.‌‌I‌‌realized‌‌that‌‌the‌‌entire‌‌reason‌‌I‌‌was‌‌hit‌‌with‌‌this‌‌curse‌‌was‌‌because‌‌I‌‌listened‌‌to‌‌  
the‌‌tape:‌‌the‌‌only‌‌remaining‌‌existing‌‌record.‌‌So,‌‌if‌‌I‌‌destroy‌‌the‌‌tape,‌‌I‌‌destroy‌‌the‌‌ghost.‌  ‌
 ‌
 “No,‌‌you‌‌cannot‌‌possibly…‌‌you‌‌cannot‌‌possibly‌‌destroy‌‌me!”‌‌The‌‌ghost‌‌threatened.‌‌  
Apparently‌‌he‌‌was‌‌somehow‌‌able‌‌to‌‌read‌‌my‌‌mind.‌‌    ‌
 ‌
So,‌‌with‌‌the‌‌last‌‌remaining‌‌ounce‌‌of‌‌energy‌‌left,‌‌in‌‌agonizing‌‌pain,‌‌I‌‌got‌‌on‌‌my‌‌knees,‌‌
 
which‌‌were‌‌about‌‌to‌‌implode‌‌from‌‌fourth-degree‌‌burns.‌‌I‌‌reached‌‌for‌‌the‌‌rifle,‌‌and‌‌fired‌‌a‌‌bullet‌‌at‌‌  
the‌‌tape.‌‌    ‌
 ‌
 ‌
 ‌
Monday‌  ‌
My‌‌name‌‌is‌‌Jenny.‌‌I‌‌was‌‌in‌‌school‌‌one‌‌day‌‌when‌‌I‌‌was‌‌called‌‌home‌‌early.‌‌That’s‌‌when‌‌I ‌‌
heard‌‌some‌‌bad‌‌news‌‌from‌‌my‌‌foster‌‌parents‌‌that‌‌my‌‌biological‌‌father,‌‌Darren,‌‌had‌‌passed‌‌  
away.‌‌According‌‌to‌‌witness‌‌reports,‌‌he‌‌had‌‌died‌‌in‌‌a‌‌horrible‌‌fire‌‌and‌‌explosion;‌‌according‌‌to‌‌  
his‌‌neighbours,‌‌there‌‌was‌‌a‌‌gunshot,‌‌then‌‌the‌‌explosion‌‌came‌‌subsequently.‌‌The‌‌authorities‌‌  
ruled‌‌it‌‌an‌‌accident‌‌involving‌‌firearms,‌‌but‌‌left‌‌it‌‌at‌‌that‌‌without‌‌further‌‌investigation.‌  ‌
  ‌
Wednesday‌  ‌
I‌‌travelled‌‌with‌‌my‌‌foster‌‌parents‌‌to‌‌the‌‌small‌‌town‌‌in‌‌Colorado‌‌that‌‌Daddy‌‌lived‌‌in.‌‌  
Tears‌‌rolled‌‌down‌‌my‌‌eyes‌‌as‌‌I‌‌drove‌‌past‌‌the‌‌remnants‌‌of‌‌his‌‌cozy‌‌bungalow.‌‌It‌‌had‌‌been‌‌  
reduced‌‌to‌‌ash‌‌and‌‌sawdust,‌‌and‌‌the‌‌smell‌‌of‌‌smoking‌‌embers‌‌filled‌‌my‌‌lungs.‌‌I‌‌was‌‌not‌‌able‌‌to‌‌  
sleep‌‌that‌‌night.‌  ‌
  ‌
Thursday‌  ‌
‌The‌‌next‌‌morning,‌‌I‌‌went‌‌to‌‌the‌‌local‌‌graveyard‌‌for‌‌Darren’s‌‌funeral.‌‌As‌‌I‌‌knelt‌‌before‌‌  
his‌‌cremated‌‌remains‌‌being‌‌lowered‌‌six‌‌feet‌‌under,‌‌I‌‌felt‌‌a‌‌paranormal‌‌hand‌‌on‌‌my‌‌shoulder,‌‌  
reassuring‌‌me‌‌and‌‌telling‌‌me‌‌that‌‌everything‌‌will‌‌be‌‌okay.‌  ‌
  ‌
  ‌
  ‌
  ‌

The‌‌End‌  ‌
  ‌
 ‌

  ‌