I am lying in a hospital bed, dying of AIDS. I am writing this on a pad of paper given to me by a doctor, because I have to finally say what happened, twenty-five years ago, in a haunted house.
We didn't know who had lived in the house so many years ago, or how old it was. We were kids, we didn't care, we just wanted a thrill. The place was apparently haunted, and that was enough to bring me and my mates round there one night to see if we could take it. God, we were effing stupid. Just me left now. Ghosts didn't get the others, by the way, circumstances did. Like me. But enough of that. We paid the taxi to drop us off a short distance from where the house stood, and we walked the rest of the way through the small wood, on a winter's night with rain all around us. It didn't bother us. We laughed, played daft games in the dark.
It was still all just a game later, when we got into the old place. No one to stop us. There we all were, squatting down on the floor of the old sitting room, near a small fire we'd managed to get going, and we just carried on laughing, drinking the booze we'd brought with us, and smoking the odd joint. And nothing even remotely spooky happened that night; just fun, booze, drugs, and sex. And me recording it all with my camcorder. We used to do that. And in the morning, we all went home without a care in the world.
And that is what ended up freaking me: the camcorder. At the time, while I was filming, I saw nothing unusual; it was when I played the cassette a few days later on my video that I saw the shapes: Flickering in and out of sight round my totally oblivious friends, and myself, shaped like people, faceless, at times just inches away from us, but we hadn't been able to see them at the time. But they had been there, capering invisible and silent.
Afterward, I burned the cassette and the camcorer. They were tainted with something I did not wish to be reminded of.