The girl’s strawberry blond hair bobbed in ringlets like Shirley Temple’s. She wore a ruffled, light-colored dress. At first Greg York thought it was his daughter, but this girl, in addition to wearing period clothing, was older. And transparent. He could see right through her, to the wood staircase on which she was sitting.
He froze in the foyer of the Victorian-era clubhouse that overlooked his community pool, gripping the old paint cans he was removing from the crumbling stone basement.
Look away, he told himself with unnatural serenity, and when you look back the ghost will be gone.
He did. She wasn’t. She was still there, watching the man who had moved into her house and would eventually oversee its demolition.
York bolted out the front door, scared as hell, down the embankment, toward the pool, as if the bitter incense of chlorine would ward off whatever he’d just seen.
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