As a young lad, my family moved into an old house. It had a story, as many old places did back then. It was not not like today, where we specters are now discounted as myth and God is shrouded by technological evolution.
I suppose people may have ranted in similar ways, back when the hunter’s path was still held in sway by the old gods.
So we moved into this house. The story isn’t very particular. An old man used to live there, and was pretty much senile. When he died, he didn’t realize it, and what brought conclusion and happiness to his days in his final years, was getting his clothes ready for the morning, before retiring for the night.
His ghost, to this day, still readies its clothes every evening. His bedroom was mine as a young boy, and I saw the ghost. Except that the house had been renovated over the years, so I only saw his upper half, due to where the original floor had once been situated. I saw him walk from where his dresser used to be, towards his chair, on which he laid the clothes. Then he vanished. At first it scared me, but I got used to it. I even attempted to commune with him, eventually. It never worked.
Never at that tender age, did I realize I would be stuck in limbo myself…