They said the late boxer Emanuel Rowe, spent his final days in the bungalow, which stood across my house; old and rotting and sometimes startling me as the rats inside would rush across the crumbling furniture, making shrill squeaks.
During nights, when I’d sit on my rocker, reading; I’d occasionally see a man’s shadow in the dimly lit bulb, which I hadn’t known before, was there.
While leaving for work, I’d hear my neighbors gossiping, more often than not, about the ghost that saunters round the hall of the late boxer’s bungalow.
One night, when it was raining torrentially, I saw through the water drizzling down my window glass, the shadow, moving in the pale light of the room; I decided to go and find out the truth once and for all.
I picked my umbrella, making no sound, donned my bowler hat and slipped out of my house with my cocobolo cane; hoping I didn’t wake my wife.
I looked across the street, there was no one; I hid my head under the canopy of my checkered umbrella and walked timidly towards the bungalow door.
As I walked near, the moving shadow became still; it looked like a printed silhouette on the obsolete glass of the window.
I didn’t know if I should knock; the shadow seemed to be staring at me right through the shut window.
I mustered some courage and knocked once, my eyes fixed on the figure standing at the window; I saw it move slowly towards the door.
I could hear the faint tap of approaching footsteps, I held my breath and prayed silently not to encounter something that I’d regret rest of my life; if there was to be one.
I saw a line of shadow beneath the door, it was standing there; I took a step back when I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder.
I turned, horrified; only to find it was my wife; when I turned my gaze back to the door- the shadow was gone.