WHERE'S THE GHOST?

The outside was frightening. He never feared a ghost, but he had heard his friends speak of the one black shadow that roamed at the fifth turn of the street beside the pond. Ghosts occupied those who harnessed feeble minds, in whom fears cloud obvious truths, and he very well believed that. He kept on walking. "Ah! The street lamps are never repaired, adding to the fantasy of the horror that rests just in tongues", he thought. He crossed the third turn at the street, and felt more relaxed than ever. Splashes of ripples in the pond often alerted him, but, he knew of the falling twigs of the trees beside the pond. There were fishes too. He was satisfied at how his reasoning was impenetrable. He reached the fifth turn at the street. The width of the street reduced to almost half. He encountered no invisible who became visible to him, and threatened his soul. He tried not to cross the part too quickly: he knew he didn't believe in spirits. He walked steadily, often watching his phone's chat windows and smiling at the messages that kept flowing in. There was a hustle among the bushes. He paid no heed to the jungle alerts. Suddenly, he faced an attack from a being. He fell down. It looked like a man, lean and thin like the midrib of a leaf, and restless. The man crossed the street towards the pond leaving him wounded. And then, he heard his footsteps again in the dark. He rose immediately, and as soon as he felt someone near him, he pushed with his might. There was no sound of a splash in the pond. He was terrified. Ghosts are lighter than air; they carry no weight, and hence there was no sound of a fall. He started running as quickly as he could. Had he been in a different situation as in sports, that run would have been his all-time best. He reached his quarters safely. Tired and weak, he chose to sleep early...with the lights on. The next morning, he woke up early. He could not reason if that incident was real, or was he hallucinating. He kept aside his thoughts and readied himself for the day's work. He started his journey through the same street that had compromised his life the previous night. He reached the fifth turn, and saw around 10 men with fishing nets discussing things. As he neared, he heard one of them," Poor fellow. God has his means of pulling out lives. He died because of the curse that haunted him- his in born dumbness. We could have shouted if we fell, how could he? Pity."

He increased the pace of his walks. How could a sensible man who never believed in ghosts could commit such a tedious error that could be counted as a federal crime? He realized the ghost had rested in him, how suppressed fears clouded the obvious truths in front. He was the ghost that night. No ghost ever resides, it is men who breathe blood into fiction!

Man is a ghost...only if he retires from being a man with a mind!