You enter the house at nightfall, like your friends said you should. They were insistent about entering it at night. Now, staring at the scuffed walls and cool light escaping from the drawn curtains, you're not so sure about their judgment. But despite the feeling of unease smothering you like a blanket, you press on. You can’t help but walk deeper into the house, despite your better judgment telling you to run.
          A few doors line the hallway. For the most part, they're all locked. However, one of them creaks open after a good push. A layer of dust rains down on you, and a chill runs down your spine. It wasn’t this cold when you got here. You spot some curtains swaying in front of an open window, and continue through the house.
          You push past some boxes to get to the living room. There's a couch-shaped object covered by a tarp with a thick layer of dust on it. You pull up one of the tarp’s corners. The couch's delicate fabric is blue, with white swirls that seem to dance across it. It’s slightly worn, but considering the state of the house, it’s in pretty good condition.
          The rest of the room isn't doing as well for itself. The once-grand light fixture is missing a few crystals. Yellowed books sit next to a vase full of fresh flowers. Someone must’ve replaced them recently. You guiltily glance at the broom sitting next to pairs of partially swept footprints that track through the room. You should’ve wiped off your feet before you came in here.
          Next, you set off to try to find the bedroom. On the way, you stop at the kitchen. So far, it’s the most cared-for room in the house. A warm light illuminates the clean counters, and the scent of baked goods wafts through the air. Compared to the rest of the house, this room is delightful. There's even a fresh loaf of bread sitting on the counter, with a sign that says “for my guests” with a little heart. You don't know how the bread could've gotten there. It looks delicious, but you don't trust it very much. Despite how tempting it is, you move on.
          Your friends are suckers for the paranormal. It's one of the few things you disagree with them about; no matter how much “evidence” they’ve given you, it’s never been enough. Right now, though, there doesn't seem to be any other explanation. Not for the bread on the counter, nor for the music coming from behind the bedroom door. It's cheerful. And bright. Even when a few of the notes sound off key, the music still plays. But the moment you open the door, it falls silent.
          You take cautious steps into the room. This could be just one elaborate prank. It’s something your friends would try to do. Seconds pass, and nothing happens, so you feel slightly better about taking a look around.
          It's messy in there, but not the abandoned mess you saw in other parts of the house; it’s lived-in. Books, blankets, and toys are all strewn about. The bed hasn't been made. Dirty clothes sit at the foot of the wardrobe. You jump as a small voice, barely louder than the wind outside, speaks up behind you.
          "Hello? Are you here to visit me?" it asks, its voice childish and melodic. It reminds you of bells, jingling in the breeze.
          Unsure of what to say, you nod. The voice doesn't sound like anyone you know. And when you turn around, no one's there.
          "You are? That's very nice of you . . . I don't get visitors very often." A cold wind blows past you and toward the door. "I made some bread for guests, but I'm long out of practice. Could you try it for me? I can't exactly try it myself."
          You hear a childish giggle, as the door creaks open. You aren't exactly in the mood for paranormal bread, but refusing the ghost probably isn't the best idea, either. After thinking it over, you walk back toward the kitchen.
          The bread's pretty good, you think, as you take a small bite. Since nothing bad happens, you finish the rest of your piece.
          "I'm glad you enjoyed it! You can take as much as you'd like. All of my other visitors are so rude to me, so they don't get any bread." Another giggle.
          You rip off a chunk of bread and wrap it in a paper towel now conveniently sitting next to you, before tucking it into your pocket.
          "Thanks for the bread," you finally manage to say. It feels weird talking to nothing, and then getting a response. You've never talked to ghosts before. Before today, you hadn't even thought they were real. "But I, uh, really should be going now. It's gotten pretty late."
          You feel the cold wind again, and follow it to the entrance.
          "Oh, all right! Thanks for stopping by."
          The door blows open, and you walk outside.
          You take a deep breath of the crisp night air. You turn back toward the house, wondering if you'll ever come visit again, when you spot a figure in the window. A young girl, with bright white eyes and scars like tears running down her face, waves at you from among the curtains. You wave back, before beginning the journey home.