I'm thinking of writing a story, and I want everyone's thoughts on this little section I wrote:
I never believed in the supernatural, let alone ghosts. I just don't understand. I killed them. I know I did. So, how are they standing right in front of me? I saw how she ran in front of my car, but when I hit the brakes, it was too late. I saw her blood-soaked clothes, her bones peeking out from her limbs. Yet here she is, greeting and motioning at me as if nothing ever happened. I look over the gravestone that she was casually standing on: "Here rest the dearly beloved. Angelica Marie Harris". I turn back to Angelica, and my face is as colorless as her skin. My body was similar to a statue, but this statue was thinking of one thing; Ghosts aren't real, right?
