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No, I just chose to accept what occurred to me, since I didn't feel afraid at that time.
Was it because you trusted that ghost? Did it make you feel good?
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I felt he wouldn't hurt me, but I did not feel comfortable. And at the first time, I felt he might want to tell me something, but I didn't catch it.
Gosh, I had exactly the same feeling. Wouldn't if be fun if it was the same ghost? I knew he wanted to tell me something and I think at that moment I knew what it was, I am afraid he was suffering somehow. He was kind of angry and wanted some comfort but the last time was different, he was kind of happy and felt like playing but then changed his mind. Do you really think ghosts have feelings?
I think so.
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Perhaps it is your good angel trying to help you. We all seem to have these experiences and they are usually worth taking note of.Discernment is necessary. We have to know who we are listening to.
Howdy Grace, this is my first time on English Forums. I loved your story so much that I wrote one of my own.

My grandpa’s ranch
When the river swelled and broke it’s banks, Grandpa and his brother had to abandon their metal shack and move to higher ground atop a hill their own father had purchased for them a couple of years before. Both men, recent college graduates, had abandoned the city life for an uncertain living on the land. And during that first flood, nothing was so uncertain as their next meal. But both men weathered the storm and survived many floods to come too.
The 1920s was an ambiguous time, the Western world still shuddered from World War I, young men were bonded closer than ever, but as a nation, people had suffered terribly; they would again in less than a decade. But in those uncertain years, Grandpa forged an alliance with his brother, won his father’s affection and married a young gal from the local bakery. This is a brief story of how a stubborn patch of land near the river became a wildlife sanctuary, was reclaimed and shared by natives as sacred ground and became home for three wonderful gals, one being my Mom.
Grandpa’s ranch was more like a college experiment than a viable business in those early years. Grandpa too was young and free. His father, sympathetic to the young man’s spirit, freighted him a sports car just to let him know that the tough times were there to test him and that family would always be there to back him up. More than anything, it was the young man’s confidence that attracted his wife to him. So far as she was concerned, Grandpa had the car, he had the looks and he definitely needed a wife!
And so, not able to bring Grandma back to a tin shack by the river, Grandpa and Uncle Brian built atop that hill that kept them dry during the first big wet. Grandma moved in and got everything running perfectly. Finally, the men were free to establish tested systems and earn an honest living from the land.

Do you like it Grace? Please tell me what you think.
Grace lives in shanghai. I like her writing so much that I read her composition to my auntie. We made a few little changes just so it reads more fluently. Grace’s original piece is sitting at the very beginning of this thread.

My Grandparents’ House

I remember that my Grandparents’ house looked quiet and serene, surrounded by its own garden. It was my habit to visit the house on sunny weekend afternoons. The garden was cosy and I felt happy to spend time there. Recalling the scene, I remember That a short stone path, smooth to step on, lead from the garden gate to a set of concrete steps immediately before the front door. The barren path, bordered by vegetation gave me the impression of a baldhead crowned by an absurd array of weeds.

Framing the garden, a low bamboo hedge helped to define thickets of dense brushwood that shaded path, steps, and the bottom of the house on a sunny day. There was a badly tarnished brass plate nailed tightly atop the front door. It had lost the function of heralding the house number since green corrosion had ruined it, but the disfigured plate and the blurred figures looked quite harmonious with the aged dark wooden floor of the hallway.

The loose floorboards creaked alarmingly when I walked on them. The effect always startled me. The floor of the living room was much lighter in color than that of the hallway. What impressed me most was a couple of old-fashioned padauk chairs, their arms polished to a mirror finish. They were placed abreast, with a padauk tea table in between - also outmoded.

Grandpa painted expertly and two of his best impressionist works hung on the walls above my head; major facing minor. On reflection, I was mistaken about the way the dining room was organised. I had thought That The dining room was a separate enclosure on the left hand of the living room. Actually the dining room was just a part of the living room delimited by the smoked wall and the oval table in the middle. I could hardly view it as a real dining room at all!

I often wondered, and still do, why the kitchen and the bathroom were designed to be adjacent to each other. The kitchen always smelled of hot and wild pepper, a scent reminiscent of Sichuan, my Grandma’s hometown. Sichuan cuisine has become my favourite. However, the nostalgia elicited by fragrant pepper spices vanished as soon as I considered the bathroom which was stained and gloomy from the passing of many years. Taking a shower was creepy, the aged wall and stained bathtub conspired together to depress me and play on my mind.

Left of the bath was a wooden staircase leading to the second floor. Years of human traffic had bent the wooden boards into hollows. But changing rooms, I remember that Grandpa’s study was half occupied by an extremely disorganised bookshelf, which had once been ordered but was later chaotic. I pondered how Grandpa could find what he and others needed from the shelves. Despite the mess, I discovered many things precious to me. the treasures, as Grandpa called them, inspired my interest in ancient Chinese literature
The remainder of the study was also in a mess, with paintings and albums in stacks, brushes and scrolls at odds with one another, and the floor and walls clashing in dissonant colors. When dealing with the mess, the housekeeper complained but Grandpa always smiled and explained that it was just the best environment for coaxing his muse into action.

It was quite a job for me to distinguish Grandpa’s bedroom from his study, the bed being the only feature that distinguished one room from the other. The bedroom was also a workspace, and Two nightstands, one on either side of the bed, had served as rudimentary bookshelves for quite a few years. Late at night, or when the muse beckoned to him, Grandpa didn’t bother with the study at all, he worked just where he was - no wonder the two rooms resembled each other so much.

My only clear memories of Grandma’s bedroom concerned a picture and a small golden statue, both depicting Buddha. The picture had a slightly musty odor and the corners of the parchment were frayed at the edges, I remember that it was hung on the south-facing wall. I think that the gold-plated sculpture of Buddha was placed on the middle of a chest of drawers. Drinking, smoking, or even making noise close to Grandma’s shrine were big taboos and were permanently forbidden, since they were symbols of disrespect towards Buddha. My devout Grandma always warned that we were bound to be punished if we disturbed or violated the sanctity of that place.

These days, my grandparents’ home provides a literary and artistic environment for almost every child and grandchild. My Grandparents’ home is somewhere nostalgic, valuable, and touching, a place imbued with power; a place housing a lifetime’s contemplation wedded to eternal vigilance. The shaded garden path, the tarnished brass plate, the naturally polished wood of the chair, the exquisite oil paintings, the imposing bookshelf, and the aged picture of Buddha: all of these form an enthralling scene which is perpetuated and cherished in my fondest memories.
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Oh, Aileen, thank you and your aunt so much! Please give my best regards to her.
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