The kids on our street called it the Black House. Every Halloween, its porch light stayed off, and no one ever gave out candy. This year, I took the dare to knock on its door.
As I approached, I found the door already open a crack. It wasn't darkness that greeted me, but a brightly lit ballroom. Couples in old-fashioned clothes were waltzing, but they were translucent. I realized they were ghosts.
A woman in a vintage gown floated towards me, her smile sorrowful. "Those who forget us," she whispered, "can never find their way home."
Suddenly, the music stopped. Every hollow eye turned to me. I spun around and ran, sobbing. When I reached the street, I looked back. The house was dark and silent again, its door firmly shut.
But in my jacket pocket, I found a single, aged photograph. It was of me, smiling stiffly, standing among the ghostly dancers. And on the back, in faint script, was written: "We have remembered you. Now it is your turn."
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