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We went to spend a night at the haunted B&B, you in excited anticipation, me in deep skepticism.
We went to our room with our overnight bags. You saw a ghostly bride all dressed in white pass in front of the window; I saw an incoming gust riffle the white lacy curtains.
We then went for a walk in the woods behind the house before going out to eat. You heard spirit voices all around us; I heard the leaves above us rustling and the squirrels scampering through the underbrush.
After dinner, back in the room as we undressed, you sensed a presence when you felt a cold yet gentle touch upon your shoulder; I saw the window was still open, and closed it against the chilling breeze.
That night in bed, you heard the long-dead sea captain making his nightly rounds of the house he had built; I heard the timbers of the old house creak as they continued their gradual settling.
In the morning over breakfast you gushed to our host about the deep spiritual experience he had provided by opening his haunted home to the public; I wondered silently at the bill and the premium generated by the word "haunted."
When I dropped you off at your apartment, you told me it was all over because I was insensitive to the spiritual world; I did not argue because I saw you were insensitive to what was occurring in the real world.