For as long as I can remember I've been really sensitive to all types of things. I could usually read the intentions of others and quite often I talked to people who were perfectly clear to me, but nobody else saw them. I've always lived in the same house and the things that I'm going to tell you about here still happen. Please keep in mind that, all of this is true.

When I was five years old, the basement of my house was unfinished and, even though it scared me, I liked to play down there because there was a boy in his teenage years who would always play with me. As I write this, I can see him standing in the doorway to my room, smiling at me because he knows I'm typing our story.

The first time I saw him, I was a little hesitant. My mom had told me not to talk to strangers and this boy was hanging out in my basement.  But, like I said, I'd always been able to read the intentions of others, and all I felt coming from him was kindness.

"You shouldn't play all by yourself, it's not fun that way." He told me, crouching down in front of me. The first thing I'd noticed was the way he was dressed. He wore black pants and a white button-down. His shoes looked like something that was popular in the forties, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal his forearms. I only remember the outfit, because he's wearing the same thing now, as he always has. 

As I was growing up, I began to realize more and more that, well... He wasn't getting older. When I was like 11 and Twilight was just coming out (I may have been older than that, I'm 17 now.) I asked him if he was a vampire. He laughed at me, not as though he thought I was stupid, no. It was a gentle and kind laugh. 

"No, Rennie. I'm not a vampire." He called me Rennie because my real name is Lauren, but I've never liked that name. 

I supposed I should describe more to you than just his clothes. I never thought to ask him his name until I was thirteen, which was probably really rude, but he seemed so happy when I wanted to know. He'd told me "It took you so long, Rennie. My name's Henry."  

Henry has dark hair that I've never seen in well enough light to be able to tell whether it's black or just really dark brown. It's messy, a little bit curly, and reaches past his jaw. Considering the time, he must have died around, I assume he was a bit of an outcast, since his hair fell on his face - he's always pushing it away from his forehead - and back when my mom and dad first moved into this house, it was the late nineties, and the most recent owners had moved out in the early seventies. 

In case you're not catching my drift, the time he must have died around was back when it was considered rude to let your hair cover your face. 

Henry's got really pale skin, but he tells me that when things were different - I assume he means when he was still alive - he has olive skin. He's average height and lean. Actually, he's got a really average build in general, but his face, his smile. The moment I was old enough to understand my own perception of beauty, I knew he was beautiful. He's got the brightest smile. His eyes are a deep and dark brown. 

Anyway, things between Henry and I began to change when I got into middle school, I started noticing the good looking boys around me. I didn't think he'd care when I told him about my crushes. I never really had many boyfriends, being as shy as I am, but shortly after I turned sixteen, I began dating a boy who I'd had a crush on for a few years. We'll call him Sammy. 

Sammy was a sweetheart and a looker, and recently, Henry had stopped talking to me as much. In fact, I was lucky if I got to catch a glimpse of him when I was in the basement doing my laundry. 

I understood by then that Henry wasn't alive anymore, and I figured that he was beginning to pass on. Sammy and I go really close; our relationship was beginning to become an intimate one. But one day something happened. 

Sammy and I were laying on my bed. We were kissing, and I didn't care at all that his hand was traveling down to my waistband. Then my bedroom door flung open, then slammed shut. 

I and Sammy both shot up, watching as the door repeated the same process a few more times. 

I was scared and confused and I could feel Henry's energy. He was so, so angry. Or was he jealous? Without thinking I had screamed "Henry, Stop it! You're scaring me!" And tears had begun to slip down my cheeks. 

immediately, the door stopped slamming and Sammy started to get up, muttering a scared "I-I gotta go. I'm not sure if things are going to work out with us." 

Of course, Sammy breaking up with me only upset me more. Henry tried to communicate with me but I ignored him, and when I didn't ignore him, I told him I hated him, because after I'd liked Sammy for nearly 2 years, I finally got with him, and then Henry scared him away. 

One night while I was sleeping, I heard my slightly ajar bedroom door slip shut. I wasn't entirely asleep, so I could hear what was going on around me. I remember that it was a cold night, and my eyes were puffy from crying myself to sleep again.  

I was barely awake, and just as my mind was about to slip into sleep once again, I felt this tingling on my legs, like someone was rubbing up and down the inside of my thighs. I couldn't help the small sound that escaped my throat, and a pair of cold lips covered mine. 

I found out Henry was 19 when he died. I'm 17 now, and while I don't think I'll go through with it, I've thought about dying to stay with Henry. I won't do it, but if you could see the way he smiles at me whenever I close my door, you'd understand. He may be a ghost, but he's still charming. 

My boyfriend has been dead since before I was born. He's a ghost, and his name is Henry.


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