**The Friendly Haunt**

When Emma moved into the old Victorian house at the edge of town, she was looking for a fresh start. The house, with its creaking floors, high ceilings, and ivy-covered walls, was exactly what she had hoped for—a place with character, a place where she could begin anew after a difficult year. What she didn’t know was that she wasn’t the only one living there.

The ghost had been there for as long as the house had stood. In life, his name had been Oliver, a kind and gentle soul who had loved the house dearly. When he passed away unexpectedly, his spirit remained, bound by fond memories and a deep attachment to the home. For decades, he had watched over the house, seeing families come and go, but he had always kept his distance, knowing that his presence often frightened the living.

But when Emma arrived, something changed. Oliver felt a connection to her, sensing her loneliness and her longing for companionship. He decided that, perhaps for the first time, he would try to make a friend out of the new resident. After all, he reasoned, it was his house too, and the idea of sharing it with someone who might appreciate his company was too tempting to resist.

The first night, as Emma was unpacking her boxes, Oliver tried to introduce himself. He gently moved a picture frame on the mantelpiece, hoping to catch her attention in a non-threatening way. But when Emma saw the frame slide across the shelf on its own, her eyes widened in terror. She let out a startled scream and backed away, her heart pounding.

Oliver was dismayed. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. He retreated, giving her space, but he was determined to try again.

The next evening, as Emma settled into bed with a book, Oliver thought he might offer a friendly gesture. He carefully turned the page for her, thinking it would be a helpful act. But when Emma felt the page move under her fingers, her blood ran cold. She slammed the book shut and pulled the covers over her head, trembling.

Oliver sighed—if ghosts could sigh. He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to communicate without causing fear. He wanted to say something, to explain that he meant no harm, but every time he tried, his voice came out as an eerie whisper or a disembodied moan, only adding to Emma’s distress.

As days turned into weeks, Emma became increasingly uneasy in the house. Strange occurrences continued—doors creaking open by themselves, soft footsteps echoing in empty rooms, cold drafts that came out of nowhere. Oliver’s attempts to help and befriend her only fueled her growing anxiety.

One night, after another failed attempt to make contact, Oliver sat on the edge of Emma’s bed as she slept, his form barely visible in the dim light. He felt a deep sadness; all he wanted was a friend, but he seemed destined to be nothing more than a source of fear.

In a moment of desperation, he whispered, “I’m sorry,” hoping somehow the words might reach her in her dreams.

The next morning, Emma awoke with a strange sense of calm. The fear that had gripped her seemed to have lessened, as if she had finally accepted that the house was not entirely hers alone.

Oliver’s spirit warmed at her words. He decided that perhaps, for now, it was enough just to share the space quietly, watching over Emma from a distance, until she was ready to accept his presence. Friendship, after all, didn’t need to be rushed—it could grow slowly, even in the most unlikely of circumstances.