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For as long as Angela Belfort could remember, she’d suspected that her apartment was haunted. Before today, her suspicions had stemmed from little, almost ignorable things. She would be at her apartment door, about to leave for work, and then a picture on the wall would move, just an inch. She’d hear it, the faint scrch, as it scratched against the paintwork. Or she’d put something on to boil, leave the room – to go to the toilet, or to get a book from her bedroom – and when she came back, the pot would be somewhere else. Sometimes she would wake late, having forgotten to set out clothes the night before, and there they would be, fresh, ready to wear.
Angela Belfort was haunted!
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