The story I must tell is ghastly. It’s grim. And, it’s true.
My tale begins just weeks ago. One afternoon, I walked into the den. The television flashed and hummed for no one.
As I made my way across the room to turn it off, an odd sensation swept over me. I don’t know how to describe it, but I knew something was not right. I felt . . . a presence.
Shaking off the eerie mood, I convinced myself that my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, when I turned to leave the den, I saw it, an unexplainable grape covered in ketchup on an abandoned plate on the coffee table.