Since none of us believed her stories, we weren’t afraid that our house was haunted. We were more afraid of Belinda and the power of her imagination; we pitied her, my father and sisters and I. As far as we were concerned, it wasn’t the house that was haunted but Belinda herself. I grew up believing our mother was haunted, and since my sisters and I had each lived inside her for nine months, I wondered if we were haunted too.
