Daniel left, leaving his roommate all alone.  Thanksgiving break is great, when you're American and you have a family in the states.  When you're not, you just have the campus to your self.  Which, isn't too exciting.  The only thing he looked forward to was no classes and no roommate.  Which goes a long way, but solitary confinement is a torture device for a reason.

He sits at his computer and wakes it up.  A new message awaits in his inbox.

"Cooper, why do you even E-mail people?" he started, "Every message you send is a stupid forward.  You never talk."

He opens it, the subject is FW:  Waiting for Her Love. 

"Why do I bother?"

He reads:

"John Jones had wealth, a ranch, a loving wife and anything he could ever want.  But, when the Civil War came knocking on his door, he answered the call of the South.  His wife, Kathleen, would wait every day for her husband by watching out their second floor window.  She'd sit in her chair, gazing up the drive, waiting for his return.  The war ended, but John never came home.  Some say, if you stand and look near the window you can see her spirit waiting for her love.  Attached is a picture, this is real now, no trick photography.  If you concentrate on the chair near the window, you will see the form of a lady, dressed in white.  This is thought to be the spirit of Kathleen Jones.  Your eyes will not believe what they see."

"You have to be kidding me," he mumbles.

He clicks the link to open the picture.  A picture opens in his browser, it's a window looking out to a long drive.  An old chair sits to the left of the window, a curtain draped behind it.  He looks at the chair and focuses on it.

Nothing.

He focuses for no more than thirty seconds, then becomes bored with it.

"What a waste.  I hate optical illusions."

He moves his mouse to close the browser, suddenly the image of a woman in white with blood streaming down her face appears.  A sound wave goes off on his computer, it is the sound of a woman screeching in pain or horror.  He jolts forward, closing the window with the click of his mouse and slips out of his chair to the floor.  His mouse falls and dangles by the cord. 

"Idiot," he proclaims, still spooked.

A giggle immerges from his closet.  He turns his head to see.  The door is cracked, through the crack he sees nothing but blackness.  He slowly rises from the floor and walks to his closet.  He opens the door with his left hand and looks in. 

Nothing.

Dirty clothes, clean clothes, nothing and everything he was hoping to see.

"Idiot."

He closes the door, turns and picks up a glass from the desk.  He stops and glares at his inbox.

"I'll never open another E-mail from you again, Cooper.  Never."

He walks out the door, turns down the hall.  At the edge of the hall, where the living room begins, he stops.  He feels watched, perhaps followed.  He doesn't want to turn around, yet he feels stupid for getting spooked. 

"There's nobody behind me," he whispers.  He tries to step forward, but he is frozen with fear.  He looks down at the glass in his right hand, which is beside his hip.  The glass is made of amber and reflects his face in the side of it.  He raises the glass in front of his face.  He pans it to his right, turning his head to follow it, looking in the reflection he sees nothing behind him.

He smirks.

The smirk fades.

He turns his head to the left.  He looks in her eyes, a small stream of blood streams down the left side of her face.  Her white dress is tattered and torn, stained with blood and there are slashes down the front.  Scratches stretch all down her arms, the tip of her left index finger is missing.  She wears one shoe on her right foot and sweat beads are gathered across her forehead.

She smirks.

"I've waited long for you, my love," she starts, "Alas, you have returned."

THE END