Elvira

James placed his bags on the threshold of the house. Despite the local legend of the ghost of a dead witch haunting the mansion—the mansion's former owner, who died over 100 years ago, a death unknown to anyone to this day—he had chosen this house. He didn't believe in old tales, and he himself was a high-level magician. What, he couldn't handle the ghost of a lonely woman? A week had already passed since they moved in. Despite its age, the building looked like new, though it should have rotted away long ago. At times, the man felt as if someone was watching him; he felt sudden temperature changes, the creaking of floorboards behind him, but he decided to remain silent until the rightful owner revealed her true nature. Dangerous. It was a sunny day; a man was tidying up the garden, trimming the rose bushes, black as night itself. He turned to grab a tool, and there she was... Elvira. The woman looked into his very soul, her gaze freezing. The man still held the bunch of roses he'd cut, their huge thorns and dry branches. Stunned, he did the first thing that came to mind: handed the woman the improvised "bouquet. "

Hello... this is for you, Miss.