Life is Short, But the End is Long

                                    

                                          
Andy, now face to face with the ghostly face, froze head to toe. "N-No. You're not real." He insisted, squeezing his eyes shut. 
                          
"Oh... but aren't I?" The voice breathed down his neck. Andy shook his head vigorously, stepping away and opening his eyes to see-
                          
Nothing? He could have sworn he had just looked into the cold eyes of a ghost. You sound stupid, Andy. He thought to himself as he shook his head and turned to close the cellar door. "See? Just seeing things." He muttered as he shut the old wooden door. 
"Keep telling yourself that." He heard as the door shut, looking over and seeing the same figure standing beside him. Andy practically jumped out of his skin, bolting off into the dark house. He tried the door, growing panicked when it wouldn't budge. "No, no, no!" He hissed, turning and running up the decaying stairs. He tripped halfway up, looking over his shoulder to see the figure was still calmly following him up with a mischievous grin plastered across his pale lips. "Get away from me!" Andy shrieked, rushing up the rest of the stairs. He found an open room and slammed the door shut behind him, pushing the old bookshelf up against the door in an attempt to block whatever that was out. 
                          
Andy took a minute to cough, swatting away the cloud of dust he had kicked up in the moments before. "Alright... Okay. I'm okay." Andy sat down on the floor to catch his breath, then taking a moment to take in his surroundings. "Now... where am I." 
                          
He saw a pile of boxes in the corner of the room- or at least he thought they were. There was a canvas over the pile, but judging by the shape, it was boxes. He stood and went over, the floor creaking eerily beneath his feet. He covered his mouth, prepared for the cloud of dust, before yanking back the canvas. But there was no dust, almost as if someone consistently removed the canvas. Did the ghost do it? Why would he bother with a bunch of boxes full of old stuff?
                          
When he peeked inside the one on the top, it made sense. The boy in the black and white photo was the same as the spirit that had been harassing him earlier. The top box was full of old framed photos, all of them including the boy. There was a newspaper page at the bottom, which Andy had accidentally pulled out with the last framed picture. It drifted to the ground and Andy noticed that a portion was clipped out. "Odd." Andy mumbled, leaving it be as he went through the rest of the boxes. The others were filled with old pieces of clothing, shoes, books, some other trinkets that were probably just decoration around the house. He smiled sadly as he lifted a folder that had 'Ashley Purdy - class of 1973' written in neat cursive letters. He could tell by the contents what this was. It didn't mean graduating senior class; it mean kindergarten class.
                          
Inside the torn paper folder were old finger paintings and scribbles done by the 6 year old he assumed was now the unfortunate permanent occupant of the old house. A wave of sadness overcame Andy as he pulled out the picture that was tucked in the back. There were two, actually. One of the boy with who Andy assumed to be the proud parents, and the other of the boy with the rest of the class, dressed in nice, child-sized graduation gowns standing outside of the old schoolhouse. The boy was Ashley... and Ashley was the ghost. He found another picture of Ashley from the same day, graduation cap and gown gone and replaced with the hat and coat of a military uniform, decorated with badges and pins. Ashley's face was radiating, beaming with pride and happiness as he stood proudly, chest puffed out and all, beside the much younger looking man that was now the elderly man who lived next door to Andy.
                          
It was heartbreaking, no matter how joyful the photos were. This was a young boy who had so much ahead of him...
                          
At the very bottom of the final box was as piece of paper, dated December 15, 1977. That would mean Ashley was about 9, right?
                          
It looked to be typed on a type-writer, yet the lettering was faded. It was still slightly readable, so Andy pulled out his flashlight and began to read it. 
                          
'When I grow up, I want to be a soldier just like my friend Mr. Walter! I want to be a hero and get medals like he has!' 
                          
Andy couldn't bare to read anymore of the optimistic writing. The poor kid that was so.. happy and sure he'd achieve his dreams, had no idea that he'd never have the chance. He didn't know he would be gone. He set everything back where it was delicately, suddenly having a new-found respect for the house. And Ashley... Words couldn't describe how bad he felt for Ashley. What was it like to die and then never rest? To see everything change around you and know that no one you loved would be with you ever again? 
                          
Actually, how did Ashley die? Andy hadn't thought of that until now. The sadness replaced itself with curiosity as he poked around the room for answers to the recent question. "What's this?" Andy frowned, finding an old music box up on a shelf. "Why is this up here by itself...?" He opened it, the song eerily out of tune as the untouched ballerina spun slowly.
                          
The name Christine was written on the lid, so Andy figured it was just left behind by one of the families that tried moving in. Why was it still here though? He thought Ashley, judging by the horror stories he'd heard, hated people moving in. Why would he keep something like this?
                          
His answer soon came when he accidentally dropped it, a piece of folded paper peeking out from a hidden compartment. "Oh." He frowned. The 'hidden compartment' was actually just the felt covering inside of music box pulling back and opening up a nice hiding place for stuff  that someone didn't want found. That someone, in this case, was either the original owner, Christine, or Ashley. 
                          
Andy looked around, making sure that he was alone before picking it up and taking out the paper. Usually in horror movies like this, the spirit usually got pissed if their stuff was touched. Andy didn't want to risk it, but his curiosity was killing him. 
                          
"Holy shit." Andy's eyes widened. "It's a fucking obituary." He said to himself as he read over the newspaper clipping from the page he found earlier. 
                          
"Ashley Purdy. Died January 30th, 1985." 
                          
Andy's heart dropped. "That poor kid..." He whispered, not realizing that Ashley was literally right behind him. Wasn't even 18... Had just turned 17, according the obituary. 
                          
"Yeah, I know. Dying after your birthday is a real downer." 
                          
Andy tensed, finally realizing. "Fuck."