It's sort of rambeling and really confusing. It's difficult to even fully grasp what's going on. I doubt I'd read it. (I like the reference to the number 42, however. Classy.)
Ian jerked awake. He didn't dare to move. It was difficult for him to see by only the dim light of the streetlamp outside filtering through his curtains. He broke out in a cold sweat and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Over the sound of his racing heart, he caught the faint sounds of someone rustling through his things. Without his glasses, Ian could only see a vague outline of the intruder. He lay perfectly still, praying that he was dreaming. A pinch on his arm proved otherwise. The stranger came closer and Ian squinted, trying to get a better look. It took him several moments to realize what he was seeing: his wallpaper was clearly visible through the torso of the small young man standing in over his bed. Ian relaxed. Just a ghost, he told himself. Why do they always have to come at three in the morning? Don't they know that my whole life is not dedicated to helping the dead move on? Why can't I have normal visitors, at normal hours?
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