I was 6 years old. The year was 1809. The boat was the Santa Marie Pearl. The weather was wet, and stormy. The night was dark. I was sick. The wind started to moan. The rain started to pour. There suddenly was a white fog, swirling around the room, forming an Amish woman, with a bonnet and a plain, blank expression on her face. Her eyes glowing a white sicking gleam. She strode toward me with a knife in her hand. She slit my throat. I am dead. My eyes glow the same white sickining gleam. I am a ghost. I have a knife. Beware.