There were ghosts hovering in the corners of the room that haven’t existed in seven years or more. Strange to see them haunting a room so completely, lording over the buffet table as if food is something they concern themselves with anyway. That one decided when I was two that I would be a football player and told me so for the next ten years. He probably still thinks so. The afterlife is good for dwelling on such conceits. At this point I’m not one to argue so nod politely, smile, back away. This ghost here knows all the recent details of my life. The information leak will have to be investigated later. The past few years have been a concerted to run away from this group of spooks, but I still can’t get farther than forty miles or so away. Ghosts have a strange pull on the living. I’m tired of fighting them. The effort never gets me farther or closer to anything. And the ghosts don’t seem to notice. They just go about their haunting casually with a boo or a rattle of chains. That’s a problem with ghosts—they don’t sit back and wait for you to return. They up and leave and do new things, finding new souls to haunt. And then when they’ve all gone and left, then you realize it’s the ghosts only that you have to rely on.
