A few nights ago I left the bar early enough to walk home through the dark, scurrying between pools of light from the streetlamps. They've been building a house along my route, the frames of the walls raised and covered in plastic, now that the rains are on their way. I walked past, nearer to midnight than anything else, and found the place lit up inside, the plastic striped by the shadows of the inner beams. Probably heavily inhabited by ghosts who had been wandering the greenbelt, waiting for a new place to inhabit.
I am probably more superstitious than not. There's no real reason not to believe in ghosts, or at least, not just because I can't see them. Which is actually a pretty accurate picture of how everything else works for me, too, because I am a lot more afraid of what I can't see than of what I can. I will talk to you for hours with total enthusiasm about all of the dead babies in jars that I saw in Philly, all of the things that should turn anyone squeamish, but I will run from silent houses.
What isn't there is always worse than what is.
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