I sometimes catch glimpses of movement, but when I turn to look, there's never anyone there—just moving shadows and faint sounds; it's almost like I was still alive.

My dead daughter, gruesomely bloodied, lives on in the hallway mirror. Had I covered the thing when I did the deed, I'd be rid of her for good.

I creep through the kitchen. I reach the cupard and my hands fiddle with the lid of a container. I open it and there are NO COOKIES LEFT!

I awoke suddenly. As I opened my eyes I saw him sitting at the foot of my bed.

That's not possible, I thought.

My Grandfather died last summer.

Whispers trickle down my ear.

Shadows curl over my head.

You hug me, reassure me,

tell me you adore me...

but I could have sworn you were dead.

Sometimes I hear it in the house, echoing from the basement. A meow, the pitter-patter of feet. I throw down some flour. Pawprints appear, and I cry again.

Beneath the floorboards the ghost of Dick Wilbur laughed. The latest inhabitants fled his terrifying growl. They didn’t know it was Spot.

“Down boy. We’ll see Jane soon.”

I feel you in our room when I go to sleep at night. That empty space next to me that you will always haunt. Wishing you weren't gone.

At night, sometimes I catch a wisp of your scent, and I even hear your soft breathing. They remind me your dead, but I hope you’ll come back.

My best friend has a ghost living in her closet. Sometimes, it will poke its head out while we're playing a game and ask about the monthly rent.