There are degrees of haunting, you know.  Some are tiny: motes floating across shafts of  memory. Others get more real estate: a town or two, maybe even their own village. A galaxy, perhaps.

The worst – maybe the best, who knows – are the ones that we build with our own hands. Our own minds.

So it is with Spookville. Which, once upon a time, was an actual place. The place where I was happiest. But it turned out to be something of a black hole. Over the years, I’ve let the place go: pulled down the bricks, uprooted the trees, removed the gates, replaced the sharp odor of coal in the cellar with the delicate perfume of faded apples.

But something remains. The ghost of it, the memory of me: us. Stubborn. Implacable. Joyful.



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