Uninvited Guests

Miles, rudely awoken from his slumber, shouted to Harold, “Old man, I do believe we have some uninvited guests. Put your head on, or better yet, carry it downstairs, Hmmm?”

The want-to-be thieves pretended to be unheard voices that slipped through the cracks in the door. The door that they had just unlocked with a specialized tool they purchased on EBay for $10. It worked as promised, but the house, apparently, wasn’t empty.

Harold, driven by his desire to have his book of poetry published, was struggling with another excellent (in his mind) poem. “Miles, he shouted down the rickety stairs, I’m rather busy right now.”

Miles waddled from his hidey-hole in the floor. He stood up on his hind feet, his pack rat tail swishing back and forth, affectively dusting the dilapidated pine floor. He forgot to put his glasses on, but he was certain there were two strangers coming through his front door.

“Oh bother,” he said, rolling his pack rat shoulders and crinkling up his whiskers. “I spy two thieves coming into our humble abode.”

He scurried up the rickety stairs, aiming for all the planks that made ghostly noises.

“Did you hear that,” one of the want to be thieves whispered. “I bet this place is haunted.”

“It’s not haunted, you wuss.”

“No, I like, have an unsettled feeling.”

“Shut up. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

The two would be villains tip-toed into the cabin.

“This place is like a dump, man.”

“Shut up. I told you. Smack told me there was computers and good stuff in here.”

“It smells like rats. And look, there’s like rat poop on the table.”

One of the robbers pointed the beam of his flashlight on the table.

“Wow, I think it’s like a ghostly poem.”

Miles stopped his ascent up the stairs, and shaking his paw, he shouted, “That’s pack rat you idiotic, imbecilic, zit faced would be villains, and a ghastly poem.” He ground his sharp teeth together, and proceeded up the stairs.

Meanwhile, Harold sat in his room, cradling his head in his lap.

“Good show, old man,” Miles said. “Can you apparate down the stairs, moaning? That will scare the bejesus out of our would be robbers.”

“How can you talk about robbers at a time like this,” Harold said.

“I beg your pardon,” Miles said.

“I’m suffering from writer’s block,” Harold said. His voice rose to a fevered pitch, and then, descended into a wimpy whisper.

“Oh Harold,” Miles said. “You have to be a writer to have writers block.”

Harold grabbed his head like a bowling ball, and pitched it at Miles. With a squeak and a quick side step, Miles averted the head, and it rolled down the stairs. Miles scampered after it, his pack rat tail standing tall, his ears laid back, and his nose quivering.

“Oh my god,” one of the would-be robbers screamed. “I just got hit by a head.”

The two would be robbers ran into each other scrambling to get out the front door. An iPhone fell out of one of the boys’ pocket, but the boy, intent on making an escape, didn’t notice.

“Oh my,” Miles said, eyeing the cell phone, “I think I’m in heaven.”

Every Word

Every word, created by a little turd, hid something ugly. Poor Miles nearly pooped himself to death. He didn’t know what prompted him to do it. Perhaps Miles just couldn’t stand another minute of Harold’s pouting. Perhaps he felt sorry for his friend. Harold's every sigh emanated depression. If he had the pours, it would have poured out like goblets of sweat on a working man working in a 100 degree sunny/humid day.

            “Oh bother,” grumbled Miles under his breath. “Really Harold, must you watch every letter I excoriate?”

            “Sorry Miles,” grinned Harold, trying to contain himself and keep his head on his shoulders. “How much, err, poop do you have left in you? Do you think you can finish the stanza today?”

            “Don’t worry old fellow,” Miles returned, turning around to face Harold. “It’s going to rain, and the weather will keep the property manager off this road. Wouldn’t think he’d bring a prospect out in this weather.”

Miles lifted his tail, balanced his butt, and with perfect aim, finished the last line of Harold’s poem. He had been working on Harold’s “masterpiece” for a week, and momentarily felt a shiver of pride. That disappeared quickly when he silently read the poem to himself.

Oh to be a ghost

Who can’t ever eat another roast.

Whose head always falls upon the ground

Be it ever so round.

It rolls just like a stone.

All I am is bones.

            Miles started sobbing uncontrollably. His whiskers quivered, his tail drooped; he had no more poop. He thought, “Gads,” and jumped on the windowsill. Harold, shocked at Miles behavior, shouted, “Miles, what are you doing?”

            “I need some fresh air,” Miles said, leaping through the window, running across the sagging porch, and scampering up the listing porch rail, where he sat in silent contemplation.

Pack Rat Poop

            

            Miles arrived in the attic with a smile cut and pasted onto his face. “Harold, old chap,” he said, “why so glum?”

            “Miles, I’m a brilliant poet, but alas, I’m also a ghost. I worry for humanity, and I become depressed just thinking…”

            Miles rudely interrupted Harold. “Old man, stop thinking. You’re hurting my brain with these reckless thoughts, and destroying my nap time.”

            “Oh dear,” Harold said. “I forgot. It’s all about you.”

            “Harold, I ran all the way up these dangerous, old, rickety stairs to see if I could be of assistance. And you insinuate that I’m selfish?”

            “Sorry, Miles. I just get so depressed when I realize that humanity will never get to read my brilliant poetry.”

            Miles squinted his eyes and rapped one paw around his handsome nose in order to stop himself from being rude and cruel.

            “You’ll help me, won’t you Miles? Because we’re pals, right?”

            Miles had an itch on his right ear, and as soon as he released his mouth to scratch his ears, his mouth opened.

            “Course I’ll help you, Harold. Anything at all.”

            Harold smiled, and Miles caught a glimpse of what Harold looked like before his head was cut off with a chainsaw. He had nice cheekbones, and Miles painted his eyes blue and wondered if Harold had a dimple. Harold stood tall, and lumbered downstairs to the dining area. “Follow me,” Harold said.

            “You could chew up this old newspaper,” Harold said, pointing at the vintage newspaper on what was left of the kitchen table. “Look for the words I need, and then, um, maybe sew them together.”

            Miles stood ramrod straight, wishing that he had stayed in his hidey-hole, and made a trip to the pantry for a sip of the whiskey instead of coming into Harold’s lair.

“Why think small,” said Harold, his two front teeth pointed at angles, his head askew on bony shoulders.

“I’m just a packrat Harold,” answered Miles, cleaning his whiskers to make them stand straight (he was very vain of his whiskers). “I’m not very big.”

“Miles, Miles, Miles,” continued Harold, “all you have to do is chew the paper with the words. That’s not asking much is it?”

“Not asking much,” said Miles. “Do you know how bad paper is for my teeth? And it tastes disgusting. I know—why don’t you go back upstairs into the attic where the mysterious murderer finished you off. That would be pleasant, don’t you think?”

Harold wasn’t listening. He had a one-track mind, and once he started thinking about getting his poetry published, he could not be dissuaded.

“I’ve got it,” he shouted, hitting the table Miles perched on with his fist, a circle of bones really. “You can poop the words out, and then when the property manager gets here, he’ll see it!”

“Oh my,” said Miles, glaring at Harold with eyes pierced like an arrow, aimed at what would have been Harold’s heart.

“Oh my,” he repeated loudly, the anger lifting his upper body so he stood as tall as a not very big pack rat could stand.

“Are you saying that you want me to defecate words on to the table?”

Miles crouched back down, smiling.

“Actually Harold,” Miles said, “that would be appropriate.” Of course, what Miles did not say out loud was, “Your poetry is crap.”

Pack Rat Tail

It took Miles a week to convince Harold it was time to do some spring-cleaning. In fact, Miles finally told Harold in no uncertain terms that he, Miles Packrat, esquire, was going to move out if they didn’t at least sweep and mop the floor of the cabin they both resided in.

Really, Miles, exhausted from scribbling Harold’s poem in the dust, had become positively allergic. His proud nose dripped with snot, his fine tenor of a voice felt like rust, and his delicate paws were filthy.

Miles thought of his Mum as he tied one of Harold’s old shirts to his magnificent tail. Miles had a long, strong, and fuzzy tail that sometimes moved about as if it had a life of its own. Miles enjoyed the tail exercise, and decided it was a fine way to get it back in shape. Miles scampered about the house, singing, “Am I blue, you’d be too, I live with Harold, he’s a ghost, and I’m a handsome packrat.”

Miles heaved a sigh of relief when he finished the floors, and headed straight to the comfort of his hidey-hole to engage in one of his favorite activities—nap taking. Indeed, Miles thought that he had almost perfected the art of the nap. He smiled as his beady little packrat eyes drooped.

Unfortunately, Harold, depressed because Miles had cleaned the floor, and therefore, could no longer use his tail to write Harold’s poetry, moaned and groaned upstairs.

Oh, cats, thought Miles. That ghost is going to be the death of me. Miles gritted his teeth, nervously clutching his tail in his little claws. “I’ll never get a nap with all that moaning going on,” he said. “Stiff upper lip, old man. There’s only one thing to do—confront this ghost, cheer him up, and then, reward yourself with a sip of that fine whiskey stashed in the pantry and a nice long nap.”

Tear Drops

Oh bother, Miles thought, hiding in his hidey-hole, one tear escaping from his dark chocolate pack rat eye. He had astonished himself, getting his entire body filthy, even his marvelous tail, in order to write out one of Harold’s dreadful poems in the dust collecting on the attic floor. “I never knew being a friend to a ghost could be such hard work,” he grumbled. “How I miss working with talented individuals, like Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger.” Miles smiled, remembering his second life, traveling first with the Beatles, and then the Rolling Stones, and late at night, whispering sweet musical words into their ears. “What has become of me,” he whispered. “Etching Harold’s dreadful lines into dust?”

“Pull yourself together, old man,” Miles said to himself, wiping the one tear from his face. He took a deep breath, counted to five, and exhaled slowly before trudging up the stairs to see what Harold wanted. “If he expects me to write another one of his so called poems in dirt, well, he can just kiss my pack rat ass goodbye.”

Much to Miles surprise, Harold’s head was stuck in a puddle of red mud, and the so-called poem had vanished in a pool of gray and red. “Miles,” Harold moaned, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’re my best friend, and look, I’ve erased the poem.”

Miles wasn’t sure what Harold was talking about. Once he had scratched the words into the dust, he read the finished product one time, and then ran down the stairs, ashamed that he had sunk so low. Miles, delighted that the offending poem had been permanently removed, said, “There, there, old man, it’s going to be fine.” He patted Harold’s head with his little pack rat hand, and used his handkerchief to wipe a red tear from Harold’s eye.

“Miles,” Harold said, “You can touch me. Have I become solid?”

Miles pasted a smile on his face, and although his eyes got very large, he mastered his reflexes and refused to let them roll. “Why Harold, we’re friends. Of course I can touch you.”

Dust to Dust

Harold the ghost sat upstairs in his attic, all alone, hands tapping the top of his skull, a smile etched along the jaw line. His skinny legs, bones really, connected to an even skinnier torso, jumped up and tap danced around the room. He stopped in front of a swirl of dust, and read aloud the poem that he himself had composed, and Miles, his dear friend, had faithfully carved using his elegant tail as a pen…

Shifting sands

run through my hands

Time isn’t on my side

God has taken my hide

Turned me into a ghost

I never even smoked

I wish I had a friend

Instead I just pretend

I wished they’d stay in this house

But there isn’t even a mouse

Even in the shadow of the rain

All I feel is pain

If they hit the lights just right

Maybe they’d end up here

But they’re not even near.

Harold set his heavy head on his narrow shoulders. Oh dear, he thought. I hope I haven’t offended Miles. Miles had dashed out of the attic and ran down the stairs as soon as he had completed Harold’s poem. Harold realized that he did have a very good friend indeed, and that friend was practically a mouse. Well, Harold mused, he’s actually a pack rat.

Oh dear, Harold said out loud to no one in particular. A spider spinning an intricate web paused and looked down at the ghost and wondered if he had a stomachache. Harold’s smile had turned upside down, and his eyelids leaked blood. “I’ve hurt my furry friend’s feelings,” Harold sobbed, his red tears spilling onto his beautiful poem.

Harold concentrated, which made his face contort into a frightening grimace. He wanted to solidify his hand so he could cross out the lines about the mouse. His hand, however, refused to obey. His tears, a veritable river of red rain, fell like hail onto the pile of dust, smearing the poem into oblivion.

The offending lines erased, Harold sat down on the oak rocking chair, rubbing his eyes. Unfortunately, he rubbed too hard, and his head fell off, splashing into the puddle of words. “Oh my,” Harold said. He looked up at his body, willing his hands to reach out and pick his head up, but his body remained in the chair, rocking.

“Miles,” Harold screamed, “Miles?”

Ashes to Ashes

Miles had scurried up the wall, bracing himself between two beams in the far corner of the room. Miles, a natural gymnast, could barely contain a giggle.

“Old man,” said Miles, “You look ridiculous. Collect yourself and for heaven’s sake, put your head back on.”

“Miles,” Harold said. “I thought I had squished you.”

Harold sat on the floor in a puddle of bones. His head rolled towards him and he plopped it back on with a grimace.

“I don’t think I could live with myself if I had killed you.”

“Oh bother,” said Miles, sliding down the wall like a fireman rushing down a pole. He sat on his haunches, and washed his face with his paws. “Let’s not get all sentimental, old man. And you know there’s life after killing, anyway, what.”

Miles laughed, a loud guffaw that echoed through the rustic cabin they lived in. A bird nesting in the roof flew out to see what the ruckus was all about.

             “Oh Miles, you shouldn’t laugh. It’s no fun being dead.”

“There, there, old man,” said Miles. “No worries. Would you like to work on some poetry today?”

Miles shook his head is disbelief. He seemed to have lost control of his mouth. He tried to stop the flow of words, crunching his nose and mouth closed with his right paw. Too late; Harold had heard.

“Really,” said Harold, sitting up straight on the floor.

He straightened out his head, and using his hands, pushed himself off the floor and stood.

“I thought you despised my poetry.”

“Well, no. But maybe we should dust first, eh? We don’t want you sneezing and losing your head again.”

Miles sat up on his haunches, his eyes two little black diamonds on his pack rat face. His black whiskers twitched hopefully, and his two front teeth, in need of braces, protruded at odd angles.

“No, no. I’m fine,” said Harold. “We could use the dust to write in.”

That, thought Miles, would be appropriate. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, they could write Harold’s dreadful words in the dirt. Which was exactly what they were.

“All righty then,” said Miles. “Where would you like to begin?”

Daydreams of the Past

At first, Miles thought the screech that had rudely awoken him from his scintillating dream was a dying owl, or perhaps an attack cat on the prowl. However, he realized that his roommate, Harold, was sobbing uncontrollably. “Oh dear,” Miles grumbled to himself, running up the stairs to check on Harold. “What’s the matter, old man,” Miles said.

“Daydreams of the past are a comfort when the present is painful and there is no future,” said Harold the ghost.

            “Gads, Harold,” said Miles, twitching his whiskers, “you’re not going to be moody again today, hmm—are you?”

            Harold harrumphed, and his head rolled off from the exertion. It fell to the floor with a clump.

            “Oh my,” said Miles. “It looks like it’s going to be another one of those days.”

            Harold stood up and walked toward his head. When he bent down to pick it up, his knees snapped.

            “If I had lived,” said Harold, “I would have needed new knees.”

            “Well, there you go,” said Miles. “Death can be a blessing to one in their old age.”

            Harold picked up his head and plunked it back on his narrow shoulders.

            “It’s awful dusty in here,” he said. And then he sneezed, causing his head to fall off, again.

            “Oh my,” said Miles. “Perhaps we should do a little spring cleaning today, hmm?”

            Harold walked carefully about the room, tripping over a piece of flooring that had come unglued.

            “Oh, Miles. Help me find my head.”

            Miles ran across the floor, narrowly escaping Harold’s falling figure.

Harold crashed onto the dusty floor screaming, “Watch out Miles.”

A silence came between them, more pained than awkward.

“Miles, Miles,” said Harold with a gasp. “Where are you?”

Wrinkled Nose

Miles the packrat wrinkled his nose, smoothed back his whiskers with his front paws, stood on his hind legs, and said, “Well, color me yellow, it’s time to nose out the goodies.” Harold the ghost was upstairs, and Miles thought that Harold was taking a nap, or perhaps, had gravitated up through the attic. Miles gripped the tip of his nose, attempting to hold back a snorkel, a guffaw, and a loud laugh. Miles knew that Harold was not only incapable of writing anything resembling poetry; he was also incapable of gravitating, apparating, or haunting.

Well, Miles had to admit to himself, Harold living in Miles cozy cabin in the country was a type of haunting. But Miles didn’t need to be haunted, and if Harold was going to haunt anybody it should have been the individual responsible for Harold’s ultimate demise. Yes, someone had murdered him, chopping his head off with a chainsaw. “Monsters,” Miles mumbled, forgetting that he was going on a nosing out the goodies adventure, and longing for more of the fine whiskey he had discovered in the pantry.

Miles sat on all four paws, his furry tail pointed north, his ears pointed east and west, his fine nose, a very respectable nose his mother had often told him, pointing south. Miles became drowsy, his eyes drooping, and he decided that it was fine time for a nap. If Harold could take a nap, than Bob’s your Uncle, so could Miles.

Actually, Harold never took naps, and Miles’ life was a freeway with many stops dedicated to the aforementioned activity. Just when Miles began to dream (he was a young packrat courting the gloriously fine Matilda) when a god-awful screaming jolted Miles awake. At first, he thought that perhaps…

Bee Bitter

Windows, gone. Not only windows, the floor itself, planks of wood, a rough pine, weather beaten, stained, black smudges, scratches, and now the floor was caving in on and of itself.

Miles had made himself a home beneath one of the planks. He took scraps of cloth, mainly from Harold, the roommate’s, old shirt, stained red with blood around the collar, and decaying along with the rest of the cabin. Harold struggled to keep the shirt on his torso, but it fell off as if Harold were invisible. Actually, Harold was a ghost. And positively see through.

His shirt, once a blue and green polo shirt, gave Miles the cush he desired in his little hidey-hole. Green, his favorite color, made him feel good, and it helped him sleep.

That’s what he was trying to do when a noise, a screech, a menace to his ears, woke him up from dreams of cheese and chocolate.

“Oh balderdash,” squeaked Miles, whiskers jumping on his face like pellets of hail on pavement. His eyes, two black dots, blinked… Be bitter be better write a red letter. "That's the end of my nap," Miles said, picking up his darning needles.

“Am I bitter? Who would care? I am bitter; nobody loves me; I’m pathetic.”

“That’s more like it old boy,” Miles said, packrat hands weaving strands of navy blue thread together, finishing the blanket for his bed.

“To be bitter, or not to be bitter, that’s not the question. Whether it is nobler to martyr myself and wreak the rewards of insanity, or march forward and finish my masterpiece of a poem. Bitter bee bitter boo-hoo.”

Reunited with his head...

The rest of Harold ambled down the stairs. Reunited with his head, he did a short shuffle, leaned down, scooped his head up as if it were a bowling ball, and dropped it onto his shoulders.

“You can see me,” he said to the packrat sitting on his haunches, “and you’re not afraid?”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Of course I can see you. I’m a packrat, and we sense other dimensions of reality. Ghosts are rather common in the packrat spectrum.”

Harold leaned down with his right arm extended, attempting to shake Miles hand. Unfortunately, his head fell forward, and almost squished Miles.

“Oh dear,” Harold said. “I’m so sorry. My wretched head makes me wish I were dead. Oh, I must write that down. What a nice rime.”

“Pull yourself together, old man,” Miles said. “You are dead, and if you don’t concentrate, that loose canon of a head is going to be my final demise. Cats have nine lives. Packrats, I fear, only have 7.”

Harold settled the aforementioned canon back on his shoulders, and looked down at Miles. “Oh dear, have I offended you? You look awful sad.”

Miles tried to keep his upper lip stiff, just like his father had taught him. But thinking about cats always had a negative impact on Miles. He had traveled from Yorkshire to visit his cousin, Buck, in Montana. Buck was a rodeo packrat, and he loved riding cats. Alas for Buck, Little Jamie, the most evil cat in the world, had devoured Buck before Miles had arrived.

“Sir,” Miles said, standing up as tall as he could, “You have given no offense. I have been on a long sojourn, and I must admit, I’m knackered. Mr. Ghost, I think I’d like to take a nap. But before I retire, could you tell me your name?”

Harold’s lips stretched across his ghostly face. “Oh dear, I have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Harold the Ghost, soon to be famous poet and writer. Welcome to my humble home.”

And along came Miles...

Do you fly in the sky? Like a bird….Hmmm,” muttered Harold the ghost, wringing his delicate spiny-white hands together. A gold band, his only decoration, tried to escape off his marriage finger, and he kept pulling it up like a baggy pair of pants.

            He began again, in a nasal drone, “Do you fly in the sky? Like a ghost, who would love to be your host. We could hang in a tree…Ohhhh,” he bellowed while removing his hallow head from his translucence shoulders, “Oh, I couldn’t hang in a tree.  The mysteries that hath made me a ghost hath,” he sneezed, and continued in a hysterical high-pitched wail, “hath also locked me in this house where there aren’t any trees.”

            A packrat with pepper eyes that sparked red, a strong furry tail, spiraling whiskers, and a camel nose, dashed across the floor carrying a piece of cloth in his yellow tinted teeth, wondering about the horrendous noise coming from the attic. “Perhaps we have a ghost on the premises,” he said. He dived under a plank of floorboard rising up in the air like the last minutes of the sinking Titanic. Once in the safety of his hole, he dropped the cargo from his teeth, and covered his ears with the palms of his hands, the long claws forming a crown above his head.

            Harold took a deep breath, sighed, “Do you fly in the sky like a ghost who wants to be your host, we could hang in the rafters…” 

Harold drew in another long pathetic breath, and muttered, “what rimes with rafters and how do you spell rimes?  Rafters, brafters, crafters, drafters, drafters!”

            He picked his head up and plunked it back on his shoulders.  “I’ve got it,” he grinned, which didn’t look like a grin at all.  In fact, it was quite scary.  His two front teeth pointed at angles, and his fangs protruded, making him appear vampirish.

            “Do you fly in the sky like a ghost who would like to be your host; we could hang in the rafters like a couple of drafters, trying to build a house...”

            The mouse, actually packrat, Miles, came out of his hole, and standing up on his hind feet, eyes glazed red in rage, shouted (which really sounded like the squeak from one of those dog toys), “You. Upstairs. Shut up. You’re poetry is like the taste of arsenic, the smell of a cat about to attack, rap (which I abhor) to my ears. Why don’t you stop the ghastly poetry and conduct yourself in a more ghostly manner. For your elucidation, rime is spelled r-i-m-e.”

            “MOUSE” screamed Harold, at the top of what would have been his lungs had he lived, “in the rafters like a couple of drafters trying to build a house without any MOUSE.”  His head plummeted off his shoulders and rolled down the floor like a bowling ball, almost pinning Miles. Fortunately, before he could say Bob’s your uncle, Miles flew back into the safety of his hole.

            “Oh,” Harold said. “I’ve managed to conjure up a mouse with my wonderful poetry.”

            Miles scampered out of his hidey-hole, and stood up on his hind feet, glaring at Harold’s head. His elegant tail twitched back and forth on the dusty wooden floor. “I happen to be a packrat,” he said. “Miles Packrat, esquire, at your service.”

In the begining, there was Harold.

            Harold, the awakening spirit, lived in the attic of a little log cabin with sagging sub-flooring, cracked windows, leaking toilet and unfinished walls. The old wood stove sat in the middle of the living/dining room area, and during the winter, it could never quite huff and puff enough warmth into the unchinked logs.

            The cabin sat at the top of Marijuana Knob. The realtor claimed that it had easy access. What he didn’t mention was that one needed a vehicle with high clearance to get through the bumps, ruts, and washed out roads during the summer, and four wheel-drives to get through the snow, ice, slush and mud during winter and spring.

            Harold, terribly lonely, longed for companionship. He had scared the heck out of the last tenants, walking around naked at night with his head in his hands, black pits for eyes and nose and a mouth that opened into eternity.

“It’s not my fault,” Harold mumbled to himself. “I didn’t ask to be brought up here and killed. Didn’t ask to be a ghost. Death’s not fair. That’s what comes in August at the end of Schweitzer cut off road.”

            He hoped and prayed that a new renter would arrive soon. Maybe they would find him amusing. They’d invite their hooey-hooey friends over, bring out the oijee board, and hold séances and spiritual readings. They’d ask, “Is there a spirit in the house,” and he’d move their fingers across the board, spelling out his poems, which he knew they’d have published. 

            Perhaps he shouldn’t have materialized in the nude. He tried to put on clothes, but they slipped through his fingers like air. How could he have known that the man would have a heart attack and have to be airlifted from the cabin in a helicopter? If he was in such pour health, he shouldn’t have been out here in the middle of nowhere to begin with.

            Harold pouted in his room, fingers tapping the top of his head, which sat on his skinny white knees. “What to do what to do” he tapped. Maybe he could get some duct tape and try to reattach his head. But where could a ghost get duct tape? And how could he cut it?

            Maybe he should break the book of ghostly rules, and change the sign on his attic room door from “stay out” to “please come on in and let’s be friends.” No, that wouldn’t work; he was all out of catsup, which he used to write with instead of blood, which made him feel woozy.

            He’d confine himself to singing in the middle of the night. That’s it, he grinned, which actually looked like the snarl on a people eating dog about ready to bite, I’ll sing my poems to them, that way they won’t need a oijee board!”

            He made gargling noises to clear his throat, and then belted out:

            I am a nice and friendly ghost.

            I’d really like to be your host.

            If you’d cut a little duct tape for me.

            I’ll take you for a ride and you’d say wee.

I have so much talent he thought. Then he got depressed.

            I am all alone in the darkness where there is no light.

            It is not day because it is night.

            No moon to guide me.

            So I can’t see.

            I feel like dying.

            Now I am crying.