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.”