Flashback

“Harold,” Miles said, “I do believe you’re in the midst of a flashback. Can you describe what you are seeing and feeling, hmm?”

“I’m hot,” said Harold. “No, cold. It’s dark; I’m thirsty. Where’s Lilith? She's supposed to meet me. Someone else is here. Standing in the doorway. Smack, is that you? Oh, I don’t feel good. I’m dizzy. I think I’m going to throw-up.”

            Miss Kitty came running up the stairs. She inserted one key after another, until finally, the last key on the ring she found in the shed fit the rusty knob, turned the lock, and the door opened with a puff of dust.

            Miles coughed. Miss Kitty, eyes as big as tennis balls, took a tentative step into Harold’s lair.

            Harold’s eyes rolled back and his mouth opened wide. Harold the ghost screamed, he howled, he thrashed on the bed.

            Miss Kitty approached the bed, kneeling by Harold’s skeleton.

            “Oh, Harold,” she said. “I’m so sorry. You poor, poor man.”

            The skeleton, still chained by one wrist to the bed frame, twisted unnaturally, and Harold’s head, stuck between the bed frame and the floor, looked up at Miss Kitty.

            “Lilith,” Harold said. “Is that you? You need to run. You need to hide. Smack Death is on the prowl; he's insane. He thinks you're a witch; that I'm a demon. Run, Lilith. Run.”

            “I’m here,” Miss Kitty said, looking down at Miles. Miles pulled his left ear. It always gave him problems when his emotions simply became too big for him to bare.

            “Oh, Harold,” Miles said. “Your friends are here. Miss Kitty and Miles Packrat, esquire, are here by your side.”