Ghost in the Shed

There is a ghost in the shed.  

I think. I hesitate in the cold and dark outside. The door is open. I hear shuffling, breathing inside. Sure, it could be raccoons, hobos, or junkies. There isn’t anything worth stealing and yet someone or something is hidden inside. 

Barefoot Bill spent a lot of time in this cluttered old shack. But he’s dead now, and he’d want me to clean it. I approach. Should I be stealthy or make noise? I fling the door open finding nothing. Nothing alive, anyway.

I’m soon tossing out junk. In the vise, there’s a wrench Bill used to bash engines together. It goes into the pile with some souvenir canoe paddles from some long-ago summer camp and several whiskey glasses; they’re mine or my sister’s but I’ll blame my aunt. 

I ignore the stash of porno in the rafters. 

There are ghosts in this shed.