Boohemian

Ghosts are all around, watching, mocking the living. Animals and kids see them—why else are they always barking and crying, anyway?—we grow to filter them out.

But not me. I see them. Especially in my Prospect Heights loft where what started with orbs in my breakfast nook and floating ear spools in the hall has just culminated in a fedoraed shadow figure manifesting itself behind me in the mirror as I stepped from the shower.

I ran screaming as a PBR sixer on the counter began to explode, one by one.

Now, I write this wrapped only in a shower curtain, huddled behind my futon. I peek out, but dare not yelp as the hat-man reappears, blacker than the black of the room.

No. Not a fedora. A trilby.

He laughs, dear readers, laughs and points at my exposed genitalia.

Spirts are all around. And they are douchebags.