Bernard clicked his television off, got up, and opened the closet. He looked into his own eyes. He felt his own sadness. For the first time in all his life, Bernard was looking at himself.

And he screamed.

He ran out of his house, he ran with the feverish intensity of a heart newfound of a love so sweet. He ran across town. He ran past David’s Doughnuts, he ran past the police station, he ran past Mr. McGavin’s house, McGavin still on the front porch.

He dropped his coffee. The sky was opening up behind Bernard B. Belling. The dark shade of brown was being torn apart by a fresh blue.

Bernard ran to Ghost Hill. He ran to the tombstone of Martha Meloy. Bernard found on the ground a bouquet of flowers. They were dried and shriveled from a lack of any water. The raindrops glistened off the dead pedals.

“You’ve arrived,” said a voice behind him.

“What? Who’s there?!”

It was an old man, with a fedora and a cane. A black mustache dashed across his face.

“I… am the Ghost of Ghost Hill.”