October 3, 2024.

I have stopped leaving out ghost pellets, and the ghost has gotten quite angry with me. “I cannot afford ghost pellets any more,” I tell it, or I try to, speaking out loud in the empty foyer, hoping the ghost is around to hear. “I am on a fixed income, I am old and cannot work any more. I can barely afford food for myself.”

The ghost howls and breaks some of my things. “Oh nooo,” I say, and “Dammit you,” but I know this is improper ghost etiquette, as ghosts do not respond well to negative reinforcement.

“That’s okay,” I say, picking up the pieces of the plates George and I bought on our honeymoon, and I am crying quite a lot. “You’re okay. I understand you are just upset about the ghost pellets. I will give you some now and again but it can’t be an everyday thing, okay?”

The ghost says “hooooo,” and a door slams several times somewhere upstairs.

“You will be okay,” I tell the ghost, although I do not think things will be okay. “You will be okay.”