After the storm and thunder, I woke as in a dream. We had all been sleeping in the living room of the old house, our bags like still worms, cocoons of bright colors. We had stayed the night in a haunted house, and not one of us really saw a thing. We tried to scare ourselves, I think; that was all fun but done. Still, I wasn’t normally an early riser, and there seemed a charm, a magic in that hour. Music was what it was. I heard music somewhere.
So yes, I left my company of brave, double-dog-dared friends, and wandered off toward the sound. I found, at the end, as the music grew the louder, I found my way, it seems, and as I think back on it all, it seems too dreamlike to be real, but I found my way to a garden of sorts, a greenhouse overtaken by weeds. The glass was dirty but still let in the sun.
There sat the boy, upon a bench, strumming his guitar. He is a stranger for a name, but I think I’d call him friend.
“Are you a ghost?” I asked the player as he strummed his chords.
A shrug, he looked my way, a smile on his face.
“What is a ghost? I never know. I may be one, or not. I thought to ask the same of you. Do ghosts fear other ghosts?”
He played a song, a quiet tune, and dreamily I sat. My eyes were heavy, my breathing slowed, and sleep came on me fast. You woke me here on the kitchen floor. That’s all I know to say.
Tale Told 