I don’t enter the green and white Victorian until the bright yellow of the Ghost B Gone van has disappeared down the road. Once inside, I’m drawn to the living area. Does it matter where I do this? Possibly. Possibly not. In any case, my feet lead me to where I last encountered the entity.
Enough coffee remains in the thermos for two final servings. No Styrofoam for this. I pull out two blood red Japanese cups. I think they’re meant for tea, but I’m after elegance, not accuracy.
I fill each cup to the rim and set both on the mantelpiece. When I step back, my heel grinds a shard of glass into the wood floor. Then I stand in the empty space, paralyzed not so much by indecision—I’ve made up my mind—but by whether I’m being a coward in not saying goodbye to everyone. I’m not sure what will h
