Her Voice, Her Hands

by Mr. W.

Mostly, he was haunted by his late wife’s voice, especially on nights like tonight; tipsy, wind awhirl over the whistling attic, he retired early.

As he creaked up the stairs, he saw his late wife’s blank eyes in every framed photo. He could almost feel her hand brush his on the stair rail: feathery, absentminded, he climbed.

He could live with this. It was how things were.

He entered his bedroom, turned back the sheets. At long last, he cried out with anger: Not the fucking ectoplasm again.

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