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April 11, 2007


Tell us a ghost story from the ghost's point of view.

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Jim: Between The Cosby Kids And Johnny Quest

I no longer cared about the gold and jewels I hid in that secret spot. A little thing like death changes your priorities.

No, the things I protected are far dearer; a lock of her silken hair, a bracelet, and the journal she kept of our love.

But time took away my ability to frighten trespassers.

Then the man came. I watched in impotent rage as he set up elaborate traps to scare people away while he scoured the house for my treasure.

And he would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for those wonderful kids.

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Dave: Haunted

"What you want to do tonight?"

"I dunno.  What you want to do?"

"I dunno.  Hang out at the cemetery?"

"Dude, we've been doing that every night the last thirty years.  Getting old."

"What, you're blaming me?"

"Dude, it's not my fault someone lost the frickin' ferry tickets."

"That was so not my fault.  I think it was that guy ahead of us in line stole them."

 "Why would he do that?"

"He had a mean look."

"Dude had an axe in his head.  That's gonna make anyone look mean."

"It was him."


Pause.  "So ... cemetery?

A chill sigh, just like every night. "Sure."

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David: All Ghosts Are Mostly Tragedies

“It’s so cold,” she thought, walking from the hotel, toward the sea. “Dennis! How could you leave?” she moaned. She was vaguely aware that the boardwalk was no longer underfoot, having been destroyed forty years earlier, but it didn’t matter.

She stopped at the seawall, glaring down at the surf. A tear rolled down her cheek and faded away in midair. “Damned ocean!” she cried. “You took my Dennis! I’ll not rest until you return him to me!”

She remembered turning when a voice called to her, so she turned, slipped, fell off the wall, and vanished amid the breakers.

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Ted: Desperation at the Desperado Mine

Minding my own goddamned business, not bothering anyone, and these assholes just come barging in like they own the place.

Fuck that.

And fuck them too.

This is my place. I dug this fucking hole out of the side of this shitpot mountain, poured my tears and blood and heart into it. And damn if I didn't find what I was looking for. A solid vein, nine and a half feet thick, assayed out with my own kit to be almost pure. And now these cock-bite ass-fuckers are here to steal it.

I wish I could at least throw something!

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Jeff R.: Within the Walls

The odd thing is, I don't remember actually dying. I remember that final confrontation with Eliza, gold-digging tramp she turned out to be. And of course I remember waking up, sealed in the cell between the walls. And then, just year after year of restless waiting. Surely I died early on, of starvation or thirst. But it wasn't until yesterday I noticed my bones, learned that the walls could no longer hold me.

I suppose my Eliza has been dead almost as long, by now. But this shameless woman who now lives in my house so reminds me of her...

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