I will admit, these books were actually picked out of my unread stack. We’ve all got that stack, right? Right?

No one plans to die.

Alright, that’s not true – there’s the whole dying with dignity euthanasia thing. But I’m talking about during the normal passing of our lives. Actually, I guess some suicides are planned, right? Fine, euthanasia, suicide… I’m sure there’s something I’ll remember.

Okay, okay, I didn’t plan on dying. And I didn’t plan on dying so goddamn quickly. Life was humming along. My career was progressing, there was a boy I was seeing, I owned my own condo in the Sunset, and I’d even managed to read the top book in the stack of books I kept next to my bed – Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad. Julius (the aforementioned boy) gave it to me, said I had to read it. That’s why it was on the top of the stack. That’s why it got read. I was ready to dazzle him with my insightful take on the way Whitehead melded realism and allegory when I got sick.

Okay, I had trouble breathing. And that turned into a thing. Well, the thing was cancer. And it was so far past the point of just being a thing. Fucking cancer, am I right?

Four weeks.  

Four weeks from that trouble breathing to my deathbed (Julius wasn’t there – I never heard from him after the diagnosis). My sisters were there, though. Bless them. They split duties after I passed – Julie handled, well, me. Cremation, memorial service, ash scattering – all that jazz. Theresa closed out my estate. That sounds so fancy. Really, she had to wade through 34 years of my accumulated shit.

Watching from this side and not being able to help… Well, that’s another story entirely.

One thing I focused on was that stack of unread books next to the bed. I don’t know why I fixated on them… No, I do. They were the embodiment of everything I planned to do but didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t get a chance to. Theresa and Julie looked through all my books, picked out the ones they wanted to keep and then gave the rest to the San Francisco library to do what they wanted with them – stock them, resell, them, thrown them out…

I had a fair amount of books, mind you, but that stack of a dozen books that I was going to get to… It’s funny how recall is in the afterlife. I can see that stack so perfectly clearly, read each and every spine individually…

Julie moved into my condo – good for her! Go Julie! But it wasn’t my space, and I didn’t want to haunt her new abode, so I decided I would find those unread books and read them. Not just the books in general. I set out to find my books – the actual books from that stack next to my bed.

How does one go about finding books lost to the world you might ask? Turns out, if you’re a ghost it’s not that hard. I pictured the book I was looking for – I picked out the one I wanted in that image of the stack in my head and focused on that one particular title, the spine, the way that book must feel in my hand, what it must smell like…

I was in the San Francisco Library – not the main branch. It was the Noe Valley branch on Castro. It was a quiet midday and I found myself in the middle of the stacks. I looked up and the book I had focused on was right there on the shelf. Strange Piece of Paradise by Terri Jentz. I reached for it and was shocked that my hand closed around the spine – interestingly, I passed right through the books next to it, but this book I could touch. I pulled it off the shelf and carried it to one of the comfy chairs that looked out on the street and I sat down to read it.

If anyone else noticed a book come off the shelf by itself and float over to a chair where it was opened and pages were turned, they kept it to themselves. I took my time reading about Jentz as a young woman with her friend on a cross-country bicycle trip camping in eastern Oregon when a man in a truck deliberately ran over their tent and then savagely beat them with an axe. Both women survived and 15 years later Jentz returns and tries to solve the crime.

I think I must have heard an interview with Jentz on NPR years ago – that seems right, right? I don’t remember when I bought the book, but it had been in my stack for a long time. So, I took my time with it – I don’t remember how many days passed. I’d read until I was tired (yes, ghosts get tired! At least this one does), put the book down, rest, and the next day take if back off the shelves (those librarians were fast!) and pick up where I left off. When I finally closed the book I felt rejuvenated and wanted to keep going.

I focused on the next book in the stack, pictured the book in my mind’s eye, felt it’s small stature and the color, and…

I was standing in the most gorgeous room I’d ever imagined. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over a valley with the bay… That was San Francisco in the distance. Oakland Hills. I was in the Oakland Hills. I looked around the room and the walls were dominated by bookshelves filled to overflowing. A small desk sat unobtrusively in the corner – notably not looking out the window for some reason. Looking around I surmised that this person was a rather successful writer – I’d heard of her (no, her books weren’t in my Stack, but I’d heard of her). And on her bookshelf was my copy of B. H. Fairchild’s Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest collection of poetry.

This book was given to me, I remember that. By whom… I don’t remember. I remember reading about B. H. Fairchild, a Midwestern poet. I turned to the titular poem and luxuriated in the words:

In his fifth year the son, deep in the backseat  

of his father’s Ford and the mysterium

of time, holds time in memory with words,

night, this night, on the way to a stalled rig south  

of Kiowa Creek where the plains wind stacks  

the skeletons of weeds on barbed-wire fences  

and rattles the battered DeKalb sign to make  

the child think of time in its passing, of death.

My apologies to the author whose house I was now haunting because, though the book wasn’t long, I read and re-read and read the thing again. I gave each and every poem the time and attention it deserved and I never could in life.

I could tell I was freaking her out a little bit – understandable seeing as every time she came into her writing space she’d find Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest laying on the table and every day she’d reshelve it. But spending that much time in that poetry really loosened my spirit.

When I finished it for the eighth time, I decided it was time to move on. Like all good poetry, I vowed to revisit it, and I explained to the author that I’d be back from time to time to read in her writing space. She didn’t have any clue I was talking to her, of course, but at least I felt better for it.

I focused on the next book and found myself sitting on a curb in suburban Fairfield. It was an older neighborhood – houses of different shapes and landscaping dotted the cul-de-sac. This wasn’t a cookie-cutter community and the various cars and RVs and boats in the driveway told me no HOA was invoked here. I felt better about being in the suburbs. But where was my book? I turned around and found myself face to face with one of those adorable little neighborhood lending libraries. It was painted bright colors – likely by kids who were taking and contributing titles to it.

Looking over the contents, I was heartened to see something for just about every age group from picture books to Infinite Jest because of course fucking Infinite Jest. But there among them was my copy of Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. I bought it second hand when I was in college from a little bookstore downtown. This one I actually did crack the cover before. I just… never got further than a couple chapters in. I don’t know what it was – Pynchon’s prose? The protagonist? I just could not get into it.

Which made it a great book to approach now that I was dead!

This wasn’t the first Pynchon I’d read, but for some reason this one always stymied me. I know it’s supposed to be his master work, but…

Okay, it was good. I mean, of course it was good. But of all the books so far, this felt like doing work. Not necessarily in a bad way, though. I estimated by this point I’d been dead for two years and this was the first time I really pushed myself to do something  I didn’t want to do.

I will say, dear reader, it was not easy. Or fast. But I persevered. When I finished the book I was glad for my accomplishment.

I was also ready for my next book.

I focused on this book and found myself in the desert. Okay, not like in the sand. No, I was in a beautiful cottage. Looking around at the modern architecture and sterile furnishings, I determined it was an Airbnb outside Beatty, Nevada.

Of course I was.

I looked to the carefully curated bookshelves and found my copy of Richard E. Lingenfelter’s Death Valley and the Amargosa: A Land of Illusion artfully positioned on a shelf. On one hand it just seemed so… I don’t know… cliché – a book about Death Valley in an Airbnb outside of – wait for it – Death Valley! On the other hand… it kinda felt like it returned home. I put cynical Lauren to bed and took the book off the shelf and went out onto the patio.

I could tell it was hot – I didn’t know what time of year it was, but it was definitely over a hundred degrees – but it didn’t bother me. I guess that’s another benefit of being a ghost – you don’t sweat? Weird spooky flex, but okay…

I sat on one of the lounge chairs and started to read the book. In many ways this book was as dry as the desert it covered. Bless Mr. Lingenfelter, but he writes some dry history. But it was perfect for me. I read some, then explored the hills and valleys and came back to the Airbnb and read some more. Being able to effortlessly move across the vast desert distances instantly was another nice perk of being dead. The more I read and the more I explored, the more peace I found in the solitude.

I remember visiting the desert with my parents as a child. I felt small and utterly insignificant in the enormous expanse of empty space. Reading Lingenfelter’s book reminded me just how insignificant we all are in this inhospitable landscape.

And that realization was freeing.

I wasn’t finished with the book yet when The Light™ appeared. It was straight out of Central Casting – brighter than the sun, there was even some kind of ethereal angelic choral music bullshit. I guess I was ready to go. I could see my family members that had passed on inside the light. They were smiling and waiting for me.

I took a step closer to the light, cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled over the din of those goddamn angels, “I’m not finished with my book yet!”

They looked confused.

“And there’s still like seven more books after that!”

“Okay, if you could have dinner with anyone who ever lived, who would it be?”

Samantha looked pained as she thought about the question. “That’s such a hard question because… I mean… well…,” she hesitated and then offered, “Top 5?”

Isaac sighed but acquiesced, “Fine – top 5.”

“Okay,” she said, holding up her hand and ticking the names off with each finger. “Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr., Ghandhi, Amelia Earhart, and… ooh, Freddie Mercury!”

“The first four we already sent invitations to – America Earhart was a maybe, the rest were busy. But I like the Freddie Mercury addition!” he started jotting the name down in his notebook.

Samantha buried her head in her hands in frustration. “Ugh, this is worse than when we compiled our guest list for our first marriage! Why do we have to do this again?!”

Isaac took a deep breath and gave her a patient smile. “Because when we got married the first time there was that little clause in there that said ‘Til death do us part’. And, Sam, we’re dead.”

“I know we’re dead, but can’t we just, I don’t know… I guess we can’t live in sin, haunt in sin?”

“Sam, you’re the one who wanted a big wedding…”

“I know, I know…” she said. “Ooh, Aunt Linda – did we invite my Aunt Linda?”

Isaac flipped a page back in the journal. “Aunt Linda, Aunt Linda…,” he traced his finger down the list of names. “Aunt Linda, yes,” he paused and looked up. We already tried to invite her, but she’s still alive.

“She’s still alive? The last time we saw here before the accident she looked like she had one foot in the grave already!”

“I remember!” Isaac said. “Be that as it may, she’s still alive and kicking.”

“She’s half dead but alive, and I’m all dead but more alive than she’s been in, what? Fifty years? Makes me want to haunt her out of spite!”

“Come on, Sam… let’s focus.”

Samantha scowled. “How many ‘yes’s do we have so far?”

“Two… thousand thirty six.”

“Wow,” she said. “Can’t we just elope?”

“Honey, we’re ghosts. Where are we going to elope to?”

“Haunted Mansion? Catacombs of Paris? New Orleans? I don’t know – I think we’d fit in at those places!”

Isaac gave her another practiced patient smile.

“Okay, I give up – I don’t want a big wedding after all. When the guest list could be literally anyone not living… that’s a lot of folks to choose from. Besides, can you imagine an open bar for two thousand people?

“Two thousand thirty six,” Isaac corrected.

“Whatever,” she said. “Let’s just be you and me and the officiant.”

He stepped closer and took Samantha in his arms. “Are you sure? You’re not going to regret not having a big second wedding?”

Samantha wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m sure. I just want to be with you in the afterlife, too. Besides, more time to haunt!”

“I’m so happy to be dead with you, Samantha.”

“And I’m happy to be dead with you, too, Isaac!”

When I was laying out 31 Ghosts: Volume 2 I noticed a lot of these editorials for the last two years focused on how busy I was and “this is going to be short because I have a long day” or “splitting this into a thousand entries because I’m working another gig this weekend.” I’ve deliberately tried not to do that this year. But by not mentioning it, I noticed I’ve not really said anything ahead of some of these stories and that doesn’t feel right either! So, okay, It’s Saturday night and I’m exhausted because I worked a 9-hour gig at a wedding which followed a 14-hour day Friday and Thursday, and Tuesday. Despite that, I’ve been trying hard to put in good, normal-sized stories. Tonight, though, the week is catching up to me. I feel this ghost right now.

Edit: I wrote the above fully expecting this to be a really short entry. It turned out to be more normal-sized than I expected. And now I’m going to sleep.

“Is he there?” the voice came through the radio.

I turned on the camera and focused it on the old wrought iron bed frame. Despite the lack of mattress and the rusty springs, through the lens of the camera a figure clearly lay on its side on the bed. Looking at the figure, though, it became immediately apparent that the figure wasn’t solid – you could see the far side of the bed through its prone body. 

“Yep,” I said assembling the tripod and fixing the camera looking at the figure, “he’s still here.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

The last time I made my way up to this bedroom in the deteriorating house I noticed a wooden chair mostly intact on its side in the corner. I set it upright and sat slowly, testing my weight to make sure the ancient thing wouldn’t shatter. It held and I let out a sigh of relief, “I am. I’ve got a comfortable chair here. I’ll be good.”

“It’s an hour until morning…”

“I’m three Red Bulls in,” I laughed. “I think I’m good.”

“I’ll check in periodically,” the voice came back.

I smiled, “Thanks, Dan.”

When I say this is a “deteriorating” house, I’m being kind. It’s one of a number of places that dot the hills of West Virginia, abandoned and slowly being reclaimed by nature. Dan and I started exploring the Appalachian hills at night looking for ghosts. Despite some seriously spooky discoveries, we never thought we’d come across something like this.

This location was a rare two-story house that once must have had a commanding view of the valley below. But the road up here washed out decades ago – we had to park on one side of the missing road and pack our equipment the remaining couple miles to the place. When we got here, it was further gone than we expected when we spotted it from in the valley – the face of the house with the amazing overlook still looked impressive, but like a sick patient who tries to put his best face on when he goes out in public even though his illness has consumed his body – that’s this place. Half the roof had fallen in, tearing the staircase down with it.

That’s why Dan is on the radio – he’s safely on the first floor. I’m the idiot who clambered up to the second floor on our first visit. But that first visit was also when I carefully made my way into the master bedroom, my foot plunging through the rotting floor once on the way. But there the figure was, laying on its side.

At first, I thought it was the homeowner still inhabiting house and almost ran out, but then I realized that, no, no one had been in this place for a long time – it was a hell of a thing climbing up to the second floor. Who would do that on a regular basis? No, this resident wasn’t living.

After getting over my initial terror, I started getting curious. It helped that the figure just seemed to be… sleeping. I mean, you expect ghosts to terrorize you – and most do! But this one… I mean, it kind of snored a little sometimes.

I tried to wake it up. I know, not the greatest idea – let sleeping ghosts lie, right? But we found a ghost! I guess we wanted it to… I don’t know… perform. I shouted at it to no avail. I even reached out to shake it awake. It’s a ghost, so you can imagine how well that went.

Dan had the idea at first. “Maybe, I don’t know, the ghost wakes up when morning comes?” he said as we ate in the Waffle House in Charles Town as the sun started to rise after the first visit.

“A ghost waking up? Ghosts come out at night, everyone knows that!”

“Do we? I mean, yeah, we always think of ghosts coming out at night, you know – haunting dark corridors and all that shit. But, we’ve both read about encounters that occur in daytime.”

“Right, but just because there are ghosts during daylight, that doesn’t mean ghosts sleep.”

“Why not?” Dan took a long sip of his Diet Coke.

“Why would ghosts sleep? I mean, that’s the whole thing, right? They’re not resting in peace.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”

It was worth trying. We made plans for another visit later in the night so we could stay and see if the ghost woke up.

That’s why sat in the chair watching the translucent figure ostensibly sleeping with an unhealthy amount of energy drink coursing through my body.

It had been getting gradually lighter and the pre-dawn glow illuminated the interior of the house Dan and I had just seen by flashlight to this point. What previously looked creepy now just looked… sad. As the first rays of the morning shone through the broken eastern-facing windows, I stared around at the peeling wallpaper and thought about how people lived here and left for some reason – it’s one thing to ghost hunt in abandoned places, but it’s another to see the tragically sad reality in the literal light of day.

Dan’s voice on the radio pulled me out of my reverie. “Hey, Ali,” the radio crackled to life. “Looks like your ghost is waking up!”

I turned back to the figure and, sure enough, it looked like it was turning over and… stretching? Yawning?

The ghost sat up. I could see now that it was an elderly man, sparse white hair on his head had the look of bedhead. I could make out that he wore a faded and torn blue and white sleep shirt. He looked at me and froze.

Our eyes locked and now I was afraid.

“Why are you in my house?” the ghost demanded, accusingly.

“Umm,” I stammered – what a brave ghost hunter I was! “I, uh, we were exploring abandoned houses and found you sleeping here.”

He scowled and the sight was immediately terrifying… until an enormous yawn interrupted his scowl. Seemingly aware his scare wasn’t so scary after the yawn he said in a more regular voice, “Okay, sure, that makes sense.” Then, more seriously, “But no one likes being watched when they’re sleeping! That’s creepy! And I’m a ghost! Nothing should be creepy to me!”

“So, you know you’re a ghost?” I asked surprised.

“Well, of course I know I’m a ghost – I’m dead, aren’t I? And I’m still here, so…” he gestured to himself, “ghost.”

“Why are you here then?”

He took a deep breath and started, “Sonny, I lived a very successful life.” He looked around the room and scowled, but it looked more sad than scary now. “It doesn’t look like much now, I suppose, but this was a pretty grand place when I was alive.” He smiled at a memory, “June loved this place…”

“Your wife?”

He nodded sadly. “She was, yes.”

“Don’t you want to go to her in… you know…” I gestured wildly, “In the great beyond or whatever? Go into the light?”

“Well, I don’t know she wants to me there. See, I was very successful because I worked all the time. ‘Married to my job,’ she’d say.” He smiled wryly, “She wasn’t wrong. I came home one day and she was gone. Left a note saying she wanted to live and not just wait around for me. She was a wonderful woman – I couldn’t blame her. I told myself I would go find her, but… work.”

“Okay,” I said, “but just because she may not want to see you, isn’t the Other Side like, I don’t know, big? You don’t have to see her right? Why not just go towards the light?”

“You want the truth, sonny?”

“I do!” I said, leaning forward in my chair.

“I’d work late into the night. June would sometimes come downstairs and admonish me to get some sleep. I always said the same thing – ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’” He smiled broadly, “So, here I am!”