Picture this: you’re innocently attempting to plan a Halloween Party. You’re not sure if you should name it “American Horror Story” or “Oh My Gourd!”. Will you have a theme? Will you prepare a playlist of songs or a playlist of people screaming at unexpected intervals? What will you wear? Will you serve caramel corn? Will you put peeled grapes in a bowl and say that the grapes are eyeballs? Will you put gummy worms on a table draped in a tablecloth dotted with pictures of bats and ghosts? These are very big decisions to make, and there is so much at stake.
But then, things suddenly get worse — you feel a breeze across your sweater’ed skin, like something ghoulish has passed by you, or passed through you. You think you can hear someone reciting Shakespeare through the vent, a knife sharpening through the wall. You think you can hear an erratic young writer chanting softly to herself as she composes terrible literary non-fiction. You think you can feel a spirit in the air. You are not sure if you can continue planning this Halloween party until you know specifically which ghost is haunting you.