I suppose you’re wondering why I have kept track of all of these stories… these things for all of this time. My understanding would seem to stem from what I did in my life before it ended. I was a writer. Not just a writer. No. I was more than that. I lived in this very place. I held grand galas and such were held for me – in honor of me. I was revered for years and these feelings of admiration that infected me were reflected and expelled in the literature I produced, so I suppose that what I do now is merely some cruel extension of that life. Perhaps by retelling these stories it reminds me of what it was to be who I was. It’s been two hundred and eleven years and I fear that perchance if I stop writing these tales down… if I stop telling what has happened, I just may forget how.

My name was Seth Katz. No one has called me by my nom de plume in over two hundred years. I still cannot comprehend why I did not go on to that more beautiful something or that much darker somewhere for that matter, after all I wasn’t righteous, although I wasn’t a scoundrel either. I still cannot comprehend why I am chained to this domicile, unable to leave its bounds – all I know now are the reminiscing of the living mortals that I have frightened out of my home or have killed in my attempts to do so and until someone new comes to decorate my home as their own, I will share them with you.

For the sole purpose of my right to creative license, I will not start from the beginning, but rather with one of my favorite memories, a precious remembrance following my death.

Christmas Eve, 1952 –

The seasonal incidents always stand out the most, pressed against the forefront of my brain, begging to be released. This one sticks out due to the steadfast Christian beliefs of the Stanbury family. Please do not assume that I have anything against Christianity or any religion for that matter. I practiced Lutheranism in my living days. The Stanbury’s moved in on October ninth and I had refrained from making my presence known until December 24. The family left for mass that evening which gave me sufficient time to prepare. I suppose I should inform you of some of the particular attributes that are unique only to celestial bodies such as myself. For instance: With practice and sincere concentration we can take on any physical form that we have seen, in person, while we were of the living. For example, I saw the Mona Lisa on a summery afternoon in August while vacationing in Paris to finish a series of essays; I even stroked the frame (long before it was uncouth to do so). With this being so, I could, theoretically, present myself as this beautiful image, although I believe doing so would instill little fear to those who set their eyes upon it. As a matter of fact, I assume it would produce quite the opposite reaction. Another such attribute is in reference to the subject of our waste – as wraiths, we do not defecate or urinate; we do collect waste however. It may be easier to think of it along the lines of weight. We collect weight; dust, skin, particles, even UV excess, and at a certain point our weight becomes too much to carry. This conundrum can be learned in the teachings of metaphysics, a complicated explanation that I will circumvent for the sake of time.

As apparitions, we must shed our excess weight roughly every nine days (depending on our activity level). This shedding more or less leaves little trace, unless of course you collect them in cheesecloth as I do. One would be quite surprised how much ectoplasm one can accumulate in three months time… it’s quite a shit load. I suspected the Stanburys to be weak in the stomach and I certainly did not wish to haunt them as intensely as the family before them, which was… well… too much. I had devised my plan and cached a calculated level of fear. The exciting truth about the deeply religious, at least the religious West, is that they believe very severely in the construct of the devil. I wish not to ruin any person’s surprise, but as someone in my particular circumstance, I can say that “the Devil” does not, nor has ever, existed. This does not mean that millions of individuals do not believe this is so and because of this fact; the experience becomes infinitely more pleasurable.

In the Stanbury’s absence, I emptied the contents from my cheesecloth in the front entry way as well as its adjoining room entrances, creating quite a pungent mess. Although the smell does not resemble that of feces (that is if I recall the odor accurately), but believe me, the odor is quite offensive. That reminds me; we retain all of our senses in the life after life, excluding touch, although that does not mean we cannot touch. Where was I?

Ah, yes. I scattered the plasm and then I waited. A distant cousin of mine ran a farm when I was alive; it was quite large and specialized in the procurement of goats. I used this specific physical experience in order to manifest myself as something frightening. The Stanbury’s were to arrive at any moment. In minutes they would walk through the door and enter into a domain of debilitating fear, paralyzing terror. If I possessed the moisture to wet my lips, this is what I would do to pass the time.
I heard the Stanbury’s pull up. As I sat atop my thirty stairs and watched the matriarch enter the threshold, I actually felt anxiety; an emotion I haven’t felt in decades. As the Mister stepped through the doorframe, he was so frightened by my excrement strewn about; he collapsed in horror, as did each other family member as they followed. It was a domino effect of terror. I was never as proud of my work as I had been that evening. For a moment I thought I heard angels — the voices I were certain I would never hear again. I actually thought I would not be necessary to transform into my goat apparition, but as it did not feel as overkill, I transitioned regardless. They were so chilled to their bones that all they could bring themselves to do was force me into the basement with a broom as they made the most ghastly sound, a sound so silly that it could only be in response to their absolute hopelessness. As they “SHOO, SHOO’D” me … ha… I apologize but their frightened squeals make me guffaw until this day. Where was I? Ah, yes, as they forced me down the steps of my bottom lair, I smiled a goat smile, my beard tickling my chest. I had not only won but I had triumphed.

The following day, I floated as a sheet of nothing above the lower floor. I could not have expected such a defensive response. The family had invited strangers into my home in what appeared to be a final act of desperation. One man had cleaning supplies and he mopped and swept up my ecto – ambuscade, easing the families fears with the tales of overt condensation. The father, embarrassed by his lack of bravery in front of his brood, tells the man with the mop that he had slipped on the floor. When I knew he had, of course, lost his footing at the sight of my terrifying subterfuge.
Later, a manish woman arrived – she presented a haircut resembling my Aunt Kurt’s. In her right hand she carried a long rod with a loop in it. I had to follower her around in order to deduce her purpose – you could not imagine my delight when I discovered she was at the home to capture the goat. Not only did my presence as a Billy frighten them to banish my being there but also they had paid a large woman to take me from the house. Needless to say, they never found the goat. The only disconcerting part of this grand show was that as debilitating an effect my act had on these weak wasps, they did not move out. I knew I had conquered their psyches, yet they refused to move from the premises. My only explanation for this was that they were truly mad. So, out of the kindness of my non-beating heart, I allowed them shelter for another forty-five days. I know that even though I overheard the woman telling her elderly mother that husband had to transfer his employment, I knew that my horrific displays of genius (if I may boast) mental tactics had finally settled into their craniums and their fear had truly sent them on their way.

Truly,
Seth