After nearly 100 years of being dead, you start to realize how boring haunting is.

In a twirl of translucent petticoats, I turned to stare at the gleaming cars that pulled out of the driveway.

With an empty manor, and without any particular malice or spite, I had nothing but time to kill.

I stood still and silent in the dark kitchen. I flicked the light switch on, off, and on again. I liked to flick the light switches.

I wandered around every old corridor and room, and I could recall their original forms, before all the light switches.

Everything began to gather dust. Like me, for I was nothing but a ghost.