The Night Before. The Morning After.

Originally uploaded by: .bek

You stepped quickly into my apartment but stood there in the kitchen refusing to move into the room. You looked down at the floor. Your whole body was trembling. I thought you were on the verge of tears. You would not let me hold you or led you in. We stood there facing each other and I was at a loss on what to do.


Gently, I asked “do you want to go home?”


You did not answer but the question seemed to force you to a decision. Even with your head bowed, I could see you struggling with your thoughts and emotions. Then silently, you walked into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.


I sat besides you making sure that our shoulders did not touch. Looking back, it was kind of amusing, wasn’t it? Just minutes ago, we were in deep embraces but now we just sat there apart, afraid to touch. Hesitant conversations gradually stole its way in. Inconsequential and meaningless conversations to fill the void and erased the edges. As we feel more comfortable, I put my hand over and enveloped your shoulder.


You stiffened, and then relaxed. You leaned over and rested your head on my body. I softly brushed it with my hand and ran my fingers through your hair. I held your head to my chest to hear the thumping of my heart that must have sounded like an echoing boom from an endless cave. There was a spreading wetness on my chest. You were crying again. But your hand tightened round my back as if afraid I will draw away. The other hand reached out for one of mine and clasped it. We held each other like this for a long while, sometimes giving each other a little squeeze to show our affection. That was how I will always want to remember us.


It was a serene and comfortable but temporal state. It could not last. For passion does not flow like languid water. It crackles, erupts and burns, fiercely.


We reached out for each other. Our tentative kisses became more intense, more urgent. The dam had been breached. There were no further restraints. The emotions we had kept in check burst forth. Nothing matters any more except giving all and possessing all in return. Your strength was surprising. Your hunger was amazing. I found your desire for me so beautiful. And that fierce tenderness I felt, how can that not be love? It was too beautiful to be called lust.


I looked up at Beth and saw tears in her eyes. In a trembling voice, she said “I was so ashamed of the intensity of my emotions, so ashamed I never knew what my heart is capable of holding. And how little control I had over it. All that my heart can feel, I felt it all at once. Fearful and joyous, troubled and euphoric, hopeful and sad. Yes, sad because I knew I was lost. Overcame by a desire I had no control of nor did I even want to try.”


“I was brought up a proper Catholic,” she continued. “What we did I knew was wrong. What we did was sinful. And I was so afraid. If what I felt was not love, then it must be lust. But I was beyond the point of caring. Tomorrow I will confess and leave you, but tonight…”


“And then when I was ready to give you all, you asked the most stupid and hurtful question. I had also not heard a more beautiful or noble question since. “Are you a virgin?” I froze. You did not wait for me to continue for it was not a question to you but a stating of fact. “You must save it for the one you will marry.” With those words, you destroyed me that night. As your words sliced my heart, it also severe any doubts and hope I may have. You were such a beautiful person. I loved you.”


I reach out to hold Beth but only touch air. Tears roll down her cheek and drip onto the floor collecting in a small puddle. I do not understand the reality of the ghost world or how it relates to ours.


“I am not a weak person. I do not cry easy” Beth said. “But you make me vulnerable. I hate it and I don’t. I was a happy person, you changed that. It took me a long time to be happy again.”


“I’m sorry” I said.


Yes, I remembered your easy laughter. In a crowded bus ride to Pasay, I was amazed how easily you made friends with strangers and talked to them like old friends. When I asked you what were spoken, you always reply “oh, nothing.” But then, you will volunteer interesting details about this person and that. I could never be like that and admired you for it. I am sorry I hurt you. But it was you who left me the next morning.

To be continued…

Manila Bay Sunset.

Originally uploaded by Darkia.

I remembered that evening when we walked along Manila Bay just before sunset. It was your favorite time of the day when everything was coated rust brown like that of a sepia photograph. Made it kind of magical, timeless you said. But you knew it was an illusion for the moments are fleeting. That is why you treasured it so much. You allowed me to hold your hand but when I slipped my arm round your waist, you slipped away laughing. Then you came back and held my hand again.

We had dinner in a restaurant where the staffs were deaf-mute and we made our order with sign languages. You laughed at my attempts to make myself understood. You found reasons to laugh at almost anything. Sometimes, when I thought you were laughing at me, you will grab my arm to dissipate any hurt feelings I may have.

At the bench in the park behind the bush under the swaying coconut tress, you let me kissed you. As your lips melted in mine, a sigh that sounded like a great release escaped you. A warmth spread all over me and I was assailed with a great tenderness to protect and possess you at the same time. I squeezed your body close to mine. Was this lightness of being, this euphoria, this racing of the heart, this tenderness, was this love? I remembered asking. They said you will know when you fell in love. They said a lot of things. They said you will always remember your first kiss. I forgot mine for twenty years. I was drowning in passion yet I found myself asking, “Is this love?” You were right. I think too much.

But you blew these thoughts from my mind when you kissed me again with greater passion. You seemed to have lost your inhibition consumed by a hunger as great as mine. Our lips, our tongues swam like big fishes thrashing in a shallow pond. We were losing control when you suddenly pulled back and pushed me away. We were both panting. You would not meet my eyes. You buried you head on my chest, clenched fists beating my back. When you raised it again, my questioning look was returned with an enigmatic smile. Why did I feel it looked a little sad?

In the long taxi ride back to the apartment, we punctuated our conversation with kisses. Out of the blue, you wanted to hear me sing. You always laugh at my singing but I was never offended. You promised not to this time but I knew you lied. I sang for you Cliff Richard’s “Bachelor Boy”.

When I was young my father said
'Son I have something to say'
And what he told me I'll never forget
Until my dying days

He said son you are a bachelor boy
And that's the way to stay
Son you'll be a bachelor boy
Until your dying days

You said my singing was terrible but you love it. I believe you.

When the taxi reached my building, you hesitated and then you shyly followed me into my apartment.

To be continued...

The Girl Who Sang To Heaven

Wind originally uploaded by Walking Turtle.

When I looked up again, the old ghost was gone. In his place sat a female ghost wearing a delicate white dress with little pink flowers that stirs and floats. At first, I thought it was the moonlight ghost coming to blame me again for what might have been. But then I noticed the short hair. A vaguely familiar figure like someone I knew from a long time ago but had long since forgotten. A rather cheerful voice asked, “You said she was your first love, what about me then?”

That shocked me. The melodious voice that floated across like riding on a breeze, I had heard it before. Though, the question is accusatory, I detected no resentment, regret or malice in the tone. In fact, it sounded playful as if she was deliberately pulling my legs and taking pleasure in my discomfort.

I racked my brain but I could not recall anyone I was intimate with before Kansas. No, I first tasted the bitter wine of loneliness in the wind-swept plain beneath the cloudless sky. In long walk in empty fields where not even an animal stirred, the winds sang me their woeful tunes. They mocked me that man cannot survive alone and only the wind can roam unfettered. I believed them. I learned man needs love only after having drank the dew of solitude. So there cannot be anyone before Kansas.

“Oh, how completely you’ve forgotten. You forgot the laughter but you could not forget the tears. I should cut and make you bleed, then your tears will nourish my memory. I think I would rather be hated than forgotten.”

Again, there was laughter in her voice. If I meant something to her, why is she so cheerful? But I am now quite sure I knew her though there is just no recollection except for the voice I had heard before. My mind went over all the girls I knew but I could not place her. I could not fit a memory to the voice that sings.

“You said I sang to Heaven.”

I felt blood rushing to my face. Oh, my god! How could I forget her? She observed me with great interest seeking to peer into my feelings beyond the embarrassment. I could not meet her eyes and hang down my head to avoid her steady gaze. She said nothing but continued looking intensely, a smile appearing at the corner of her sensual lips. She is quite ordinary looking but there are moments when an inner brilliance shines through and you will think her terribly attractive. Like now.

Finally, I found the words “I’m sorry, Beth. I have not forgotten about you but I do not know why I have not even recalled you once this last twenty years. Please forgive me.” I said honestly.

“And do you really remember me now?”

I first met you in the apartment above mine where I stayed as a student next to a Coca-Cola bottling plant in Manila. In the apartment of a good-natured American soldier who looked a lot like “meathead” (the son-in-law of Archie Bunker in “All in The Family”). He has the same moustache and a loose relaxed manner that made his six foot frame cuddly. His wife is a slim shiny brown skin Filipina and they have two young children, a bouncy baby boy and a beautiful girl with naturally curvy hair that is neither dark brown nor gold. Both were fair and looked more like the father. I never see him with a shirt on in his room but always with a chequered sarong round his waist. They were a happy family and friendly to strangers. So I used to drop in, the only warm place in this drab concrete building where the corridor was the only common thing shared by its inhabitants.

I did not know what you were doing there nor how you knew that family and I never asked. I only remember hearing you sang that day I was there. A voice in need of no music. When you sing, people stops to listen. It is not like a storm that seized attention by its volume and power. No, it is like a running drizzle moved by shifting winds. You strained to hear the softest note. It is like the light quivering of the bamboo leaves on a still summer day. Like the dripping drops rolling off roofs surrendering to the puddle below. Like the splintering waves expiring with sighs on unyielding rocks. I stood there afraid to breathe, worried the coarseness of my breath will mar the perfection of your song. I fell in love with your singing before I fell in love with you. Or is it I fell in love with you because of your singing? Or is it I think I fell in love with you because when you sing, you were the most attractive woman in the world to me?

“Ha ha, you remember. And after all these years, you still do not know if you love me.”

“But you’re right. Whether I truly love you or not, you’re my first love.”

“Contradiction. You are always the confused one and good in confusing others. Do you know that is because you think too much? You feel too much too. Then you need to ask – what is this I’m feeling? Then you go on, like a dog chasing its tail. Whether you love me is not as important as whether you remembered me.”

Yes, I remember now. But I do not know why I forgot everything about her for so long. When the memory now is as clear as the tinkle of the metal spoon against the crystal glass. I felt I have wronged her.

“It is okay.” There is gentleness in her voice. “You did not forget but you bury me. Why, I don’t think even you know.”

Her seriousness suddenly evaporates like the mist under the rising sun. She laughed, “We can explore that together later. But now, tell me more. What else do you remember? I want to know.” Her whole body was shaken by her merry laugh. And tonight, I am glad I have company.

To be continued...

Left Behind.

Kuala Lumpur Railway Station: Originally uploaded by: Magnus Caleb

“I know about being left behind” I said in the quiet of my room, the curtain drawn.


In the platform of a partially crowded railway station in Kuala Lumpur under the Moorish arch, we rushed to say what we could not finish the last couple of days in breathless whisper. Our eyes kept darting back to the train waiting on the track. We both knew when she climbed in, we can never return to the type of relationship we had. And when we meet again as we surely will, there will be an unbridgeable gap between us.


She reached out to hold my hand. She was always the strong one. I was concerned. What if someone recognized us? As she applied a gentle squeeze, I admired her strength. She was always truer to her feelings and I was a little ashamed. I had a rush of feeling. I wanted to hug and pressed her against my breast but I did nothing. Her eyes watered. She released one hand to rub them and then assured me that she was alright. I did not know what to say or do. I was an idiot.


If I wanted to do anything drastic, that was the time. Was she waiting for me to ask her to stay? And if I did, what would she say? Maybe, I should ask anyway. At least, it will make her happy that I asked. But what if she says yes? That thought frightened me for suddenly all the problems associated with that decision rained down on me. My shoulders felt the weight and they sagged.


I was saved by the whistle. “Love is not everything” I told myself. Passengers were scrambling on board. She was squeezing my hands so hard they hurt. Soon, we were the only ones left standing. There were curious looks from those on the benches waiting for the next train and passengers who had already found their seats. “She had no future with me”. The conductor moved along the train and blew his whistle again impatiently. She bent over and kissed me on the cheek. I had not expected that. She was crying again.


She climbed hurriedly on board the last segment. One hand holding the railing, the other waving as the train slowly moved away. I waved back and kept waving till it disappeared. Then I was left with my guilt, unable to move away from the spot, eyes fixed on an empty track.


I grew silent as I relived the past. I would have prefer to indulge in it a bit more but the old ghost intruded with a disturbing question – “She left you that day. But did she leave you or did you leave her?”


I became angry. That was an unfair. I suffered too. It was for her good. We would not be able to make it work. I was going to go on with a thousand reasons but I suddenly became tired. Over the years, I have tried convincing myself hundreds of time that we, I made the right decision. If I cannot convince myself, how can I convince a ghost?


I fell into silence again. And the ghost and I nursed our private thoughts in the silent, empty room as the night closes in.

To be continued...

Once There Was A Hill.

Staring at the sea... Originally uploaded by me jules

There was once opposite his village a spit of land that curved out to sea in an arch which ended with a solitary hill. When the sun sets, the fisherman liked to walk along the beach till the sun is framed against the hill at that exact position he would like it to be that day. That would be the spot he would choose to sit and idly gazed as the ball of fire doused its flame beneath the waves. Sometimes, he would climb the hill behind his village just as the sun was sinking mumbling Wang Zhi Huan’s poem “If one desire to see further, one has to scale higher.” He amused himself by timing his ascent to reach the peak the moment sun disappeared. He often examined his feelings when he was early, late or precise and found them inconsistent and sometime contradictory to what he expected to feel.

The hill is now gone. There is no angle out there now in the sea for the sun to be coy. They tore it down for the earth and rock to build jetties and wharfs. The padi fields and duck farms from Shekou to Shenzen are also gone along with any hills along that stretch. Huge mechanical monsters gobbled up the proud hills and spat them out to fill fields till all that is left is just an ugly flat land. Buildings sprang up all over the places and outsiders with no attachments for the land descended upon it like invaders from the North overwhelming the residents. The villagers lost their voices for they had become the new minority clinging to a way of life these newcomers have fled from.

He missed that hill. He loves it more now that it is gone. The absent hill reminded him constantly of his loss. He never once told the hill how much he loved it. There was never any need. Now he wished he had.

He had no love for these newcomers. Wherever they were from, they assumed an air of superiority and boasted about the places they left behind. Their focus was only on how to make money as fast as possible. They were rude, impatient and look down upon the local’s way of life as backward while they cramped themselves in unsanitary quarters no better than the farmer’s pig sty and went to work in sweat shops just as bad. They wanted to imitate the ‘modern way’ having no real idea what that is except making lots of money. So they aped the Honkies they saw in TV and put on an air to differentiate themselves from ‘ordinary’ Chinese. The villagers stayed away from the newcomers whom they viewed with equal disdain.

One day returning from his evening walk at the edge of his village, a figure rushed towards him, stumbled and fell. Instinctively, he bended down and pulled her up to stare into a pair of frightened yet defiant eyes. There were rushing feet and shouts as several men ran towards them. The girl pulled away but some reason he held on to one of her arm preventing her escape.

“Thank you brother” one of the men breathlessly said. They were newcomers.

“Why are you chasing her?” he asked.

“Oh, she owed us money. Tried to run away without paying.”

He looked at her for confirmation. “They promised me a good job in the city but now they wanted me to be a bargirl.”

He released his hold on the girl. Turned to face the men and told them bluntly “you cannot take her away” hoping that his voice was not shaken by the pounding of his heart.

“Friend, don’t give us trouble” he threatened. The five men spread out to cut off their escape.

Suddenly, there was a shout. “Hoi! What is the problem?” A group of villagers came upon them and now it were the newcomers who were outnumbered. The villagers were armed with sticks and poles of their trades.

The leader of the pack spoke conciliatory “Ah, it is only a small misunderstanding, a small misunderstanding” but from the look of it they are not willing to give up so easily. Some of them dug their right hands into their pocket reaching for something.

“Let me through, let me through.” A shriveled old man with a bad leg hobbled into the circle. He was the village headman. He ignored everyone and limped to the leader and they talked in low voices. An intense negotiation seemed to be going on punctuated by fierce looks and threatening gestures. Then the rough thug with the unbuttoned shirt and tattooed arm and the frail old man just stood there staring at each other.

The thug then gave a nod, turned and walked away, hastily followed by the rest of his gang. The fisherman walked over to the headman but he shut him up with “don’t say anything. I’ve been waiting a long time to repay you for saving Xiao Lo’s life”. He wanted to protest but the disapproving look from the headman told him not to. So instead, he just gracefully said “Xie xie” bowing his head which brought a wide smile to the old man. “Very good, very good” the old man sounded very pleased.

Everyone then left leaving him alone with the girl. As he stood there watching them go, he recalled how he saved the old man’s grandson when a huge wave washed the inexperienced youngster into rough sea. It was nothing. It was a natural thing to do. And he was embarrassed to be repaid for it.

He suddenly realized the presence of the girl, turned and said to her “you’re free now.” With that, he rushed to catch up with the departing villagers.

To be continued...

The Old Fisherman of Snake’s Mouth*.

Fishing wharf at sunset, originally uploaded by James Yin

He had seen it all. When Shekou* was just a sleepy fishing village seemingly untouched by time at the southern tip of the land mass called China. What happened in the rest of China did not matter much here except as news during breaks dictated by the weather and tides. The sea matters more than China. The sea matters more than anything. It is their life. That is all a fisherman needs to know. And the sea is good to the fisherman who understands.

The old man thinks he understands the sea. For seventy odd years, he could not leave its sight for more than a day without feeling a tremendous loss. He is too old to go out to sea now but he still needs to hear its endless whispers and to feel its salty embrace. He could not sleep otherwise.

Especially after that day when he returned to find a silence so deep it drowned out even the mourning of the sea. He knew even before he stepped through the door. Tears welled up in this eyes and his heart sank like an anchor into the deep. He stopped in the middle of the hall. Something made him wanting to turn and dived into the sea from the balcony of his stilted hut to seek its solace. Instead he covered his face with his calloused hands and openly wept. Before long, he was bawling like a kid expelling his grief. Sank to his knees and cried loudly. Not even in his mother’s funeral had he cried like that.

“You’re all I had now” he said to the sea. “And it is not enough. I missed her too much.”

But he continued living with the sea. And it sang to him. Every night before he went to bed, he listened to the familiar song of their courtship to her death. Sometimes it is as sweet as the honey lemon that ripened under the mid-day sun. Other times more bitter than the gourd from farmer Lee who is said to water them with his tears. He swallowed them all. Then he went to sleep on his side of the bed. Titled his head to whisper a gentle goodnight. Stretched his hand out under the blanket to hold a phantom hand.

In the morning everyone treated him as that cheerful old man with plenty of advices and wisecracks that he freely dispensed. Younger fishermen came to him for advices on the sea. Older friends came to share his cup of tea. Young men asked him how to approach young girls. Young girls asked him how to attract young men. Children came to hear his tales. No one talked about his loss. No one offer consoling words. That is the way of the village. That is their ways to help him heal. And that is how he became “a most respected elder” in his village.

I never met him in person. Though I had walked along the beach made entirely from the discard of oysters and cockle shells. I loved the crunching and crackling sounds made when I stepped on them. How many generations did it take to produce this quantity? To fill this beach, I wondered. I imagined this must be the same pleasure people in the North got from threading on dried autumn leaves. Further ahead, I saw several shirtless young boys running on the cockle beach. The youngest was completely naked and chasing the others. I felt some concern. Wouldn’t the shells cut their feet?

Years later, on a quiet night when I recalled that evening by the beach, I got my answer without asking for it. “No. Their feet have eyes and your leather is not tougher than their soles”.

He never told me about his life. I just knew. I do not know how I knew. I just did. And as he paid me more visits I knew more about him. Maybe I am absorbing his memory as he recalled them. Maybe he is doing the same to me. Maybe that is why he can provide answers when I am not asking for it.

To be continued...

Conversation with Ghosts.

gates1, originally uploaded by Nachosan

The Gate of Hell will be flung open this month and all manner of ghosts will descend to Earth. No weddings would be held in the Ghost Month and the Chinese will refrain from going out at night. Yet they will turn out in force to shows held by temples to appease the spirits. To gawk at sexy young girls in scrimpy dresses gyrating on purpose built wooden stage.

There used to be an air of respectability for such shows when opera singers trained by their ancestors from one generation to the next performed solemn acts of despairs. The painted faces and long sleeves in high pitched unintelligible renditions were no match for the advent of the broken voice exposed body parts. The spirits must be pleased for they did not object.

If I will to tell I can talk to ghosts, they would ask in all seriousness what they looked like. For in my culture, you are not mad if you can see ghosts. You are just “gifted”. And will be consulted. By learning or faking some rituals, you will be in demand, respected and can earn a decent living acting as a medium between man and ghosts.

But if I will to tell that my ghosts do not conform to the generally accepted notions of what ghosts look and behave like. If I will to say I don’t see hungry ghosts, vengeful ghosts out to right a wrong, vicious ghosts whose sole purpose is to harm the living, female ghosts that floats with long hair in long white gown or cheongsam red out for revenge, ghouls in the employ of those practicing the black arts and demons of all descriptions, always horrid and blurry. If I don’t see their dead relatives. If I will to say my ghosts just appear to have a quiet conversation without speaking, then they will know I am mad.

So I tell no one.

If I am mad, I rather keep it to myself. If I do not behave according to their generally accepted notions of how a madman behave, then to them I am not one. So I tell no one about my conversations with ghosts.

To be continued...

Blame It On The Moon.

Moon1, originally uploaded by mellow-d)

A very long time ago. In a small town called “little apple” for it was also named Manhattan. They took me to a small mound of a hill and proudly told me “on a clear day, you can see all the way to Wichita”. All I saw was a flat land golden with ripening wheat that stretched for ever until the gold met the blue. It was breathtaking and when the wind blew, it was as if the land moved. Maybe my eyesight was bad, I could not pick out Wichita.

But my eyes picked her up immediately that night they took me to the best chicken restaurant within driving distance from the university. Even before we were seated.

There was a noisy commotion as we joined tables to form one long enough to accommodate all of us. I was the only Asian among the cowboys. My heart was not into the conversation. I was not hearing what were said. It was pounding madly as I made up my mind to approach her.

Her face was shielded by her long hair as she bent over the piano but I knew she is beautiful. Her hands were raised and she plunged them down with dramatic yet graceful flourishes. Fingers flew over the keyboards and melody filled the room. I wished my new-found friends would just shut up and listened. The beers came and cheers were raised. It never tasted so bitter. I was in love.

I stood up and walked over. Prompting loud cheering, hooting and piercing whistles. I ignored them all. I was amazed that in my first trip to a foreign land, my behavior was so uncharacteristically me. I would never dare if this was back in my own country. If I stopped walking, I knew my legs would fail me.

I stopped by the piano as she finished her song. She looked up.

And smiled.

My heart stopped beating. Time froze. The world around us stopped happening. I did not remember whether I ate any chicken that night. If I did, I could not remember its taste. I could not remember how I got home. I only remembered smiling on the bed, unable to sleep. My heart swirling, swept by caressing waves of raw emotions.

Then.

She was a Vietnamese. She was married. My world crashed.

I received a phone call. She wanted to meet. I callously asked why. As if, she had done me wrong. She said she wanted to invite me out to look at the moon. There was a long pause. I wanted to go. I wanted to find out whether there can be anything between us. I fervently hoped.

But I was an honorable young man back then. My first love. My first heartbreak. I gave some silly excuse. She never phone again. And from that night, the moon never looks the same. I know it accused me of betrayal and cursed me with endless heartbreak. And the one songwriter whom I have always wanted to meet is the one who wrote “Blame it on the moon”.

I suspect she is one of those who come to visit.

To be continued...

Their Sound of Silence

They talk to me.

But I never hear them speak. I hear clearly what they say in the silence. I don’t know how. But I know it is not telepathy. Most of the time, it is like the whispers of soft wind moving through silk curtain. Or I imagined it as such. Sometime, like the low growl of an animal.

Most of the time, it is like the conspiring conversations of trusted friends. Though I hesitate to call them that. For they are ghosts. And I don’t know if they are friends.

Sometimes they tell me stories. I listen. If I ask a question, they may or may not answer. It can be frustrating at times especially when I don’t understand what it is, they are saying. I hate the silence when there are still things left unsaid. But they won’t humor me. I can’t demand answers. I have to accept with not knowing. And that is difficult. Answers, answers! Why can’t they just reply something, even a lie? How I hate silence!

Sometimes they prompt me to talk. Not to say I need a lot of prompting. Their mere presence on a day when I’m under the weather is enough to make me reflect, to reminisce, to pour out my heart like red wine on a white table cloth. I’m suspicious, of course. But after the first few times, I threw cautions to the wind for who are they to repeat my miseries. To other ghosts? I laughed and drew comfort from my recklessness. I laughed again when I realized that I would not trust my secrets to any human being but I will trust them to ghosts.

To be continued...

My Ghosts & I

I don’t know how many of them there are.


I do know there must be at least 3 – male, female it.


But there could be many males, many females and many its. Often I can’t tell them apart. Especially when most of the time, they don’t take on distinct forms. And sometimes, I’m quite sure a single entity takes on different forms and different voices.


Maybe I’m mad.


Maybe I can talk to ghosts.

To be continued...