Ghost of the Ashwydds
by Filip Wiltgren
The house was dark, spider webs covering the chandeliers where gaslight used to dance.
"Here," said the no longer quite-so-young girl, "is the hall of the murder."
The audience oohed and aahed and sighed, and when her lover flowed through the wall in his faded finery they screamed and ran, solidifying him with their belief while the girl stretched out her hand to caress what could not be touched.
"And here," said the woman, "is the hall where the murder took place."
Her audience gawked, hoisting their candles high, the fat man with the electric light holding it highest of all. It cast a yellow glow, like rotten sunshine, and when the woman's lover flowed through the wall it competed for attention with his pale radiance.