#1286

“Don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“If there’s someone here, please let us know.”

“Don’t be afraid. We won’t harm you.”

“I’m trying to reach–”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Why are you here?”

“How can we help you?”

“Knock twice if–”

“Is this–”

“Are you–”

“Who–”

Funny, I thought death would be peaceful. Silent. Sort of a nothingness, you know? And it is, in a way; after all, everything’s dull, gray, insubstantial. But it sure as hell isn’t quiet. I may not be able to see them, but I can hear them all – the mediums, psychics, ghost hunters, clairvoyants, even the slumber party pre-teens toying around with their Parker Brother Ouija boards. Every damn thing comes through on the crystal clear reception of the afterlife. It’s like living inside a radio channel that plays nothing but commercials, or a phone line that receives nothing but calls from telemarketers. I swear if I wasn’t a disembodied consciousness, I’d shoot myself all over again.

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