"No, my friend, this keepsake is surely no trinket. It has a subtlety and a secret. Twist these tines widdershins and... wait... what is this...oh god NO-" Through the thick study door I heard the professor's voice rise in sudden shock and panic, as if caught in the denouement of a tale of terror. And in that dread moment I saw pass across the far window the shade of young Alameda Doghead, her empty spectral gaze saying in a language beyond words: Wasn't me, honest.

I keep having dreams like this. A lifetime of reading ghost stories is finally catching up with me.