The Rustling of Dead Things

 

This isn't really a ghost story because it's something my father told me. And my father never told me stories...
            I was helping Dad rake leaves on a sunny October afternoon. It had been windy the night before and the maples trees had shivered and howled all night long. Now they stood bare and sober, like big drunks the morning after, with all their gaudy rags left on the ground for somebody else to clean up. It wasn’t hard work, the leaves were dry and big swathes of them rushed...