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When he was home, he wanted to be himself, not a trademark.
In his studio, at the end of the hall, he considered collecting the gun, then didn’t. He didn’t want it on him—not because he was afraid to use it but because he wasn’t afraid enough.
People wondered how something like Columbine could happen. Jude wondered why it didn’t happen more often.
He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places.
Jude could believe in a ghost but not a boogeyman, a pure incarnation of evil.
The e-mail was from craddockm@box.closet.net.
the dead pull the living down
“So she was Florida and I’m Georgia. How many other states has your dick visited?”
“She catch you in bed with the state of Alaska or something?”
That is pretty damned funny!
If hell was anything, it was talk radio—and family.
Don’t give up on yourself. The dead win when you quit singing and let them take you on down the road with them.”
“It’s my thumb,” Marybeth said. “Did you try to trade it to him for his finger?”
Haha!!
There comes a time, the dead have a right to claim their own.”
Four gaunt fingers slipped out from inside the box. Another thump and the lid came free and then began to rise. Craddock pulled himself up from inside the box, as if it were a heart-shaped hole set in the floor.
Fucking creepy!
How did you make a door for the dead? Would it be enough just to draw one?
“The dead claim
their own,
