“Did you hear the ghosts again last night?” I ask when another topic fizzles out. “Meh,” he harrumphs, waving a hand. “I’ve grown used to the noises by now. I sleep like a baby.” “It sounded like something was scratching at the floor above us,” I go on. “Like they were trying to claw their way out or something.” His gaze darkens for a moment. Despite how tolerant Sylvester is of the ghosts, he doesn’t like speaking of them. Maybe because the spirits
Bye yk what he probably has his family kidnapped it the attic thingy or those prisoners from earlier
