Last spring, Marni discovered a hidden panel above the kitchen door while cleaning her house. Decades of paint had sealed it shut but with effort, she pried it open. Inside, she found a parcel with a plain tag which read, ‘Don’t open until I’m dead.’ Marni tore the lid off the box, and soon after, the hauntings began.

It was unnerved her to hear footsteps clomping around the house in the middle of the night. Doors banged shut when there was no wind. In their bed behind a locked door, Marni tightened her grip around her husband’s upper arm and slipped into a fitful sleep.

Early one morning, Marni came downstairs to a pleasant surprise. Last night’s dirty plates were washed, the laundry from the dryer folded, and her shoes piled neatly by the back door. While she sipped her morning tea, Marni talked happily to the air and detailed that day’s to-do list.

Marni was pleased but her husband was not. He had bags under his eyes and bruises on his arm. He was tired of retrieving his work boots from the basement sink and searching for his car key in the bushes.

They fought over ‘Ghostie.’ He wanted an exorcism; she wanted to declutter. Marni scowled. Without Ghostie, she and she alone would be the only one who picking up his dirty work clothes off the bathroom floor and scrubbing his oily handprints off her cream-colored walls.

The following Saturday, her husband invited the priest to tea. Marni was not pleased with the invitation but she couldn’t be rude. She served refreshments and later, the trio watched in silence as a dirty saucer floated from the table to the sink. The priest leapt off his chair, flung holy water on the walls, and shouted sacred words in Latin.

Marni wept bitterly as Ghostie drifted away through a tunnel of white light. Her satisfied husband patted her on the shoulder and said, “Sometimes, my dear, you’ve got to let people go and live their own afterlife.”

Autumn is my favorite season. Best regards, Madeline.