The end house always has the spookiest ghosts. Dad says they make the smoke out of ice, the jack-o-lanterns are pretend, and the skeletons are just people dressing up. I ask him why they wear bones on the outside of their skins then he complains, “Too much imagination.”
Dad always used to tell me ghosts aren’t real, but he died when the end house burned down while he worked on its lights. I don’t listen now; just go there trick-or-treating on Halloween nights.
“Too much imagination,” Dad says, with his skin squished tight under bones, but he’s still my Dad.