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When he had, she turned to go into the House on Harrow Hill. Because her attention was elsewhere, she didn't notice her shadow on the walk way. It stretched and moved of its own accord, almost as if it were trying to free itself from her body. When she reached the door, her shadow was back to normal.
     
     

 
    Chapter Six
    Bittersweet Romance
     
     
    Moe heard Poppy. He had been watching from his bedroom window on the third floor. Not that he needed a bedroom, but he liked to pretend to sleep. He knew that dinner was in preparation downstairs, but he wasn't hungry. Ghosts didn't need to eat as often as the living.
    Dusk was coming and it was his favourite time of the day. That time between light and dark, day and night, that held the world in its balance. It was a poetic time to him, a romantic time. He was disappointed that he never really got to experience romance, but that was the way of the world, wasn't it?
    He had been married, for three days, in the spring of 1986. She had been a lovely girl and they had driven to Las Vegas on a whim and had been seduced by the slot machines and the gold and glitz. They had married while drunk on beer and free cocktails. The next morning, they tried to pretend everything was alright, that they had wanted to get married. But it didn't last. They had the marriage annulled three days later. It had been a bittersweet romance. After that, Moe had roamed the world on his own, taking odd jobs where he found them and getting lodging where he could. He was happy living the life of a nomad, a traveler. To make money on the side, he helped people with their gardens.
    His mother, God rest her soul, had always said that he had had a gift with the green thumb. Even as a baby, born in 1969 during the hot summer, Moe had been content to sit in the grass and flowers and not make a sound. "That one will have a gift," his mother often told his father. They had died when he was in his late twenties. They had had him late in life. He missed his parents, missed them more now that he was dead. They had died of natural causes, but that didn't make their deaths any easier to handle. He had no family to speak of and his parents had been all he had in the world. When they died, he only had himself. He didn't mind, really, but felt cheated now that he had died, knowing he would never find the love that everyone was due. He sighed and turned away from the window. He sat down on his bed and flopped onto his back. He was becoming entirely too morose lately. That's what happens when you're dead , he thought. Wasn't he supposed to be morose and depressing? Wasn't that what ghosts did? But he didn't feel like a ghost. Perhaps because Lucia had brought him back to life so soon after he had died, he didn't really get the feel of being dead, hadn't had a chance to get used to the fact that he had died. It was a confusing situation he had been thrown into, all because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He still had nightmares about what Jethro had done to him. His thoughts haunted him in the darkness sometimes. He would live forever now. He had no unfinished business holding him here, so it wasn't like he would be ‘crossing over’ any time soon. He was dead but alive and trapped inside a house that was already haunted. The irony of this wasn't lost on him.
    He heard a sound, then. He sat up, straining to hear it. It came from above him. A low, soft crying that sounded like whimpers. The sound seeped through the floorboards, tinkled softly on his ears. He remembered hearing the crying earlier the other day. Moe got off the bed slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast that the crying would disappear, that it would leave him. He followed the crying to the attic door, two flights up. The attic was in the small, pointed roof that crowned the left side of the house like a tower. The door opened to steps and you went up a curving stair case, winding your way to the top. He had never been in the attic before;