Apology for a Ghost

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TAdam Tavel S 111111111111 She only haunts the second floor in fall when business slows, when August tourists wilt and shuffle home. The cape seems wider then, retirees and widowers, the sort of folks who wake at dawn and keep our den pristine. They watch their salt, get no calls, and crossword through the week. The best ones sport their L. L. Bean. We think her husband killed her in the tub. Pills first then blub. That’s just what the former owner said, of course. It’s tough to trust a thing revealed at settlement. We chose new paint to match her gown. The rust from sea-spray scrubbed away. There’s nothing rough except her moan. Your key has been unbent. Apology for a Ghost 111111111111111111111