Chapter 7

He continues his chatter. “My cousin Fredrick Sherlock Moore shot himself in the dining room during a Fourth of July party in 1972. He was only twenty-one. The poor thing was hooked on LSD at the time and overloaded on the drug. Sometimes, you’ll hear Freddy in the middle of the night on the stairs in the castle. He likes to scare a few guests. Other times, I’ll hear the hallways fill with light choking, bleeding to death; Freddy reliving his deathly experience again and again.”

“It sounds maddening, Bar. I can’t imagine living with a ghost, let alone a dozen.”

“You get used to it. Now, tell me more about your life. Start with where you live. I’m sure you have dozens of stories and facts to share with me.”

“I live in a two-bedroom Tudor near Heinz Field on the North Side of Pittsburgh. I’ve owned the place for well over ten years now. No pets. No roommates. Lots of hot coffee in the morning. No boyfriends, lovers, or a husband. It’s just me.”