One Christmas when I was a little girl, I asked my Grandfather why we always told Ghost stories after Christmas dinner. I asked whose idea it was to light the fire, turn down the lights and talk about cemeteries and bodies buried in basements and bones in hatboxes on dusty shelves in attics.
I said it was weird how we told those stories every year at Christmas.
We were sitting in the living room, the fire was roaring, the treats were placed on tables around the dark living room and the tree lights weren’t on yet.
The rest of the family were in the dining room finishing desert.
We took our seats under a painting of my Great-Great Grandmother.
He looked at me. ” I see your point. “
I wasn’t sure what my point was at that moment but before I could consider it…
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