I had already expected death to be peaceful, so I was prepared for the day in and day out. It was nice in a way. My sweet Earl was eccentric as ever, and though our conversations were one sided, I adored them. A lifetime of collections, and he'd still chatter for hours over each newly acquired bauble.

We used to call it hocus-pocus junk. The Fiji mermaids- the fake talismans. I didn't like to see him waste his money, but the sentiment behind them was sweet, and I was happy he had something to fill his time.

Last week he brought home a statue- another grotesquely cute tchotchke with "Made in China" likely stamped on the bottom. Hand written instructions. A drop of wine on its tiny wooden tongue, some candles. It still didn't work of course, just my sweet Earl talking to the dead air. I could almost smile at the way he always talked to me while facing the ceiling, as if ghosts just idly float- but then the statue answered.

He talks to it every night now. He doesn't eat anymore, or bathe. Somehow, it sounds just like me. I've tried to warn him- to scream, and even to shake him but my hands just pass through. And in the dim morning hours when my Earl finally falls to a restless sleep, It's wretched, glittering eyes meet mine- and it smiles.