“You can’t believe everything you hear,” said Sally. “Especially from the dead.”
“I just think it’s worth looking into, that’s all.” Ben replied.
Sally looked a little disgusted.
“Him?” She said. “They aren’t hims or hers, they’re its. Do you even know what ghosts are? I mean what they really are?”
“Of course, they’re people who’ve died. They’ve got – “
“Wrong. They’re all the nasty and spiteful bits of the soul that can’t get into Heaven. They’re just so much slighted ectoplasm with a long memory and a complete inability to forgive. Next time one of the wretched things starts shooting its mouth off, do yourself a favour: stick your fingers in your ears and start whistling the theme tune from Laurel and Hardy. They hate that.”
Ben changed the subject, he knew why Sally hated the dead. He tried not to let her catch him glancing at the clock. Eventually she pushed her text books into the purple rucksack that accompanied her everywhere. He walked her to the door, the cold October night had a real bite.
Ben could feel the ghost standing behind him watching Sally make her way down the path.
"Are you ever going to more on into Heaven?" Ben asked.
"Sure when the wife's ready. Are you going to tell her?" the ghost asked.
Ben shook his head sadly "Why? This is her idea of heaven, believing that she is alive."