Rob Norwich's eyeless sockets, fragmentary nose, lipless mouth, broken facial bones, and other elements of bloody ruin were, as far as I was concerned, not conducive to conversation, whether in that gloomy mall basement or in a sunny park.

"Sir," I whispered, "you have to stop coming up behind me.  And I'd be grateful if you kept your face on."

The ravaged countenance faded, and the gentle features of the English teacher replaced it.  His ex-pression said, Sorry.

"Are those three still here somewhere - Wolfgang, Jonathan, and Selene?"

He shook his head.

"They've left the mall?"

He nodded.

"Sorry I didn't follow you to the other department store, sir, but going there wasn't the right thing."

He nodded again.

Having a conversation with a dead guy can be duller than you might think.  Only someone in love with his own voice could be routinely enchanted by the experience.

Usually, lingering spirits come to me because, whether they realize it or not, they want me to talk them into moving on from this world.  A couple of them have even been celebrities who were loath to leave this realm where they had been loved by so many.  I have written about Mr. Presley and Mr. Sinatra in other volumes of this memoir, both of whom had been thornier problems for me than I imagined a former English teacher would be.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Norwich?"

He shrugged.

"You're afraid to cross over to the Other Side.  Is that it, sir?"

He held one hand out, palm down, and rocked it back and forth, a gesture of equivocation.  Maybe he was afraid to cross over, maybe he wasn't.  He didn't want to commit himself to an opinion.  He was dead, but he wanted to keep his options open.  Although he'd been an English teacher, he was acting like a lawyer.

"Sir, your wife and daughter are already over there.  Do you believe that?"

He nodded.

"Don't you want to join them?"