What’s worse for Timmy than the monster with furry arms under his bed? What’s worse than the slimy ghoul in his closet or the poltergeist that sleeps on his ceiling fan?

What can possibly be worse than when his grandma yells? Or when his grandpa drinks? Or when the people at the grocery store stare? The ghosts.

They hide his backpack from him. They dunk his toothbrush in the toilet. They call him names and whisper in his ear when he’s trying to sleep. “Your parents don’t miss you, Timmy.”

“They never loved you.”

“They don’t care.”

“They’re dead just like us.”



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