The ghost found Sanchez in the garden. Whispy tendrils of ecto-stuff swirled around his waist and legs, rising up his torso like thick ropes of cigarette smoke.
Sanchez stopped raking leaves and stood silently, eyes closed. A moment later he nodded, as if acknowledging a message. The whisps withdrew immediately. He finished raking within minutes, picked up a small trowel, and carried the tools across the garden to a ramshackle plastic shed where he stored them carefully. He stripped off his gloves and threw them into shed-shadows. Stretched, back muscles crackling.
Time for ghosts.
Sanchez trudged back to the house, lights springing up in
