Hello its me, Ghosty
I was born on the thirtieth of September, 1880, in Illinois—the third of six children. My parents bent their backs on a great dairy farm owned by a kindly Irish family, while tales of my Norwegian grandparents floated through the house like half-remembered smoke. But those old stories never felt like mine. They belonged to another world, far across the sea.
I grew up just outside Mount Sterling, a small town swelling with the railway and trade. Each morning, I walked to the new schoolhouse, learning my letters, my numbers. But by twelve, the books were shut. The farm needed hands. From then on, it was cows at dawn, chores ‘til dusk, the occasional cart rattling into town.
Work left no room for dreams. No room for marriage.
When the Great War came, it was distant thunder. I heard it spoken of in town, but it seemed too far away, too unreal. Until the draft reached for me.
Six months in Camp Funston, Kansas. Then across the sea to Nancy, France. There I found unlikely brothers: second-generation German-Americans, and African-Americans whom many shunned. Together we spun music and tall tales to keep the dark at bay.
Then came the capture. On a supply run near the border, they seized me. Rastatt prisoner-of-war camp. Hard labor. A festering wound. Sepsis claimed me where bullets had failed.
But death was no deliverance.
For years I drifted above the battlefields—weightless, bodiless. A shadow among shadows. The stench of war clung to me like chains, though I ached to forget.
When at last I was loosed, I wandered the world unseen. I stole into concerts, slipped between recording sessions, haunted museums at midnight. I heard families laugh, lovers quarrel, widows weep. I saw everything—yet no one ever saw me.
Other spirits flickered near, but their realms never touched my own. I was forever alone.
Until Switzerland.
There, in an attic where the veil was thinner than breath, I found them—ghosts gathered like candle flames in the dark. That attic was no ordinary place. It was a borderland, perched on the edge of the Nevermore. Here, the worlds overlapped. Here, for once, I was not alone.
For years I tried to summon something—anything—from the realm of the living. A handful of plush toys appeared. Once even a strange cat lady. I dismissed her swiftly—she was not what I sought. I hunger for musicians, artists, souls who burn with rhythm and fire. Those are the ones I have called.
So I endured. In the endless night, I found companions among the shades. Together, we forged a wraith-band. Our spectral symphony rattled the beams of the attic. And oh, how I reveled in it—song, dance, theater, music! Yet one hunger gnaws still: to cradle a guitar again, to feel steel strings bite into my fingers, to bleed my soul into sound. A century without touch is a cruel eternity.
And now…
The hour approaches. September 30th, 2025—my one hundred and forty-fifth birthday. The attic trembles with a fevered hum, the veil thinner than it has ever been.
Perhaps this time it will happen.
Perhaps at last a mortal guest will step through—after decades of silence, someone may answer my call.
The shadow-band waits. The stage is set. The night itself holds its breath.
And perhaps—just perhaps—I will not sing with ghosts alone.
On this night, my night, September 30th… for the first time since my heart ceased to beat, I may not echo in solitude.
Tonight—yes, tonight—let the living hear me.
Let them enter my realm.
Let them answer.
And together, we shall rock the attic on the edge of the Nevermore.
