He woke up, the bed sheets damp beneath him. He sat up. Outside, the full moon glared through the window.
Some dreams fell away upon waking like a child’s sandcastle at high tide. But some dreams perch at the foot of one’s bed like a fishwife.
When they’d relocated the ghosts from Tatkon, he’d known it would be challenging. Ghosts, as a rule, were difficult—always wanting to ride front, and often playing pranks with the vehicle’s electrical system. They were vain, they were tricksters, they were quick to take offense. But the worst thing you could do to a ghost was forget it.
He pushed the covers aside and reached for his pants. He must call the natsaya. They must get to the cemetery immediately.
This story was inspired by What Happened to Myanmar’s Ghosts. Apparently, in Myanmar, ghost relocation is a thing!