A Plague of GhostsJohn Trent stared at the sunrise; pink ripples ran through the blue, the trees glinting gold. He was up early again. In fact, he did not remember going to bed. Where was he last night? He couldn't be sure but he was here again; he was here yesterday, he thought, or it could have been the day before. When he thought about it all he could remember was this garden. There were glimmers of other things but they were indistinct, half remembered, distant. He climbed the small hill as he did every morning. There was old Jeremiah, the only person he could ever remember talking to.A Plague of Ghosts2 days ago in Short Stories
"Another pleasant day, boy," laughed the old man. "Off on your wanderings again? You should slow down, boy. You got plenty of time."
Trent exchanged pleasantries for a while then wandered down the hill towards the gate. He could see the church and, beyond it, houses clustered about the green. As he passed the gate he thought he saw a dim figure outside the church but he could not be sure. He went on down the lane. The