The way Little Miss Perfect tells it, you'd think I was head of a gang of street thugs when I was a kid. We weren't thugs, we were twelve. All we wanted was some prize money, or at least a bit of ... [+]
My aunt ran a shelter for ghostsall kinds: shades, spooks, specters seekers seeking hauntable hideawaysever homecoming, never home.Like that invisible lady who hated clocksor that gentleman with the headthe twinsor that cat that froze, like a picturebut would disappear if you blinked.Mind you, some weren't very ghostly at allmore like people with a little extraor a little less.Like that serious guy with the duffel bagI always meant to ask which bus stop he was headed toand what he was gonna do when he got there.(What was in that bag?)Or that woman, forever applying lipstickvanity mirror, all r