“Hang on! Don’t!”

“What?”

“Stand here while I stand by the window.”

“Why am I doing this?”

“Okay. Notice anything?”

“They’re going to see you with those blinds open! Get away from there!”

“I think we’re safe-”

“You think we’re safe? What makes you think we’re safe? I don’t want to die!”

“Too late.”

“What?”

“C’mon, look at me. Look at me. Notice anything?”

“You’re going to get us – oh God. You’re partially transparent.”

“Bingo.”

“We’re already dead?”

“Looks like.”

“That would explain a lot, actually.”

“Like the unpleasant memories of your death?”

“You have those too?”

“And the way the evil spirit of Old Man Parker – the wicked factory owner who built this house on a desecrated Indian graveyard in 1803, tortured his wife and daughter and opened a gateway to a hellish place of pure pain – the way he says ‘hi’ to us every morning and wants us to call him ‘Bill’?”

“Hey! I just realized! He dropped a chandelier on me in ‘74! That bastard! That really hurt! I had tickets to a Floyd show!”