“Dad, it’s me again.” Raymond put on his most contrite voice.

“Son, can I call you back later? The game’s on.” The TV could be heard in the background blasting some kind of live sporting event.

“No, no, don’t call back. I just wanted to say . . . Well, I’m sorry for yelling at you just now.”

“What?”

“When you called me.”

“Why on earth would I be calling you in the middle of my game?”

“Because you have been known to act against reason.”

“Did you phone me up to pick a fight?”

“No!” Raymond shook his head, cursing himself. “Forget this conversation ever happened.”

“What?”

“Yes, exactly. What.”

Raymond walked to the bathroom, perplexed. As he lifted the toilet seat, he noticed that he was standing in a puddle of clear liquid about two feet wide. It wasn’t water from any leak—he looked up for telltale mold on the ceiling. He crumpled down on his haunches and dipped his fingers into the puddle. It was gooey, thicker than water but lighter than paste, and had a consistency close to that of Woolite.

“Goddammit.” He recognized the substance. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

He paced the living room, trying to think what he should tell the police if he called in a report. Hey officer, there’s Astroglide on my floor . . .

Minutes later, it hit him. That was no Astroglide! How could he have forgotten? Ectoplasm. He’d written about it so much in the past. Oh, you know, officer—it’s that primordial ooze created out of moisture and dust by, well, ghosts? Ah, but ectoplasm sounded even worse than Astroglide.

Raymond had dealt with otherworldly beings so much on the page that it never once occurred to him he might have to deal with them in life. He neither believed nor disbelieved in them. They were literary props to be exploited, as philosophy-free as piano wire or ice picks. Unless he wanted to encourage a high-maintenance relationship with this entity, he’d have to treat it like a nuisance to be evicted, like a smelly possum in the basement. The worst they could do was irritate the hell out of you with their now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t routine. The main question was, why now? Why, after years of his writing stories about them, had one finally decided to make contact? What did it want?

He smiled. He was flattered by the attention.

No sooner had he finished mopping up the damp spot than the phone rang again. He felt a shiver. He let it ring a few times more. He picked it up without saying a word, and was met with the same sickly silence on the other end. Seconds later, “Raymond?”

He sighed. “Hello, Dad.”

“Game over.”

“What?”

“The Jayhawks won. I can talk now.”

“Unfortunately, now’s a bad time.”

“Why is it a bad time?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that, Dad.”