When it comes to ghosts, my grandmother has one solution: brew a pot of coffee. Like today, in Sadie Lancaster’s kitchen.
Sadie clutches her hands beneath her chin and stares at our percolator, her eyes huge. The thing gurgles and hisses as if it
resents being pressed into service. My own reflection in its side is distorted. When I was younger, I thought this was how ghosts see our world.