But there’s no fun in that, is there? No detail or nuance. It would certainly save me a lot of writing and to whoever may see this a lot of reading. Who, what, where, when, and, that odd man out, how. The former reporter in me wants to simply be straightforward with the whole thing. She said I needed to preserve them for posterity’s sake. I offered to simply tell her these strange-but-true tales, but she wanted none of that. She’s a macabre one, that girl, and when I told her I also knew a ghost story or two, she demanded that I write them down. The third is that this chronicle, or memoir, or whatever you care to call it is being written at the behest of my granddaughter, Isabel, who currently sits across from me, nose buried in a volume of ghost stories. The second is that I was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and reside here still. The first bit of information you should know is that my name is generally acknowledged to be Edward Clark. So, lest I make more of a fool of myself than I already have, I will start with the basics. I just didn’t expect it to be in the second paragraph of this folly I’m about to undertake. Wherever the past piles up, layer after dusty layer, ghosts are sure to linger.Īh, but already I’m getting ahead of myself. All of that history colliding with the new and the now.
Philadelphia, as it would happen, is filled with spirits. While a sensational claim, it makes a certain amount of sense. When people mention Lenora Grimes Pastor, if they still speak of her at all, many insist that she was killed by a ghost.
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