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The ghost found Sanchez in the garden. Whispy tendrils of ecto-stuff swirled around his waist and legs, rising up his torso like thick ropes of cigarette smoke.

Sanchez stopped raking leaves and stood silently, eyes closed. A moment later he nodded, as if acknowledging a message. The whisps withdrew immediately. He finished raking within minutes, picked up a small trowel, and carried the tools across the garden to a ramshackle plastic shed where he stored them carefully. He stripped off his gloves and threw them into shed-shadows. Stretched, back muscles crackling.

Time for ghosts.

Sanchez trudged back to the house, lights springing up in the twilight around him, fireflies emerging as if from thin air. He clumped up the front stairs, across the weathered porch, and pushed open the ancient oak door with a creak. In the kitchen he opened a beer, wiped his brow, and made his way to the small but cozy living area where his TV and recliner lived. In one massive draught he swallowed half the beer, belched, and sat in the Barcalounger. Creak went the chair as his feet came up on the spring-loaded ottomon. Closed his eyes.

"All right," he grumbled, "c'mon."

It was always like awakening from a dream, he reflected. Somebody else's dream.His arms were slim and girlish, his weight completely wrong. Colors more vivid, sounds not quite as clear -- Sophia's hearing had been damaged by childhood sickness. He was dressed in the same white dress, his feet bare and dirty. The smells that entered his nose were of the deep woods, no trace of petrochemical pollution. Maybe a tang of wood smoke and... something else, something pungent.

He did not want to smell that smell. The bad smell. The blood smell. He shuddered and almost gagged; easy girl. It's okay. Sanchez tried to soothe without exerting undue influence on the seeing, since he knew that would break the spell as sure as a gunshot. Oh, gunshot. Best not to think about that.

Once the strangeness subsided, he let Sophia take complete control. He felt her love, her almost desperate hunger to be understood. To be recognized. She stood up shakily from the chair, using one hand as a lever. The other hand still held the beer, which she set down carefully on a magazine. Wiped her hand on her shirt.

Sophia found the toys in a hall closet. She played with Barbie for awhile, trying out all the new outfits Sanchez had bought for her the week before. There was a Barbie car too, but she never played with that... for some reason automobiles just didn't interest her. But Barbie had a horse, Shadow, which got ridden around the livingroom a few times.

Next she drew some pictures with the crayons -- she was determined to use all 64 colors eventually, but the red one was almost gone!

Finally she played kitchen, using real pots and pans from under the stove. Far nicer metal pans than she'd ever seen when she was... you know.

After awhile she became sleepy, and yawning theatrically made her way back to the chair. She dozed off almost as soon as her head touched the leather.

Sanchez bolted upright as he always did, heart racing at childhood speed. He panted like a dog for minutes before regaining control, sweat running from under his thick hairline. The tepid beer was gulped in a single swallow.

He inventoried his thoughts: she wanted more horse-stuff for Barbie. Maybe a tiny horse blanket, or maybe a... he didn't know what you called it, but a leather harnessy thing that went into its mouth. He shook his head with a rueful smile. He'd know the thing when he saw it at Toys'R'Us.

He put away the pots and pans, locked Barbie and Shadow back in the hall closet, and collected the drawings. The topmost one was the same as it ever was: a stick-figure girl in a white dress laying on a green grass, red beneath her as if pooling. A stricken stick-figure woman (mom?) knelt beside the girl, long grey gun-thing strewn aside at an angle. A large frowning sun was drawn in the sky. Two symetrical streams of blue tears fell from Mr. Sun's eyes. The work was signed "Sophia" in large, careful letters.

He sighed, having progressed beyond shock and sadness many years ago. The pictures went into a cabinet behind the sofa; he didn't have the heart to discard them.

Sanchez adjusted his shirt, popped open another beer and returned to the Barcalounger. There had to be something on TV.