the smuggler’s bible


The ghost is always a few steps ahead of Elodie—literally walking backwards—bumping lamps and leaving drawers open for her to trip over.

“Is this a family curse? Listen, grandma said it wasn’t Nazi gold and wait DAMNIT OUCH,” Elodie says, eating shit in the hallway. “Mom sold it! I was eleven!”

A decrepit Tumblr post tells her that ghosts emanate temporally from their source in all directions simultaneously and that things will get worse as she approaches the moment of genesis. After that she goes to fewer parties, afraid of whom she might recognize for the first time.