Charlie Barker was lost. He supposed that all ghosts cursed to roam the earth were lost, but this was more of a literal sense than a metaphorical definition. He wandered the forest in search of a way out.
He had only trekked to the remote woodland as part of his penance. He had to amass more glimpses into the infinite beyond. Doomed to forever relate terrors. To never find a way back.
He wondered if other ghosts had so much internal turmoil and angst. Best not to ponder such things, he thought. Besides, he had all of eternity to mull over the consequences his mortal coil had bequeathed him.
The sun had set, or so he thought. It was setting, but the premature darkness was due to the impending storm as announced by a peal of thunder. No sooner had Char realized this than it began to rain.
Most ghosts were incorporeal, he knew. But not Charlie. Charlie was still held firmly within his reanimated skeleton. Also, part of the curse. To be an undead and not reap from the benefits of the disembodied was tortuous.
The rain turned to a deluge. Char knew that his poor old bones couldn’t take the onslaught. He had to find shelter.
Fate presented him with a viable option. Through a microsecond flash of lightning, he saw it. A modest little cabin in the woods.
Char made his way through the overgrown path to the shack. The rickety old door opened outwards with a groan of splintery wood and rusted hinges. He went in.
It was an old trapper’s cabin, as indicated by various pelts and traps hanging from the wall. There was an old coffee pot and can with a single enamel cup on a mantle above the fireplace. There was fresh wood in the fire, which Charlie put to good use. He had to dry his bones.
How does one go about haunting a cabin? Charlie wondered to himself. He supposed that merely being there as a skeleton would go far. His stories from the mirror of infinity would help, too.
The storm had drawn others to the place. The door creaked open. “Welcome,” he said grimly.