“Psst. Mary Lou.”
    “What, Emma Jo?”
    “Did you ever see such a thing?”
    “What? Them burying Clyde with his old banjo?”
    “Yeah. Ain’t it odd?”
    “Hush, Emma Jo. Show some respect.”
    “Why for? He’s dead, ain’t he?”
    “Not for him. For his kin-folk.”
    “Oh, yeah.
    “<sniff>“
    “Why are you crying, Mary Lou?”
    “‘Cause it’s so sad.”
    “Huh?”
    “The way he died.”
    “But that’s the way he would have wanted it.”
    “Falling off the stage . . .”
    “Into the orchestra pit.”
    “ ...and breaking his neck.”
    “He was such a clutz.”
    “Hush, Emma Jo.”

    A clutz, huh? That would work, the sleeper thought as he dropped off to sleep...

    A couple of nights later, the sleeper had done the same thing – taken a nap right after work and now, he wasn’t tired. He lay there, thinking much the same thoughts he had that earlier night. But this time, he wasn’t so unsure as to what to think. Why not see where this story is going to lead? he thought. Yeah, what would it be like when that ghost went to learn how to be a ghost?

    “Clyde Morrison Henry the Third?”
    “Uh, here, your honor.”
    “Clyde, I’m not your judge. Just your teacher.”
    “But, I thought when we died we went before the great judge.”
    “Not on your life, Clyde Morrison Henry the Third.”
    “Well, what is this, and why am I here?”
    “This is school, Clyde Morrison Henry the Third.”
    “With my banjo?”
    “That was a mistake.”
    “I shoulda left it at home.”
    “No, it shouldn’t have come with you.”
    “Oh.”

    The sleeper awoke with a start. It was the clock radio and it was time to get up. He’d drifted off to sleep, or maybe he was dreaming just before he woke up. Anyway, he could take the time to think about Clyde anymore this morning. Maybe tonight, he would think some more on the ghost.

    That night, he didn’t take a nap. But as soon as his head hit the pillow, he started thinking about Clyde and his teacher.

    “Ahem.”
    “Huh? I was just thinkin’ of my banjo.”
    “Well, Clyde Morrison Henry the Third, think on this! If you don’t learn how to be a reasonable ghost, how do you ever expect to be able to do your job?”
    “I kin sing.”
    “That won’t help you any if you have to scare somebody.”
    “I don’t want to scare nobody, no sir.”
    “Clyde Morrison Henry the Third, I’ll have you know that you come from a long and honorable family. Your father and your grandfather were the best in the business.”
    “You leave my pappy and grandpappy out of this.”
    “You, Clyde Morrison Henry the Third, are a disgrace to their memory.”
    “I said, leave them out of this!”
    “Sit down, Clyde. Now that I have your attention, what was I trying to convey?”
    “Convey? I don’t know no such word.”
    “Convey means to teach. Clyde, didn’t you ever go to school.”
    “No, sir, I didn’t.”
    “Uh-huh. That explains it.”
    “Explains what?”
    “Well, your father and grandfather weren’t much different when I had them in school.”
    “You taught my pappy and grandpappy?”
    “Yes. Except...”
    “Except what?”
    “They didn’t have a banjo with them.”
    “Oh.”

    The radio again. He hit the snooze alarm and tried to remember what came next. It didn’t do any good, because his wife gave him a shove and told him to wake up. Well, there was always the next night.

    That night, it was raining. The kind of rain that puts a damper over all your thoughts. All the sleeper could think of was bad thoughts. It invaded his dream, too.

    “Master, this is terrible, just terrible.”
    “What is it, James?”
    “The old manor house. They’re going to sell it.”
 
    The sleeper awoke with a start. It was really weird. A panicked ghost. How ironic. He imagined what might happen next.

    “After all these years?”
    “Yes master, and with Archibald being promoted, who’s going to haunt it?”
    “Hm. We’ll have to find someone to do it.”
    “But, who, master?”
    “Relax, James. We’ll think of someone.”

    The sleeper blinked awake. It was morning. One of these days, he would kill that radio. . .

    The sleeper didn’t think about the ghosts that night. He was exhausted. But the next morning, just before waking up...

    “Will you quit playing that thing? It gives me the willies!”
    “But, isn’t that whut I’m supposed to do? Give people the willies?”
    “Not ... other ghosts!”
    “Oh.”
    “Now Clyde, don’t take it personal or anything like that.”
    “How am I supposed to take it?”

    The sleeper must have snickered or something, because his wife did something. It wasn’t important, so he drifted back to the story.

    “Just ... wait until you have some place to haunt before you play that thing.”
    “I suppose...”
    “By the by, how do you play that thing, anyway?”
    “What do you mean.”
    “Well, it’s not... you know.”
    “Huh?”
    “It’s still part of the mortal world!”
    “I play it like I always played it. What’s being part of the mortal world got to do with it?”
    “It won’t go through walls.”
    “Is that necessary?”
    “Groan...”

    His wife interrupted the groan. Or maybe it was the clock radio. It was his wife. “Don’t go back to sleep, honey. You have to get up and go to work.”
    The dream faded fast as morning dawned on the sleeper. Maybe he’d remember the story enough to pick it up that night.

    Night came and sleep even faster. It had been a rough day. Somewhere, sometime, the voices started.

    “Yes, James. What is it now?”
    “How about one of the new novitiates, master?”
    “New novitiates?”

    Novitiates? The sleeper wondered. A nunnery? That didn’t make much sense. The voices continued.

    “Yes, master. One of the ghosts in training.”

    Ah, thought the sleeper. One of the ghosts. The next voice surprised him.

    “Well... it is a thought.”

    What kind of thought? What’s going on? The sleeper shook his head and turned over in my bed. He lay awake for a while, then decided there was nothing to worry about. Besides, it was all in his imagination. He closed his eyes.

    “Clyde Morrison Henry the Third! Will you pay attention.”

    His eyes snapped open. It sounded just like Mr. Williams at school. The school had started early that fall, and the sleeper had been daydreaming about a fishing trip with his dad.

    “What?”
    “You must learn how to go through everything in a wall, not just the plaster. What will you do if you hit a stud?”
    “Mate him with a sow?”
    “A stud in the wall!”
    “That’s a funny place for a stud to be. What’s he doin’ there?”

    The sleeper caught on. He chuckled.

    “Not that kind of stud. A wall stud!”
    “A wall stud? Well, I never...”
    “Never mind, Clyde. Just learn to go through the wood.”
    “Wood? I thought we were talking about studs.”

    The sleeper’s wife interrupted him. “What is so damned funny?” she asked. She didn’t sound too happy.
    “Never mind,” the sleeper replied.
    “No, you never mind,” she retorted. “You’ve been giggling away for the past week and now you’ve got me awake.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah, like I need another hole in the head.”
    “I’ll go to sleep,” the sleeper promised.
    “No you won’t.” The light snapped on, momentarily making the room too bright.
    “Hey,” the sleeper said.
    “Hey, yourself,” she replied. “Tell me what you’re laughing about.”
    “I’m not in the mood,” he replied and turned over, away from the light on her side of the bed. “Hey!” She’d kicked him!
    “I’m not going to let you get away with that,” she told him. “Now you sit up and tell me what’s so damned funny.”

    After a bit, she started laughing. But not at the story – at him! That hurt. He decided that was enough of telling her the story.
    He slid back down in bed and she apologized. Normally, that would mean... As it turned out, it wasn’t what he expected. The voices came back, only this time she was awake. The voice said, “Clyde, what are you doing now?”
    “Did you hear that?” the sleeper asked her. She had a funny look on her face.
    “Looking for the other side of the mirror.”
    The two bedmates stared at each other.
    “You are supposed to go into a mirror not through it.”
    “But...”
    “No buts about it. Just go into the mirror.”
    “If I go into the mirror, how will I get to the other side?”
    “You aren’t supposed to go through the mirror, just into it. Then you can scare people looking into the mirror.”
    “That don’t make no sense. If I go into a wall, I get stuck there. That’s what you said.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I’m supposed to go through walls.”
    “Right.”
    “And go through wood.”
    “Right.”
    “But not no mirrors.”
    “Correct. I think you’ve got it.”
    “Got what? I don’t understand why I can’t go through a mirror just like a wall, especially if I’m going to get stuck in a wall, then why would I want to get stuck in a mirror. It just don’t make no sense.”
    “Forget it, Clyde.”
    “Okay.”
    A trip to the bathroom. That’s good for whatever might be the problem. At least, that’s what his wife was always saying. He waited for her to finish.

    When he climbed back into bed, she turned to him and opened her mouth.
    “How is the new class going?”
    She shut her mouth, eyes wide.
    “Oh, hello, master.”
    “You seem a bit distracted.”
    “Uh, no master. Not any more than usual.”
    “Well, no matter. I need a volunteer.”
    “A volunteer, master?”
    “Yes, a volunteer to go and haunt the old manor house. You see . . . why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Because, master, I have the perfect ghost for you.”
    The sleeper stared at his wife. He didn’t know what was going on, but it had to be his mind and she must have been picking up on it. It was really weird.

    For some unknown reason, the next two nights were quiet. Both the sleeper and his wife felt relief. But on the third night...
    “Clyde?”
    By now, he was getting used to the voices. He glanced over at his sleeping wife. She looked so peaceful. He decided not to do anything, but just listen.
    “Yeah, what’d I do wrong now?”
    “Nothing, Clyde. I want you to meet a master.”
    “Master?”
    “master. With a small m.”
    “Small em?”
    “Never mind. master, I’d like you to meet Clyde. Clyde, this is master.”
    “Hello, Clyde.”
    “Hello. So yer a master.”
    “That’s right, Clyde. I’ve got something for you to do.”
    “Good! I was gettin’ downright bored around here. The prof won’t let me play my banjo.”
    “Playing your banjo is something you’ll be able to do, if you accept my offer.”
    “Offer? Mean I might get somethin’ in return?”
    “A place to go play your banjo, Clyde.”

    The sun was shining the next morning. Everything seemed brighter. The eggs and bacon teased his nose, along with the fresh-ground coffee. It was spring, and if you’ve never seen a spring sun come up over the Appalachians, you don’t know what you’re missing.
    His wife was humming. “Good night?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she replied as she poured some orange juice. Even though it was from concentrate, it was the best they could get. A little more expensive, but they could afford some luxuries.
    “Me, too,” he said as he watched her in the morning light. She was quite good looking, and he wasn’t afraid to tell anyone that would listen. He’d seen how some of his neighbor’s eyed her. He was happy they didn’t have any kids.
    “I think we’ve heard the last of the voices,” she said.
    “Oh?”
    “Uh-huh. It sounded like Clyde finally got his assignment.”
    He decided to play dumb. He didn’t remember mentioning the ya-hoo’s name. “Clyde?”
    She smiled and rubbed his neck. “Yes,” she whispered in his ear. “You aren’t the only one that’s listened in on those voices.”
    “So, what do you think?”
    “Nothing to it,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Drink your orange juice.”
    He did, and ate his breakfast.
    Stretching, he looked at the clock. “Better get into town and finish that artwork,” he said.
    “For the Hensen’s new sign?”
    “That’s the job. Henry Cline wants to paint it up tomorrow, since there’s a storm out on the plains.”
    “He’s planning to do it in one day?”
    “That’s what he says. Told me that I got the mix just right for a quick job. Told me that I was well worth what I charged for my designs.”
    “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
    So was he, once he delivered his sign. And so were the Hensens. They let the folks all know who designed it and pretty soon, the sleeper had plenty to keep him busy. So busy that he forgot about the ghost voices.

    They did all right by his work. One day, his wife dropped by the studio. She had a couple of grocer bags in her arms.
    “What’cha got?” the sleeper asked.
    She pulled out a cake. It said “Happy Anniversary” on it.
    He frowned. Their wedding anniversary was another month and a half away. And they’d opened the shop in the spring. It was getting on toward fall.
    He looked to see if it was for someone else, but didn’t see anything special about it, so he asked, “Who’s it for?”
    “Us.”
    “What for?”
    “It’s been five years.”
    Five years? “Since when?”
    “Since we first started hearing voices.”
    “Huh?”
    “I heard them, too,” she told him. “Even from the first, but I couldn’t let you know about it.”
    “Oh.” It all came flooding back. She was smiling, but he wasn’t. He had a job to finish before nightfall. She must have sensed that, because she popped the cake back into the bag and waltzed out, saying something about another surprise later that night.
    That drew a smile. She was always good to her word.

    They had settled down for the night and the house was lit by the light of the full moon. It was far off, the sound, like maybe across the road. A banjo being strummed in the night.
    “Great,” he muttered.
    “You hear it, too,” she announced.
    “Yeah, probably the Henderson kid.”
    “I don’t think so,” his wife responded.
    “What, then?”
    “Clyde.” She said it like she meant it. He could see her nodding her head in agreement with herself in the moonlight.
    “Clyde,” he muttered. “Right. Let’s go to slee...”
    <thunk!> “Oooh!”
    So much for being tired.
    Something sounded like something being rubbed against a wall. A hard something.
    <plink>
    That sounded suspiciously like a banjo string.
    “It won’t go through walls,” he yelled at the sounds.
    <clunk, clunk> “Yer right,” came the voice. “I plumb forgot.”
    Oh hell. “Where are you,” he yelled.
    “Hey, you got inside plumbing!”
    “Use the door,” he suggested.
    “And open it,” his wife added.
    He eyed her in the dark.
    “Thanks,” came the reply.

    We had a house guest. It just had to be Clyde from the way that banjo floated across the room. Yup – floating just as smooth as you please, until someone stumbled on the edge of the rug and the banjo went flying.

    “Wake up!”
    “Huh?” the sleeper said.
    He looked at his wife. And blinked. He looked around the room.
    It was not the room from last night, but . . . He shook his head. “Oh,” he said. “What a dream.”
    “What?” she asked.
    “I dreamt about a ghost. A clumsy ghost.”
    She looked at him, with curiosity on her face.
    “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
    “No,” she replied. “Should I?”
    He smiled, then remembered he had to go to work. Not his own business, but work for his boss.
    Stumbling into the bathroom, he took a look at himself in the mirror.
    And blinked. The face staring back wasn’t his.
    “Hi,” Clyde said, hopefully.