He wasn't there again today. I wish that man would go away. I wish he'd stay.
Invisible people are the soul of story telling.
Sometimes it's frightening, sometimes not. Herman Melville, that manly man who wrote about great whale hunts and greater journeys, had a lonely childhood and a cruel stepmother. One night, he wrote, when he was particularly miserable, he lay sobbing on his bed, unable to sleep. Then he felt the cool, peaceful touch of his dead mother's hand again. He held that spectral hand as he drifted off to sleep, peaceful at last, comforted by her transcendental love.