More ghosts than you can shake a stick at. Not that they'd be bothered much.

The house is finally quiet again. 

A year ago, something was stirred up and December had its share of anomalies. Knocking upon the walls, small white lights in the hallway, and a Santa figurine on my coffee table shook its bell for several long minutes though there was no breeze - no shaking of the table - and no one around but me to witness it. Then there was the man at the top of the hill. We live along a busy route that winds around the spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We're quite close to a government secret bunker, I hear helicopters daily, and not far from there is the site of a horrific airplane crash which in 1971 resulted in the death of 92 people.