A Different Danse Macabre

A metal pole jutted through the kitchen in the house where I grew up, all that remained from an old firehouse. Decades ago, during a ritzy event, a discarded cigarette caught on some curtains, trapping dozens of souls inside. Tragically ironic, I always thought when the ghosts recounted the story to me.

Nobody from school ever came over to play, so I grew up playing with my ghostly friends. Eccentric chatterboxes, every one of them. They taught me how to dance, and now I’m a hit at parties.

Turns out that old building wasn’t a firehouse, but a strip club.