For whatever reason, my sock drawer has become a repository for ghosts and other similar spirits. One of the creepiest is Trevor. He's this seven year old who broke his neck falling out of his bed one night and now he hangs around my bedroom with his big box of black crayons, drawing pictures of weeping children and dead trees. It's so depressing the other ghosts have taken to avoiding him, even referring to him as Cheerful Charlie in the sort of sneery way only the undead can pull off. And if that's not bad enough, he doesn't know he's dead, so I have to constantly tip-toe around his condition (or lack thereof) asking him stupid things like how his day at school went when I know perfectly well it’s the weekend.