They aren't white and ghastly, like the boys are down the block on Halloween, who awn bed-sheets over their heads and scare my friends when they come to their door for candy. In a Chinese movie I saw when I saw five, they associate them with disease and plague, and interactivity was supposed to be deathly. In
Ghost, a movie my parents have watched an uncountable amount of times together, they are translucent and the colors of the clothes they had died in faded and casted off, as if death had affected their afterlives. Sam and Molly still loved each other, and Sam was only hanging around because he needed to get something done, and that was revenge against Carl for killing him. That movie always made me think: why was it that the bad guy was the one alive? Why did the moral and good go down first? It was different from the other movies, where the ghost is always the evil thing, out to kill, to exorcise someone to get something done. Ghosts are always the objects you hated, and wanted gone – and they always were, in the end – and maybe those film producers are half-right about that.
But after all, those movies play a good reason about one thing: whether it was for the better or worse, ghosts made you believe in something.
And that was all my family needed.