You realize that part in the story where the character considers, I wager I didn't generally observe a phantom all things considered. I wager it was only a sheet. Wearing chains. Gliding through our wash room. Yelling. I wager it was only my creative energy. You know how you generally sort of detest characters who surmise that? You detest them, and you know you'd never be so inept not to know a phantom when you saw one, particularly when the title of your story is The Shrieking Specter, for's the love of all that is pure and holy, absolve my dialect.