I was five years old when I first saw them. She walked right through the mirror, her ruffle skirt cloaked in snow even though it was June. She had a top hat adorned with clock gears and aviator goggles strapped around her face. She tip toed over to the light switch, played with it, flickering the lights on and off. She didn't look at me, she stepped back as my father walked past her. He inspected the light switch and looked down at me. The women let out a whistle. He turned, but didn't see her.
"When did you learn to whistle?" he said to me.
But I didn't say anything. And I wish I would have, because the first day I started seeing the ghosts was the last day I saw my dad.