I'm Liz Sauer and this is Ghosts in the Verbs, a podcast of ghost stories from Wellesley, Massachusetts.

A warning, adults who use adult language told me these frightening tales, these ghost stories, aren't for kids.

It's March 2016, and this is Ghosts in the Burbs.

Ghost Story, number three.

Frankly, I'd rather have the bedbugs.

The dump swap.

I met Pam at a cocktail party for Wellesley newcomers, a lovely, what the hell am I supposed to wear to this party that felt like a sorority rush? Where every conversation boils down to. Isn't this great? It's so great to meet new people. Where'd you move from again? The south end? That's great. We were in Beacon Hill. Sure, we miss it, but having a driveway is so great. Have you done any renovations? Isn't it great to have a yard? Aren't the kids so much happier? I love it. This is so fucking great. Where the fuck is the wine? I was actually catching up with Becca of the haunted dolls when she introduced me to Pam. Pam was the events coordinator for this Wellesley mother's group, or as my husband

referred to it, Delta Swellesley Delta. Becca explained to Pam how we'd met and that I was

writing a collection of short stories about Wellesley. What kind of stories Pam wanted to know?

I hesitated. By all appearances, Pam was a queen bee of indeterminate age, early 40s, late 50s, with gorgeous

sable brown hair that beach waved itself halfway down her back.

She had perfect skin and eye makeup that was so exquisitely subtle she could have been

in a Bobby Brown ad.

She wore a blue, navy birch cardigan

over white silk cammy with yellow, yellow-cropped jeans. Yes, it was January, but frankly, she

nailed it. I wasn't sure how to admit to collecting ghost stories. This woman looked like she'd be

more interested in talking about the new slip cover she ordered for the house in Palm Beach.

Besides that, I didn't want to out Becca and her absolutely horrifying story about her first house.

But I didn't want to be rude and vague.

So the graceful conversationalist that I am, I said,

I like ghost stories. Both women looked at me for a moment.

I opened my mouth to chatter away an explanation, but Pam rescued me by saying, well, if you

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