Veronica Amber had no recollection of her first encounter with the whips.

The came is inconspicuous and unexpected like flurries of indoor dust that float and

fly when bathed by a sheen of sunlight.

At the beginning of their residence at 315 copacetic lane, just before their street transitioned

into the main road in town, her home knew a time when it was vacant of the whips, and

the only specters filling the inside of their projections from the old films that her

father would display on dark velvet walls of the house.

The walls of their Victorian used to hold no haunting tendrils of their existence.

The hallways heard no shrills or catter walls from a life solenced by death, and the

marble floor of their historic home at one point had less of a tendency to send shivers

up ones in other regions and into the spine.

The whips were invisible inhabitants of their home, but to the rest of the world they

were simply called ghosts.

Veronica Amber's acquaintance with them was far from the horror-filled nonsense she'd

read about in books and watched in movies, for the more the whists made themselves known

to her the more annoyed she became.

It seemed they were always around causing mischief, popping out at the most inconvenient

times and filling her ears with macabre groans, in the dark, in an attempt to inflict fear

into her soul when she only wanted to have a good night's sleep.

And since then she had scarcely known a moment's peace.

Veronica Amber, or Vam, as she liked to be called, awoke on Halloween morning with an abrupt

opening of her eyes.

...