Okay, executive decision: Saturdays are for the shortest, most concise ghost stories I can tell. Last weekend it was “Stopped.” This weekend it’s what happens to those entries in our address book we can’t bear to delete…

On the evening of the fifth anniversary of his dad’s death, Mitch sat alone and raised a glass of three fingers of his dad’s favorite Macallan 18 in a solitary toast. On the table in front of him his phone vibrated with an incoming call. The display read, “Dad” and below it, “Mobile”. Mitch reached for the phone.
Buzz.
He pulled his hand back.
Buzz.
He reached forward again…