My friends, we have reached All Hallows Eve! This is the final story for this year of 31 Ghosts bringing to a close the seventh year of this endeavor! Thank you all for sticking around and reading some or all of these spooky musings. Alas, the busy month meant I made absolutely zero progress on Volume 2 of the 31 Ghosts book, but I’m confident I should have that done before the wish bone of your turkey is ready to break.
For now, though, I’ll leave you with the final story for the month.  I’m sure you’re familiar with the children’s classic Shel Silverstein story, “The Giving Tree.” Well… I’ve always hated that story. So let’s add a little agency for the tree, and throw some spooky in there for good measure…
Thank you again, and happy Halloween!

Once there was a tree…

And she loved a little boy.

And every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.

He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches and eat apples.

And they would play hide-and-go-seek.

And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade.

And the boy loved the tree… Very much.

And the tree was happy.

But as time went by, And the boy grew older, And the tree was often alone.

Then one day the boy came to the tree and the tree said, “Come, Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.”

“I am too big to climb and play,” said the boy. “I want to buy things and have fun. I want some money. Can you give me some money?”

“I’m sorry,” said the tree, “but I have no money. I have only leaves and apples. Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city. Then you will have money and you will be happy.”

And so the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples and carried them away.

And the tree was happy.

But the boy stayed away for a long time… And the tree was sad.

And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy and she said, “Come, Boy, climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and be happy.”

“I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy. “I want a house to keep me warm,” he said. “I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?”

“The forest is my house,” said the tree. And the enormous branch the boy had climbed and swung from years ago detached from the tree. The boy, no longer as nimble and spry, could not move fast enough and was crushed to death beneath the heavy limb.

The boy did not stay away for long, as his ghost emerged from his destroyed body beneath the enormous branch. He stared up at the tree and cried, “Why? Why did you kill me?” And now he saw the spirit within the tree, majestic and strong smile down at him.

“My boy,” she said, “when you loved me and I loved you and you carved your initials into my body, I overlooked it – you were a boy. Later, when you carved your initials and that of that girl you no longer even see I knew the way this would go.”

“No,” said the boy’s ghost, “I never intended to hurt you.”

The tree smiled sadly. “That might have been true, and that is even worse because it shows you did not think about me. You needed money and I gave you my apples – they were ripe and needed to be harvested anyway. But you took them without regard, without thanks.”

“I was very grateful!” cried the ghost.

The tree shook her branches and said, “You say that now, boy, you say that now…

“And then you came to ask for more. You came to ask for part of my body to build your house – your house of me and away from me?” The tree straightened her trunk to her full height and said, “I know how this story ends…”

The ghost cowered before the powerful tree.

“And now, my boy, you are my ghost. You will haunt my forest, and you will scare off those who intend to do me harm. And you will join my legion of others who have tried to wrong me in the past.”

The boy looked past the tree and saw many ghosts moving among the branches and roots. They converged on the boy ghost and his form lost a little color as he became one of her thrall. And the boy never again left the tree.

And the tree was happy.

The old fish packing plant stood on a crumbling pier that had been red-tagged years ago. The plant rusted under the salt fog and was caught in a legal limbo that only seemed to accomplish that no one set foot in the place. But on the edge of a city packed with the living hustling here and there with a furious sense of urgency, the derelict plant served as an unofficial meeting place for a number of the city’s ghosts.

Around a grand table in the middle the main floor sat two dozen ghosts. There were Native American ghosts, as well as some who clearly appeared to be Mexican settlers. Gold field-bound 49ers sat next to the spirits of dot com bros who sat next to flower children, beat poets, and drag queens. At one end of the table sat a woman in a bright party dress talking excitedly to the ghosts next to her. On the other end of the table sat a man in a black-on-black suit who talked with his neighbors in subdued tones.

Among the din of the ghosts talking amongst themselves came a very deliberate throat clearing. “Ahem,” said the one specter that towered over the seated guests. His spindly arms and legs looked less human than some cartoonish nightmare creation. “If I might have everyone’s attention,” he announced and the room fell silent. He grinned an impossibly wide smile and said, “Thank you all for coming to this celebration. As you all know,” He swept his long fingers towards the woman in the bright party dress, “October 30^th is Emily’s birthday.”

Squealing and tittering erupted from Emily’s side of the table, while the tall figure gestured to his left and a dozen tiny, disembodied black orb-like spirits floated a rainbow-colored cake with dozens of brightly burning candles ablaze on top. They moved the cake to the table and set it in front of Emily, to the audible delight of that side of the table.

A woman dressed in a smart business suit started to sing, “Happy birthday to you—” But her neighbors cut her off.

The tall creature shook his head in disapproval. “We don’t sing.”

Several of the older spirits nodded solemnly as the woman who had started to sing squeaked, “Sorry!”

The creature nodded and then said, “Emily? Please blow out your candles.”

Emily smiled at the creature and then started to blow. It took several attempts to extinguish the conflagration of candles, but she eventually succeeded and a cheer erupted from her end of the table.

Meanwhile, the other side of the table remained stoically quiet and unmoved. The man dressed in black, in fact wore a deep scowl observing the candle-blowing.

The tall creature turned from Emily and her cadre of ghosts towards the darkly dressed side of the table. “This day also marks Leland’s deathday,” he gestured towards the man in the black suit who finally cracked a tight smile.

Another group of black orbs moved a black-frosted cake towards that end of the table. No one spoke, no one cheered, but as the cake was set down in front of him, Leland said simply, “Thank you, Aeternus.” Then, under his breath he said, “though I have no idea why we still humor anyone celebrating a birthday.” The last word was said with utter disdain.

“What did you say?” Emily demanded. The entire table went silent.

“I said,” Leland spoke for everyone to hear, “I have no idea why any self-respecting ghost would celebrate their birthday.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Emily said. “Sorry to remind you that origins matter. Everyone here,” she started then added, “Excepting Aeternus and his minions,” the creature inclined its top hatted head. “Everyone here was born. That’s why we celebrate birthdays even as ghosts,” she folded her arms across her chest.

“How quaint,” Leland sneered. “And I agree, origins matter. Which is why we celebrate the day you died as the beginning of your existence on this plane. The day you transitioned from a physical plane to this spectral plane. This origin is the discarding of that fragile life that – like your candles – was extinguished. Our death is worth celebrating.”

“Oh, is that so?” Emily retorted. “But you acknowledge that we all lived lives before we died. Celebrating ones birthday is a celebration of that time we struggled as the living, an acknowledgement of the time we spent breathing, loving, growing, and, yes, ultimately dying.”

“Dying being the operative word, Ms. Emily,” Leland said. “We’re not alive anymore. Celebrating our deathday is a way to acknowledge the finality of dying and reflecting on our lives in this spectral realm.”

“But birthdays represent the foundation of one’s personality, character, and experiences. The challenges and triumphs a soul faces during life stems from their birthday, giving it immense importance.”

“On the contrary, celebrating ones deathday is an acceptance of our change of state. It’s recognizing a closure of our mortal life and reflecting on our current condition – a far more important thing to do in this spectral realm.”

“Umm, excuse me, both of you,” said a young girl sitting at the middle point of the table.

Both Leland and Emily were about to talk over the child before Aeternus raised his booming voice. “I believe little Alice has a point to make,” he announced, and all eyes fell on the little girl.

She blushed at all the attention but then said, “I think birthdays and deathdays are both important, but I think you both are missing the point of this celebration…”

Emily leaned forward in curiosity and Leland raised an eyebrow at the little girl.

She smiled a missing-tooth smile and said as a black orb set a plate in front of her, “the most important part is the cake!” and she looked hungrily at the plate on which sat a slice of rainbow cake and a slice of dark chocolate cake.

“Here here!” a man in a 1920’s suit raised his fork in salute to the little girl as he dug into his own cake.

Leland shrugged in surrender and offered a genuine smile down the table at Emily. “Happy Birthday, Emily.”

And Emily raised a forkful of colorful cake and said, “And Happy Deathday, Leland.”

In the old fish packing plant on a derelict pier on the edge of the city the ghosts all ate cake on the 30^th of October.

Wow, this one really got away from me! But I didn’t want to let go of it and split it up, so I hung on and rode it out. Part of the problem is how much of a nerd I am – I have names, dates, and places for all the old characters that line up with real places and events. None of that is relevant, but my silly brain felt it necessary for me. Anyway, this is a bit longer than usual…

First, let’s go back to when I was walking past the cemetery – I didn’t deliberately intend to walk past a cemetery. Our house on Jefferson Street in Santa Clara is less than a block from Santa Clara Mission Cemetery. I was nine weeks pregnant and my morning sickness was terrible. In desperation I Googled for any tips to ease my debilitating nausea.

In an article on Parents.com they wrote, “We know, we know: You probably don’t feel like working out with your tummy so queasy.” Yeah, no shit, Laura Riley, M.D. Keeping an open mind, I kept reading, “Try a gentle walk instead—it can do wonders for your body. ‘Even walking 20 minutes a day can help release endorphins that counteract the fatigue and nausea,’ Dr. Hakakha says.”

I didn’t know who Dr. Hakakha was, nor the article’s author,Laura Riley, MD, but I was ready to try anything. Just around the block was my goal… which took me right past the cemetery.

Of course, I looked into the cemetery. Usually there’s nothing but a lot of graves, sometimes – but not too often in the section that borders Jefferson – families tending the graves of their loved ones. But the man dressed in a Navy Sailor’s uniform standing by a grave? Okay, that got my attention. And, unfortunately, apparently my attention got his attention. Our eyes met for a second, but there was something…electric in that moment.

Apparently for him, too because he started walking hurriedly through the rows of graves towards the fence bordering my street. I, naturally, picked up my pace, hoping to get past shouting distance when he reached the fence. But he kept moving towards the fence… and then right through it. I stopped and stared as he started across Jefferson and I let out a little shriek when a car went right through him… and he continued moving towards me.

What. The. Hell?

“Holy shit, Artie! I can’t believe it’s you!” he said as he reached the sidewalk an exuberantly friendly smile creasing his face.

I looked behind me and saw no one. “Umm… who?”

“Artie, you’re hilarious! My god, it’s been forever!”

Now I was wondering if this ghost – it had to be a ghost, right? – was talking to some other unseen ghost. I mean, I’m seeing this ghost, so shouldn’t I see the other ghost in this conversation? I don’t know what the paranormal rules are, but it seems pretty rude that if I’m privy to one side of a spectral conversation I should at least get to see the other ghost too, right?

Seeing the confusion on my face, the smile faded on his face. “You don’t recognize me, Artie?” Then he looked down at himself, “Shit, I got blown up pretty good there, but I thought at least my ghost was in one piece. Am I all disfigured and mutilated? Crap, Artie, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t see me like this…”

Deciding that, for whatever reason, he though I was Artie, I responded, “No, no, you’re fine. You look fine.”

He smiled broadly again, “Aww, thanks Artie! You look…” a frown crossed his face and he blinked rapidly, like trying to bring a picture into focus, “Well, will you look at that! You look like a dame!”

I was all sorts of confused by this conversation. And while I’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of people, I’ve never been called a “dame”. “A dame? Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, Artie. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just noticed you look… different.”

I was done with this conversation. “Look, sir, I don’t know who Artie is. I don’t know who you are. I feel like I’m about to throw up, so I’m going to go home,” and then for lack of anything better to say, in deference to his uniform I said, “thank you for your service,” as I hurried away.

An hour later, I was fixing toast – about the only thing that sounded the slightest bit appetizing at that moment – when I heard a male voice say, “I think I have it figured out, Artie.” I dropped the butter knife which clattered noisily to the floor. “Whoa, a little jumpy there, Artie?”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?!” I screamed at the ghost sailor standing in my kitchen.

He held his hands out palms up in a placating gesture. “Whoa, whoa, let’s calm down a minute.”

“There’s a ghost – you!” I pointed an accusing finger unnecessarily, “standing in my kitchen. I have earned the right to not be calm, thank you very much.”

“Okay, you’re right,” he said gently. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. But I think I have an idea what’s going on here.”

The toast popped up in the toaster and I jumped another three feet.

“Great timing,” he said.

I smiled a tight smile and managed a nod.

“Let me start again. I’m Charles Williams – Charley to my friends.”

“Charles,” I said, “Good to meet you.” I paused for a moment and then said, “And why are you haunting my kitchen?”

Charley smiled that friendly smile again and held up a finger. “I’m getting to that,” he promised. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Jessica Rodriguez. Jess,” I replied.

“Jess,” he nodded to himself. “Good name.”

“Thanks?”

“When were you born?”

“Rude,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, “But I have a hunch…”

“I was born in 1993. February 5^th.”

He pointed his finger at me to emphasize a point. “Ah, that’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“You died in 1992 – December 9^th!”

“Charles—” I started.

“Charley,” he corrected.

“Okay, Charley, I don’t know if you’ve noticed something, but there’s only one of us who’s dead in this room, and it’s not me.”

He nodded at me, “Okay, yeah, you’re not dead right now. But you were dead. That is, you did die.”

“How… I don’t understand.”

“Look, I don’t think I really understand a lot of what’s going on either, but I’ve seen some stuff in the time I’ve been wandering around since I was blown up.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder, “In that cemetery over there is your grave.” He shook his head and started again, “Okay, sorry, not you-you. Artie – Arthur Johnson.” He suddenly looked sad as he said, “My best friend.”

“I’m, uh, sorry for your loss?” was all I could think to say.

“No, okay, so here’s the thing: the dates on his grave are September 15, 1926 to December 9, 1992. When I saw you across the street I didn’t see you, Jess, I saw Artie.”

For a moment I didn’t know if I should be offended by being mistaken for an old man, “I’m pretty sure I don’t resemble an old man…”

“That’s it, see? I saw Artie, and then I saw you – you’re the same person. You were him.”

“Come again?”

“Reincarnation! You – Artie – died in December and then were born as Jess in January!”

“Reincarnation? What the—” I started and pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know what, I can’t deal with whatever this,” I waved a hand at him, “is right now. I’m seriously getting a headache. I don’t know what protocol for asking a ghost to leave is, but… can you please let me take a nap?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely, Artie, err, Jess,” he said. “I know this is a lot…”

“Please leave.” And he did.

My nap was peaceful, but that night my dreams… weren’t mine. I dreamt of Santa Clara, but clearly from a much earlier era – old cars and so many fruit trees. I remembered my friend who looked like a younger version of the ghost – that same smile – playing at Bowers Elementary. We were born a few days apart, and I remember us both enrolling in the Navy the moment we both turned 18 in 1944. I remembered being on a warship in the Pacific as fires raged and planes strafed us. I remember getting the letter from my mother telling me she’d heard from Artie’s mother that he was in an explosion and listed as missing and presumed dead. And then I remembered meeting a beautiful young woman. I remembered our wedding day, the birth of our son, our daughter. And their weddings and my grandkids. And I remember kissing my wife goodnight… and not waking up. The sun shone through an opening in my window and I, Jess, did wake up. And then I threw up – morning sickness, not the dream. But I felt more uneasy after the dream than I did from the nausea.

I went for a walk later that morning. Charley was waiting for me and started walking along side me. “I saw you had a dream – you remembered,” he said enthusiastically.

“You… you can spy on my dreams?” I said accusingly.

“No, not really. I just got the feeling that you, that Artie… I don’t know exactly. It was just a feeling that you saw your soul.” He shook his head and laughed, “Look at me, I sound so weird – your soul! Ha!” But then he paused and said, “I guess that’s the best way to put it, though.”

“Yeah,” I said… and then realized that the guy who just jogged past me and clearly saw me talking to myself must think the pregnant lady has gone batshit crazy. “Look, meet me back at my house in like fifteen minutes, okay?”

He nodded and… disappeared. “Wow, that was disconcerting,” I said aloud to no one.

Sitting in my kitchen, I told Charley, “Yes, I dreamt about someone else’s life.”

“See! I knew it!” he smiled broadly.

“And I saw you in the dream. I remembered getting the news that you died in an explosion?”

He nodded sadly. “Yeah. I got blown up pretty bad.”

“How?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Sorry, you don’t have to talk about how you died if that’s too hard – I don’t know how decorum about talking to ghosts…”

Charley laughed, “No, it’s okay. We signed up at the same time. Went through boot camp together. But then they shipped you off to serve on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific and I was stuck as a rigger on Victory ships taking ordinance across the Pacific. Well, up at Port Chicago on Suisun Bay. I was below decks rigging the Victory ship SS Quinault Victory when a loading crane dropped a crate of bombs into the hold of the SS E. A. Bryan – the ship docked on the other side of the pier. There was a huge crash and then, boom…”

“Oh my god, that’s terrible,” I said.

“Yeah,” he nodded solemnly. “I mean, I guess I was lucky it was over fast – literally in a flash.”

I stared thinking about how terrible the explosion must have been. “Can I ask when you became a ghost? I mean, like right after you died? Is that rude to ask?”

Charley chuckled, “I don’t know if it’s rude to ask. But, yeah, pretty much right after. I was walking among the devastation. I saw the ship I was in was torn into sections and tossed in several directions from the blast. I remember thinking ‘yeah, I wasn’t going to survive that!’”

“And you’ve been around since then?” I asked.

“Yeah, pretty much. I’ve lost track of time now and then, but I’ve been wandering around.”

“Why?” I said and then clarified, “I mean, why don’t you move on?”

He smiled sadly, “I don’t know for sure. But I think it’s because according to the military, I’m not officially dead.”

“Come again?”

He laughed. “See, the explosion was so severe that, well… Excuse me for being graphic, ma’am,” he reddened and then continued, “there wasn’t a lot of parts of folks left. A lot just vaporized.”

“Oh… I see. Did you…” I made a gesture with my hands that should probably be the international signal for being vaporized.

“No. Well, yes. Well, sort of. There’s some of me left there.”

“Eew. Sorry.”

“Yeah. If I had to guess… that’s why I’m still here. Because there’s still some of me left unaccounted for. And because they never found me, I was technically listed as MIA – presumed dead, but not officially.” He paused then added, “I mean, there’s a process… after some time they do issue a death certificate, but… I guess I’m not okay with that.”

We sat in silence around my kitchen table. I thought of the terrible explosion. I remembered hanging out with my best friend, Charley, when we – when Artie and he – were kids. I’d known this ghost for less than 48 hours, but I felt a deep sadness for him and for his situation. “Charley,” I started slowly. “Could you guide me to where you are – where whatever remains of you are, that is?”

“Yeah, I know it like the back of my hand. I mean, it’s literally part of the back of my hand…”

“Eew,” I said. Then I pulled out my phone and opened my laptop. “Let me make some calls…”

US Military bureaucracy is a complicated knot that works very slowly – usually. I started with my Congress critter’s office who pointed me to the defense department’s office of public affairs, who got me in touch with a historical department. When I mentioned I knew where “human remains” were located… that untied that knotted up bureaucracy pretty quickly.

A week later I was standing on the shore of Suisun Bay at the Port Chicago Naval Magazine National Memorial on a sunny morning talking to a public liaison who was guiding a crew dredging the shore. Unseen next to me stood Charley.

“No, no, they’re too close to the shore – they need to go out another fifty feet that way!” he said urgently.

I relayed, “They need to go another fifty feet out that way,” and I pointed the direction Charley indicated.

“But, ma’am, the stern of the Quinault Victory landed right there.” He pointed just in from where the launch was dredging. “You’re indicating another fifty feet beyond that?”

“I know where my arm is,” Charley nodded.

“Yep, another fifty feet.”

“Alright,” the man sighed and spoke into his radio.

We were there the rest of the morning, and I didn’t hear back from them for another week. But when they did call it was good news – they found remains. They had sent them to the Smithsonian to see if they could perform DNA testing. I told him if they were able to get a sample, check it against Alice Marshall who was living in an elderly facility outside of Vacaville – Charley’s younger sister.

“Umm, ma’am, how do you know all of this? We’ve had forensic archeologists all over that site for decades and you come in and point and they find remains we couldn’t find?”

“Would you believe I’m psychic?” You would have thought I said I had leprosy how quickly he tried to get off the phone with a promise to tell me if they found anything.

Suffice it to say, they did. They were able to extract DNA. They were able to match it to a sample from Alice. Unfortunately, Alice was suffering from dementia, and her family obviously never knew Charley, so while there was undoubtedly some familial closure, there wasn’t really anyone around in his family to celebrate his being identified.

But there was me.

Now eight months pregnant and, thankfully, the morning sickness had subsided. But I still took walks around the block – or, more accurately, waddles around the block with my enormous belly. And Charley still walked with me. And we talked, too – I took to wearing earbuds so I looked less crazy talking to myself.

“The ceremony was wonderful,” Charley said on July 18^th, the day after the annual ceremony at the National Monument. This year, though, in addition to the usual solemn memorial, they also ceremonially laid Charley to rest. “Alice’s daughter was there, and she received the flag for me that my parents never got,” he smiled sadly. “They officially added me to the list of those killed. I’m no longer Missing In Action.”

“I’m so happy for you, Charley!”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Artie, err, Jess.”

He still slipped and called me Artie sometimes like that. But I didn’t mind. I had more dreams of when I was Artie – he seemed like a pretty good guy. I mean, he better have been – he was me. Or was I him? Whatever, you get the idea.

“I’m glad we could get that taken care of,” I said. “Maybe now you’ll get to move on.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s a real bright light over there,” he motioned behind us. “It’s weird, I feel really drawn to it.”

“Jesus, Charley, you could have led with that!”

“I had to tell you about the ceremony!”

I smiled and nodded, “You did, Charley. Yes, you did. But now…?”

He smiled that radiant smile at me, looked at where he indicated the light was, and then back at me. “I think… I think it’s time to go.”

I felt tears welling up as I said, “Yeah, Charley. It’s finally time.”

“Thanks, Jess. Thank you for everything.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “My friend.”

Charley smiled broadly and started towards the light. “Hey, you take care of that kiddo there,” he said.

“I will, Charley. I will.”

He turned and took several steps into the street and then vanished. I felt a wave of peaceful energy wash over me. Jesus, now I’m sounding super metaphysical.

A month later, I gave birth to my daughter. The doctors put the swaddled bundle in my exhausted arms, and I looked down at her and she smiled up at me with an exuberantly friendly smile.

“You have decided on a name, right?” My best friend, Melissa, asked.

I grinned down at my baby daughter who already looked so familiar. “I have. Charlotte.”