Sometimes I stare out over the bay at the lights of houses on the other side, and looking at those little window-squares of brightness I wonder: How many of those houses have got murder mysteries happening inside of them? How many of those windows lead into brightly-lit living rooms where a body is splayed out in the middle of the floor with horrified houseguests standing around with hands over their mouths in shock? All except for one of them, whose shock is a ploy? How many of the carpeted hallways and tile kitchens are being paced through by a stern detective who stays quiet for several minutes before he starts asking questions? How many of those houses have furniture arrangements that bother the detective's quirky sense of aesthetics? Which car parked in the cul-de-sac out front is prepared for a quick getaway? What rooftops have dark figures lurking on them that I can't see from this distance? How many of those harsh ceiling fluorescents are shining on a sweating figure, intent on their manic need, staring at the knife in their hand and wondering what to do with it?
But not always. Sometimes I wonder how many of houses I see are lit up by regular lights and how many of them are glowing from being haunted.