As long as I can remember, my life has been a constant stream of insults, condescension, and humiliation at the hands of you people. Well, I'm sick of it. I may be too cowardly and weak to do anything about it in this lifetime, but I promise I'll have my revenge just the same. After I die, I'm going to come back as the scariest damn ghost you've ever seen, guaranteed—and I'm going to spend my days haunting the fuck out of you all.

My spirit will be locked in limbo, forced to wander between this world and the next until it gets retribution for its tormented past, and I can't fucking wait. Hope you like having your TV unexpectedly turn on and off while you don't even have the remote in your hands, shitheads! There won't be anything you can do about it, either. No one will believe you. They'll just say it's something to do with the old wiring in your house and you'll agree, but you'll know the truth, because it'll be me.

You better hope that I don't die for another 50, 60 years, so I don't start scaring you shitless every single night while you're still young. Unless you want a whole lot of eerie evenings, you better pray I live to be 100.

But you know what? That ain't gonna happen. My frail frame can't hold out against this kind of mistreatment forever. Someday, sooner or later, I'll succumb to your ceaseless upbraidings and die. And then you'll be in for some serious haunting.

"What's that?" you'll say to yourselves, walking to the bathroom in the pitch-dark night. "That noise—is the house settling? Is it the wind?" Yeah, fat chance, assholes! That noise will be me. You'll be consumed with a vague sense of unease until you get back to sleep. Which won't be for at least 15 or 20 minutes, if my ghost has anything to say about it. Oh, yeah, you can count on that.

I'm a pretty fragile guy, you know—I could go any minute. Maybe I'll suffer a particularly bad asthma attack and I'll die tomorrow. Then you'll have to put up with decades of sudden temperature shifts, noises in the attic, and candles that blow out for no reason before you finally succumb to the ravages of old age. You could be looking at half a century or more of thinking you may have seen something out of the corner of your eye.

Once I'm dead, I wouldn't recommend watching any Stephen King movies after 9 p.m. if I were you. The minute your mind starts filling with haunting images, I'm going to be there to exploit the hell out of them. You think those movies are scary? Just wait until you hear all the weird noises and stuff I'm going to conjure up.

If you're ever all alone in some scary place—like a forest or maybe an abandoned cabin of some kind—those creepy-ass faint moans will be mine. You'll be plenty spooked then. Even if you've gone completely bald, you'll still have hair on your arms, and it's going to be standing straight up by the time I'm through with you. And then I'll be all, "Boo, motherfuckers."

I promise you this: You'll eventually come to regret making fun of me when I was still alive.

And don't even get me started on what's going to happen if family members take pictures of you when they visit. Those pictures are going to have some weird discolorations, you can bet on that, and some of them may even contain forms that look sort of like faces. Whose face? Yours truly: Byron, avenging spirit from beyond the grave.

You probably won't even remember me by then. But that won't save you. I'll remember you to my dying day and beyond, and I'll spend my entire afterlife making what remains of your life a living hell.

Laugh while you can, you good-for-nothing sons of bitches, because your autumn years are going to be unsettling as shit.