I have only been dead once.

But once was enough since I am only ten years old, and being in that dead place, Deja Vu, even for a month was a month too long. It was empty and darker in there than the darkest night you can imagine, listening to my heart beat thump, thump, thump all day and all night. And when I wasn’t scared, I was just real bored, not being able to eat or play my flute or run outside with my dog, Socrates.

Remember in the old times before 3000? They used to say that you only live once! We know that isn’t true, of course. Not anymore. And it isn’t true of croaking either. Not anymore

Being dead– It can happen a couple of times if you’re unlucky. Deja vu all over again, as my folks used to say. They died a few times, and now they’re gone for good, which makes me an orphan. You win a few, you lose a few. All in the interest of population control, the Afterlife Bureau tells us.

Being dead is a real waste of time if you prefer not being dead, if, like me, you look forward to things like playing the flute. (Or the piccolo or the hippy harmonium for all I care). And

eating syrupy pancakes for breakfast.

Best of all, when you are not dead, you can have fun with your dog, if you have a dog, and if you don’t have one, you might as well be dead. (It’s no lie about being man’s best friend. Dogs are descendants of wolves; they’ve been domesticated for 15,000 years!)

That’s why Socrates (he’s my dalmation-bulldog-dachsund mix ) and I are going into the Blackmoor Woods today. It’s that creepy place with those rows and rows of leafless trees like ghouls huddled together behind the barbed wire fence and the yellow tape and the sign that says STAY OUT! With the skull and crossbones. There are even some decrepit gravestones in there, from the days when they used to put dead people in pine boxes and then bury them in the ground, like tulip bulbs– as though they were going to come up, in the spring! Never happened to the best of my knowledge.

Socrates is not just any dog. He is big and small with long legs, a flat nose, and a short tail, and even some black and white spots here and there. He doesn’t quite come up to my knees. But don’t laugh. He is as fearless as any old-timey thousand-year-old wolf. He was dead (and the only dog left) when I adopted him during the winter solstice festival at the cemetery animal shelter (CAS), but I knew he would be a great dog when he came back to life. If he came back to life. You never know what you’re going to get from the CAS shelter. Sometimes you get a real dud, a dog that just sits there as lifeless as a stuffed animal. And just as useless.

But I didn’t have to exchange Socrates, after all. It turned out that Socrates is a super adventurous dog. He likes to hunt, climb hills, swim in the creek with me, and go anywhere it says NO ADMITTANCE! Like the Blackmoor Woods! I like to imagine he was a timber wolf in his old life, out there fearlessly hunting moose and deer.

As soon as it got dark, we decided to ignore the sign and the barbed wire and the yellow tape and the skull and crossbones and see what else was in there ( besides the ghoulish trees and the vultures and the yappy black crows and those weird ancient headstones).

I may be only 10, but I don’t have to ask anyone if I can go where I want to go because we are both orphans, me and Socrates. But Deja Vu Family Services doesn’t like me being an orphan. Especially Mrs. Snout.

They came over after my parents vanished, and Mrs. Snout said, “Sorry, Grffin, about your folks, but there’s more where they came from. These old humans, they come in pairs. It’s cheaper that way. But we don't know what happened to this one’s partner. He may still be in the comeback crypto chest. Who knows? But it’s not your worry. You are a needy orphan kid. And it isn’t good to be an orphan. Come over here.”

Then they put this big long box, the kind you put long,-or even longer, stemmed roses in )on top of the dining room table and inside the layers of old-fashioned cellophane, there was this old dead lady laying there inside in a swirly nightgown with her bony pale hands folded over her chest and a mean look on her face as if she’d just swallowed a frog. Maybe she was a criminal in her first life, and they got her for half price. There was a smudged QR code on one arm. “This will be your new Aunt Skylar…. when she comes back to life,” said Mrs.Snoout, then she smiled and told me to “Have a nice day. “

Aunt Skylar came back to life the next day, but since was already dead once, I hoped she wouldn't be around too much longer this time, because she walks like Frankenstein with that crooked cane that she swings at Socrates and me. Sometimes, I think her wiring inside has shorted because she repeats herself a lot, and it sometimes takes her half a day to eat a slice of toast while she is staring out the window as though she is waiting for someone or something. But weirdest of all, she disappears every night and nobody knows where she goes. Her model dates back to the days when they buried people in boxes and had funerals, so no surprise. She never notices when we’re not around, especially if she is staring out the window and working on that toast. She probably hopes we’ll never come back. And someday we won’t come back, Socrates and me.

Midnight at the Blackmoor Woods is the spookiest time of all. Especially in the early days of winter. We ducked under the barbed wire and around the sign and under the tape. We stood still, very still, then we crouched together like we were both dogs on the stoney hard ground. It was cold, the trees were rattling in the wind, and there was an owl hooting. Suddenly, something shadowy and filmy, like a loose nightgown, began floating towards us. It had see-through arms and waggly feet that made a noise like a baby's rattle as they brushed the ground, moving towards us, coming closer and closer. Socrates whimpered and snuggled his nose inside my elbow and growled. He doesn’t like ghosts and unearthly spirits.

But it wasn’t a ghost or a zombie. Or a lost nightgown.

It was Aunt Skylar! And behind her floated another wraithlike figure. But this one was in a black three-piece suit and a top hat with no face beneath it. It had long fingers like creeping vines that were reaching out to entangle Aunt Skylar. But just as they touched her shoulders, she tumbled headfirst into the shallow stream that ran an arm's length away from us. The other figure floated past her, its top hat rocking on the place where its head should have been, and its long nailed toes splashing through the water like oars, its arms reaching towards both of us now.

Run, Socrates, run run run!.

When we got out of the woods and back to the house, wet, shivering, and covered with mud and twigs, Mrs. Snout was inside. Aunt Skylar and her stick were gone, and there was a new box sitting on the dining room table.

Another long box, like the kind you put very long-stemmed roses –or dead bodies in–

It was already open.

There was a man’s top hat sitting alongside it.

“So sorry about your aunt, Griffin. But here’s your new uncle Felton.” Mrs. Snout said, opening the box with a half smile and resting a hand on my shoulder. “ He’s still dead, but. he’ll be up and about in no time. It’s not so bad being an orphan, after all!

You know, deja vu all over again.

Have a nice day!”