I'm being haunted. The spirits usually startle me when I'm walking through my basement. Just before I head toward the stairs, their persistent presence glare at me and encompass my head with deafening shrieks, "What's wrong with you! I should be finished by now!" Among the shadows along the wall, my horde of wood frames are waiting to be released from prostrate agony as they sigh and moan toward me; I struggle to pass, carrying packages of groceries. Shivers coarse down my spine as I catch a horrible glimpse of another positioned pile of mache boxes rolling around in their plastic, not yet torn away from whence they came from. Taunting me over and over. "Get your ass over here and give me some paint! Give me some paint!" Piles of colored paper telling me, "Cut me up! Cut me up!" Partially painted canvases, "Finish my hand, Artist B***ch! Figure it out!" The more I run away from them, the louder they become. Someday I'm going to keep running, and someday, they will never call for me. That is by far the most frightening thing that could ever happen.