I’m not wearing a sheet—I am a sheet. A real, honest-to-haunt ghost, thank you very much. Ask me to prove it, and I’ll just stare at you through these poorly cut eyeholes while splattering a bit of ketchup—it’s all part of the act, you see?

No one’s ever seen my face. They never will. I wander around, moaning ominously, planting sausages in places they absolutely shouldn’t be—dresser drawers, mailbox slots, sometimes I even stick one to a window for a friendly little scare. Once, I “haunted” a bakery and accidentally turned the entire display into a ketchup-soaked mess. The shrieks? Music to my ears.

Doubt me if you must, but don’t be surprised when you wake up with a sticky red puddle and a stray bratwurst where you least expect it. I’m more devoted to this ghostly existence than you’ll ever understand.