This tale is dedicated to the memory of the late Robert Anton Wilson, who inspired many writers.
That every stout and determined materialist, arguing his rejection of the unseeable and the untouchable, lives in a phantom existence, from which he would fade away were it not for his support by invisibles--
The heat of his body--and heat has never been seen. His own unseeable thoughts, by which he argues against the existence of the invisible.
He recalled certain incidents of his youth, even his infancy, when he'd sometimes encountered ghosts, or spirits. He remembered, for instance, at age seven or eight, he had wandered to the basement of an old house his parents were visiting, property of some great aunt he barely knew. Aunt Celina.
Yes, he remembered: a specter in the cellar, a glowing form shaped like a lady in a long gown. She said nothing, did nothing except turn and look at him, then vanished.
He returned upstairs, not in the least frightened, and told his mother about the spirit below. She laughed and assured him there were no ghosts. Upon overhearing, the great aunt's face grew pale and her hands trembled, but she said nothing. Later, when his father heard about it, he grew angry, ordering him never to speak such devilish nonsense again.