Long ago, we used to tell ghost stories around the fire.
But now that we’re all dead and burning in Hell, we tell ghost stories in the fire.
The same stories. Over and over.
I suppose all stories are ghost stories when you’re a ghost.
Especially when the demons go around with whips to flog those ghosts telling happy stories, or stories about really good meals or memories.
You never get used to the flames. An impressive feat, really. Acclimation and desensitization never set in.
Hotter and hotter, while the ghost stories get duller and duller.
Here comes the whip.