The dead tell such good tales.
You can hear their stories in the blackest hour, when the night is at its most still; the maw of darkness swallowing the reason of the day. As you lie sleeping, the dead will slip under the crack of the door or slither through the hole in the rusty lock. The dead like an audience.
Sometimes, the dead will stand by your bedside, angrily spitting dry words from their dusty mouths. Sometimes, they will sit next to you in sleep, speaking in hushed whispers so not to wake you. Sometimes, the dead will perch on the edge of your bed with their backs turned, too ashamed of their story to tell it to your sleeping face.
Do not be afraid of the dead for, if you listen to their tales, you will hear wonderful things; triumphant love and searing heartbreak. Romance and adventure and stories of lives full or wasted. The dead are wise and old and have lived longer than you and I.
Still, not all the dead have honest tales to tell and be wary of those ghouls that come with ill intent. You will know them as the sheets grow cold; when they lie next to you and lean in with blue lips that touch the skin.
But, if their rotten words trouble you, remember that night will end soon enough. A new day will come and the dawn, with its limitless potential for new stories, will be waiting for you. Sweet dreams, my love.