Talking to the dead is all the rage it seems. TV shows make it seem like all you have to do is somehow find a way to tune into some higher state of consciousness and suddenly there’ll be this long line of the deceased waiting to tell you where they’re buried. It’s not that easy though; believe me, I’ve been trying.

I tried to figure out the best way to go about achieving an open line of conversation with the life-deficient. I decided a good first step might be to talk to a dead thing, but one that occupied a lower life form before passing on. So I tried having a conversation with an old houseplant that had turned brown and withered. After a couple hours I decided it was pointless. The only really good thing I could think to ask it is if it could tell me how it died, and I already knew that anyway: I forgot to water it. It occurred to me that even if a dead plant could talk, it might be reluctant to want to talk to the person who was responsible for killing it. It probably thought I was being overly insensitive, basically saying, “Do you know that I’m the one that ended your inconsequential little existence? And I’d do it again, ficus.”

I had similar results trying to talk to a dead fly, a hamburger I was about to eat, and a frozen homeless guy I found behind my apartment building. It was all very disappointing. But then, a breakthrough. Last night I had a dream that felt so real that I’m inclined to believe that it wasn’t a dream at all. I woke to find a dead man standing at the foot of my bed, just the way the TV told me to imagine a dead person who wanted to talk to me would. In the dim light of my space heater, I could see that he was a tall, thin, sad looking man. With a stovepipe hat. I could barely believe it. I hit the medium jackpot. Not only did I succeed in making contact with a dead person, but it was a famous dead person: Our sixteenth President, Abraham Lincoln.

“Abe?” I said.

“Yes” he replied.

“Abraham Lincoln?” I clarified, just to make sure I wasn’t talking to some kind of dead Abe Lincoln impersonator, which I’m sure there were probably a lot of in the years after his death.

“It is I,” he replied, in true Abraham Lincoln fashion.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I need to tell you something from beyond the grave,” was his answer, chilling my bones.

“Of course,” I said, with baited breath. “Please, tell me what you need the world to know!”

He took a deep, mournful breath, looked in to my eyes, and said, “I was murdered.”

“Yes, yes!” I responded. “At Ford’s Theatre, while you were watching a play!”

He nodded and continued. “I know who shot me.”

“Yes, John Wilkes Booth! He shot you in the head, stabbed Henry Rathbone in the arm, and escaped!”

Mr. Lincoln’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s correct,” he muttered.

“What about him?” I asked.

He took a deep breath and continued. “My death must be avenged.”

At this point I was a little confused. The only thing I could think to say was “Two weeks after you were killed, they found Booth in a barn and shot him when he tried to escape.”

Mr. Lincoln took this information in, looked down at his shoes for a moment, looked back up at me and said “Really?”

“Yes sir. Eight other conspirators were found and tried, and all eventually proven guilty and punished.”

Abe chewed on his lip a bit, and said “Oh. Okay.”

Then there was this really awkward moment where he kind of just stood there looking around and my room, and I sat in my bed thinking about how weird I felt being in my pajamas in front of a president. He raised his arm and smoothed his beard, itched his mole, finally looked back at me and said, “Well, thanks then.” And he was gone.