Host: Welcome art lovers. We offer for your approval a still life, if you will, of noise. A soundless canvas suggestive of sound. The mouth belongs to Pamela, in life a shrieking battleaxe made up of adenoids, tonsils, and sound decibels. In death an unmuted practitioner of fishwifery, undeterred and ungagged by what one would assume to be the great silencer. Some ghosts come back to haunt, others come back simply to pick up where they left off. Our painting is called Pamela's Voice and this is the Night Gallery.

Pamela: Surprised?
Jonathan: At what?
Pamela: At my being here?
Jonathan: Hardly. In life, my dear Pamela, you arrived everywhere uninvited. You and that hyena mating-call voice of yours. Tell me, Pamela, how--how are things up there? Are they--they keeping you occupied keeping you contented. Are there lives, or rather afterlives, that you can destroy with gossip? Are there reputations you can filthy up with your dark little suspicions, that kitchen-knife tongue of yours? That's incredible, it--it never occurred to me, you're probably not even up there, you're more likely... (gestures down)
Pamela: I'm neither, Jonathan. I'm right here. I've never left.