short story

"Do you believe in ghosts Monsieur?"
Lautrec had that owlish quintessentially French expression on his face as he asked which made him look like nothing so much as a French owl.
"What is the word for owl in French?" I wondered aloud, ignoring his question.
"Hibou," he said without turning a feather.
The rain rattled the window pane.
"This house is haunted," he exclaimed suddenly, starting forward in his seat with an anguished cry. "It is haunted by the ghost of Remy Schnauwaert Montclair Tiddlybun."
I want the reader to read without knowing why he's reading, to be lulled strangely on by each sentence, almost unaware that he's being drawn in until his imagination is engaged and suddenly everything is elevated by his response, as the performance of an actor only touches alchemy when an audience is so lulled to consent that their own imaginations lift everything he does towards the pantheon of great art, and at that moment they exalt him and he plays them as his instrument.
Some writer of note commented that every good story should start with the hero putting on his shirt.
He may have meant ghost stories.
There was a time when I thought I would begin my every short story with the words: "Do you believe in ghosts Monsieur?"
But this quickly seemed an intolerable affectation.
And, besides, to stick to it I would have had to actually write some short stories.