They are the restless wandering phantoms of Alfred Packer, Richard Nixon, William Zanzinger, and Ezra Pound; together constituting an ever present vile aura, lingering like a black cloud not visible yet strangely always positioned so as for the rain to - when it falls - fall on you. You can sometimes make out a hint of their sarcastic laughter; feel their accusatory gazes from their burrowed hollow sockets burn your neck, arching your back like a twisted bin under the heaviest of weights: namely shame. Yet they remain hidden as if though by some thin fragile membrane of the ether; the fourth wall never breaking, but perpetually crumbling.
But that's okay because I can see from your avatar that you'd scare the shit out of them if they dared face you.