I watch my students pour their souls onto pieces of dead trees. Their sunken eyes are wide open trying to make sense of the words dancing and leaping in front of them. The students hope the blood red ink of my grading pen passes them by and doesn’t reanimate the dead paper pulp into a ghost that haunts their academic careers. The grades of tests past weigh down the students like the Dickens’ chains of sin Morley had to bear. What about the ghost of tests’ future? That grave remains open for now. The next test is in four weeks.