Mikhail Bulgakov has shown up again in the parts of the internet that I generally prowl. Not only that, but while I was trying to rearrange my junk today in my bedroom, my copy of The Master and Margarita crept out from under my bed. It might be making a break for the door, or possibly just the stack of books that’s waiting to be shelved. Either way, I’m beginning to think I’m being haunted.