I have a ghost story to tell.

It’s a small one, but it’s mine. (Clearly under my copyright, 2012.)

I have a ghost story to tell.

My apartment, you see, is haunted.

There wasn’t a murder in it, no, that would be too exciting. Nor was there a suicide. No, no one died there, but it has ghosts nonetheless.

It would really be easier if someone had been murdered there, because then I could talk about the bloodstains that would gleam, fresh and grisly on the walls in the dark of the moon, or the shrieking of the faucets from the memories of pain. A suicide, too, might have made the walls weep in sorrow, or the floor turn black with the shade of death, but no. These ghosts never scream nor shriek.

For all that my ghosts are quiet, thare quite insistent that they exist. I try and tell them that their presence has moved on and they need not be there now, but they return time and again—affirming their reality. It’s quite a few, really. You’d think that they would feel crowded, all packed in my tiny apartment, but it must seem spacious to them, as insubstantial as they are.

I have called no mystic, no shaman or witch doctor to expel my ghosts. They hardly trouble me, and I know their names. I’ve seen them, too; they’re not terrifying, they’re simply here past their time. Sometimes they surprise me,
though, and cleave quite cleanly through the reality that I’ve set up for myself.

One day, perhaps, I’ll join them in their haunting, ghosts one and all, but for now I must deal with their presence, hovering in my apartment.

Today a ghost showed up again, as I took an envelope from my mailbox. I sighed, took out my sharpie, and wrote (in big block letters) « DÉMÉNAGÉ », and left it for the postman. Maybe that ghost will get the message, it’s time to move on. I’m the only one living in my apartment now.

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