I live with a ghost.

To prove this, I once placed the remote on the arm of an empty chair at 90 degrees and left. I slammed the door so it knew that it is OK. So it knew that it was alone. So it knew it was safe.

With a curious wondering, I’d spring into my day. I’d collate memories with my steps. Eyes wide and ready, if ringed with tired. I heaved with the hustle and bruised with the bustle. I work, day by day, disgruntled as though it were a ruling and spend my evenings skimming through the London stream of bodies. A city that awakens something archaic in me. A memory inside a memory. I spend my days inhaling like the last burning drags of a cigarette.

Each day I return; my wallet a little lighter. Depending on the day my heart and my slouch would be at different levels.

Still the glowing orange light of the lamp would greet me just the same.

And the remote would be at 73 degrees.

I first knew I had a ghost a week ago. No more and no less than the time you are reading this. I saw a cup I had not used on the table. A delicately placed coaster coloured the bottom of transparent glass. A polite forgetful ghost. I smirked.

My flat had stayed relatively untouched for weeks, perused and ruffled by my fingers alone. I’d deftly flip through plates and showers in a routine manner. I’d spend my time in my own disarray, laziness that was allowed to grow due to a lack of scorn and worry. With only you alone to judge your behaviour, you become accustomed to your own weasel-like mess and morals.

The cup, and indeed the ghost, had set the rules again. Mugs were to be swirled with washing-up liquid and placed in their homes accordingly. My night-time wanderings had to be kept to tiptoe ballets over creaky floorboards. With each sound that would reverberate through thin walls, I’d cringe in fear. Let’s not wake the spectre of the spare room. Let’s not spook the ghoul of sharing. Let’s not be haunted by the ghost.

Once I tried to bound quietly through the door in the early hours. Cigarette smoke clung to the last beads of alcohol swilling on my tongue. Nicotine and beer raced through me like one man band. My fingers clashed like symbols, and my feet drum-rolled up the stairs  I peeled a layer off my outfit and poured more wine into a glass, settling down for more antics,,,.

Hours late, through my passed-out eyes and heavy eyelids, I saw a figure pass by me. A blurred ghost. The shape of a being. I drifted into slumber before I could gasp once more.

I woke up in the morning still sprawled on the sofa. The remote lay at a different angle.

Today was different. The sun had petered through my window, projecting the colour of the curtains onto the white walls. My head hung in a gallows fashion, grieving for the joy that was stripped from my body. My soul was frittering in and out of this world. Electricity was bereft in me. I had no more sparks to give.  I wanted to be alone.

My bladder screamed alarms but I heard the ghost, stomping up and down the stairs. I held my breath afraid, clinging onto my bed as though it would leave without me, tired of my weight and mind. I hoped the ghost didn’t hear me, wishing to waft into my room for a phantom parley. Instead, I stayed still for seconds. I was motionless for minutes. I halted for an hour.

When I thought I was OK, when I thought I was alone, when I thought I was safe, I crawled onto the sofa.

I now sit on the sofa, typing away, clacking out my story. Many people are ghosts, slipping through this world unnoticed. Whether they mean to or not, quieter souls sink into the shadows. They wish to be invisible, hoping they can skirt through this life by their own rules.

Even I was a ghost this morning, praying I am not seen yet hoping that I am missed.

The front door goes. The steps are climbed. The key unlocks. Out of the corner of my eye, the ghost stands in the doorway.

“Hello,” she says with a beaming smile and a friendly rouge on her cheeks.

“HI!” I reply, the residual emotions of shame and disappointment fluttering away.

With big footsteps and big chatter, she bounces merrily to the once-empty chair opposite mine.

At 90 degrees, the ghost hands me the remote, becoming human again.