Things are pretty crap at the moment. I have no money, my home is being run by this grieving airy-fairy American artist, my family and friends are gone, I don’t get out much. And I’m dead. Nobody talks to you when you’re dead. Nobody even knows I’m there. Even that “psychic” she hired can’t see me. Just to clarify: she’s a fraud. A total fraud. She can’t contact the dead boyfriend, he isn’t even here! It doesn’t matter what I do. She can detect diddly squat! By God she’s milking my roommate for all the money she has.
So I’m having a bit of fun with it, you know, poltergeist spooky stuff. Smashing the odd plate, scattering Cheetos on the carpet, writing scary stuff in blood on the bathroom wall, well almost. On my way into the hall, I see her manhandling the clay on the pottery wheel. Probably going to make yet another modern art monstrosity, or something. All those sculptures cluttering up my flat! I have half a mind to take a sledgehammer to all of them but those things are harder to move than potato chips.
But this time instead of having that screwy determined expression while she works, she’s all hot and bothered. The kind of hot and bothered she gets when she reads those Black Lace Novels. She’s squatting on that wooden stool, all heavy breathing like someone’s touching her.
I don’t see why you’re looking at me. I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole. She probably thinks it’s her gooey, sickening husband from beyond the grave. I have never laughed so hard in all my death.