My Life Is Over

'My life is over,' I muttered, as the real estate agent led me up to the front door. Even for a redbrick old house in Newcastle it looked... rustic? Quaint?

Shit. It looked shit.

Beat-up and dirty, what was described to me as a 'front garden' was more a slab of concrete with a plastic chair and determined weeds reaching through the cracks. Even the outside was miserable enough to make me dread stepping inside.

Beggars can't be choosers, mind. And after two kids, a divorce and a bust company, I didn't have much choice at all.

This was a new start for me. A second chance. No matter how small, or dank.

The agent finally found the right key, and opened the place up for us.

'So, as you can see she's a bit of a fixer-upper, but the rent is controlled and you have the utilities included, so that's a plus.' She rambled on as she lead me through the house, a squat two-floor thing that was bigger than I expected for the price I was working with. Budgets get tight when you're living off a savings account you share with a vengeful ex-wife.

The entrance went into a hallway, the stairs on the right heading up to the second floor, and two doors on the left. It stank of rot and mildew, and I could already imagine how much black mold was under the fresh coat of eggshell paint that lined this entranceway.

The first door, at the front of the house, led into a living room. No furniture, and the carpet needed a wash, but it could work. Next, the kitchen at the back of the house, which smelled of blocked drains. There were the typical utilities - fridge, washing machine, microwave. I'd need a kettle on day one, but it was all functional.

Which is what you need, Tom

, I told myself.

Functional, minimum outgoings until you're up and running

.

We went upstairs, and it was more of the same; eggshell blue, bad smells, and bare.

'Who was in here last?' I asked, wondering how anyone could live here and leave it in this state.

The estate agent gave a small smile, stopping mid-way through showing me where a bed would go best, and gave me a serious look.

'Well, I should...' she paused, thinking it over. 'I should let you know that we're not

legally obligated

to tell you this, but I think it's only fair.'

Now my mind was going a mile a minute - was there faulty wiring? Pests? Or even squatters or homeless - not to sound like an arsehole, but the idea of moving into a den used by homeless people wasn't exactly exciting.

'The last tenant was killed, in the flat. It was years ago, but we've had trouble renting the property since.'

Oh.

I considered my options - the fact a death occurred here didn't bother me - chances are most houses in England had seen death at

some

point. But if I played it up, I might get a discount on rent.

'Right,' I said, trying to sound disheartened. 'I see.'

Her eyes widened, realising her mistake. 'I mean the landlord is open to answer any questions, and is eager to-'

'I'm just not sure anymore.'

'I can assure you, there's no risk involved, and, and-' She was spluttering, nervous. I didn't enjoy upsetting her, clearly stressed, looking to shift this mess of a property.

'For the rate you're talking about, I'm not sure. I'm a religious man,' I lied, 'and the thought of paying above average rates for somewhere like...' I looked around the bedroom.it honestly wasn't that bad, but I figured I was close to a bargain.

'I am able to sink to 350 a month,' she said.

I paused, nodded, and offered my hand.

It was a small win, but I needed it.

o-O-o

Moving day was rough. Amy had gotten the good car, the Ford with a big boot. I was left with the Corsa, which meant three trips to and fro Cumbria to Newcastle, dumping boxes of whatever I was left in the living room and hallway, ready to organise later.

The first thing on my to-do was buy a can of air freshener and give the place a hoover, but to do that I'd need to move the boxes. Instead, as night closed in, I just set up my TV and playstation, stuck in the first season of The Office (UK), dumped my son's old beanbag chair Amy hated in front of it, put the bag of food in the fridge and ordered Chinese food. With no internet, no friends in the city, and no job for two days, a dark cloud settled over me in the realisation of how my life had become an empty shell of what it once was.

In less than two years, I'd gone from a good proving dad to two amazing kids, and a good husband to a loving wife, to broke, bored, lonely and sad.

The Office played as I, a full grown 44 year old production manager, started to doze off on a beanbag while awaiting greasy takeaway. Then, I heard a noise.

A creaking, from inside the house.

Again, another. Upstairs.

If there's a fucking druggie in my bathtub, I swear to god...

I roused myself, heaving out of the beanbag, making as much noise as possible. I remembered reading something about bears, and how you should always make noise so bears in the wild know where you are, and don't get surprised by you. I figured the logic probably applied here too.

'Hello?' I called up the horribly carpeted stairway, sounding for all the world like a character from a bad horror movie.

I hit the lightswitch, and the upper landing flickered into view. Slowly, I climbed the steps, until I heard the creak again. In the room that might, eventually, be a bedroom.

Trying to broadcast my presence, I coughed. 'Hello?'

A shadow, in the room. The door was only open a few centimetres wide, but I could definitely see movement.

'Whoever's in there, you need to leave. Now.'

Movement again, but no answer.

Despite the hammering in my chest, I approached the door and put my hand to it, noticing how much it was shaking.

'I'm coming in.'

I pushed the door inwards, and felt for the light. Switching it on, my stomach dropped.

There was no one here.

There was no bed to hide under, no wardrobe to stash yourself inside.

Nothing.

THUD THUD THUD.

I jumped out my skin, the noise scaring the crap out of me. After a second, my brain caught up and I realised it was the front door. With a laugh, I felt my stomach growl as the thought of Cantonese chicken filled my mind.

I shut off the light, ignored the crushing weight in my chest, and went back downstairs.

o-O-o

The feeling of my hand landing in the sticky-wet sauce of my dinner woke me with a jolt. As if I wasn't already a sorry sight.

Somewhere in my groggy head, however, I heard a laugh. Soft, quiet, but definitely there.

My watch said it was past midnight, and there was no one outside on the street. The TV was on standby, having long since given up on me. So where-

Another laugh. Slightly louder. I pulled my hand from the mess, and looked around, convinced for the second time tonight there was someone here.

I couldn't shake it. There was just... a

feeling

, deep in my gut, that I wasn't alone.

'I heard you laugh,' I said, making my voice travel. I had the kind of voice that booms - Amy said I would have made a good teacher. 'Where are you?'

Quiet.

'Well?!' I shouted, feeling anger reddening my face.

'Jesus,' I heard behind me, but when I span to find the source, there was nothing. Just the closed curtains and boxes of clothes.

'Show yourself, dickhead!' I yelled at an empty room. Only, it wasn't empty. I could just

tell.

'I heard your voice!'

A pause, quiet and still.

Then, 'Really?'

If I had my eyes closed, I would have said that the person speaking was right in front of me. But there was no one there. Just me, the hammering in my heart and the sauce dripping from my hand.

'R-really,' I sputtered, eyes darting around the clearly empty space, that feeling still there.

'Holy shit,' I heard. 'Holy shit, he can hear me.'

'What's going on?' I asked the air, fear creeping in next to my anger, making me doubt my own senses. 'Who are you?'

'My name's Margot,' said the voice. Female.

Still can't see her

.

A chill ran up my spine, the wrongness of the situation telling me either I was hearing things, or my eyes were lying to me, because it sounded like she - Margot - was

right there

.

'What the fuck is going on?' I asked, more to myself than anything. Nonetheless, she answered.

'I'm dead,' she said, her voice quiet, yet clear.

Silence. From both of us.

I shut my eyes, trying to process the words that came from nowhere.

You're cracking up, Tom

, I thought.

'I was killed here,' Margot continued, 'five years ago. In my bed. Upstairs.'

'Shut up,' I heard myself say, needing the time to think.

'Wait, what?' she asked, but the sound of her disembodied voice made me want to run. The hair on my neck and arms stood on end, and I felt the overwhelming urge to run.

So I did.

Wearing nothing more than joggers, a t-shirt, my grey dressing gown and some socks, I grabbed my new keys, whirled out of the room and out of the front door.

For a while, I think I was in a kind of shock. The feeling of... wrongness that had permeated the air was swept away in a true northern drizzle.

My new street, Meldon Road, was cobble-paved, and the tall street lamps gave the world an orange glow. My breath came in shallow huffs, turning to steam on the cold air, as I rubbed my eyes.

You're tired.

You're stressed.

You're dreaming.

Anything but admitting what I had heard would do.

Slowly, reality came back. An uncaring autumnal gust showered me as my socks soaked through, my shifting steps starting to feel like stepping through mud. I shivered, and turned to look at the door.

Black paint, chipped at the joints. One window, round, needing a wash. The world inside dark, but warm and dry.

My hand found the door handle, the key the lock, my foot the carpet.

I went straight to a clothes box, changed into new pyjamas, ignoring the pit in my stomach. Once in dry clothes, I dragged out my duvet, far too big for this place, and sat in the beanbag. I put The Office back on, kicked my leftovers out of reach, pulled the duvet up, and tried not to think until I fell asleep.

o-O-o

The morning light grazed over the roof of the building across from mine, threading the gap in the curtains and getting me right in the fucking eyes.

With a grunt, I rolled off my son's beanbag, and smacked my ankle on a plastic box.

I yowled, sighed, and sat up as the events of last night slotted into place in my head. The shadow, the voice, standing in the rain.

The room, in the daylight, was much less imposing, so I figured I would call my own bluff.

'Margot?' I asked the air. My voice cracked like a stupid teenager, and I was more quiet than I had intended, so I said it again. 'Margot?'

See? Nothing. Just stress. Just stress and tension, Tom. Just-

'Hello? Can you hear me?'

Shit.

It felt like my stomach fell out my arse. The room was bathed in shadows, the sunlight coming at a certain angle. Maybe it was best I wasn't looking anywhere. Either way, I had to continue this. Crazy or not, I was in for a penny.

'I can hear you, but I can't see you.'

'No one can,' she said. She sounded small. Quiet.

'I don't know what's going on right now, to be honest.'

'Neither do I. This is a first for me.'

There was a pause. Not awkward, but... stagnant. Like both of us were waiting for the other to start.

'Have you tried to talk to people before?' I asked, feeling a bit silly talking to a seemingly empty room. Only, it wasn't empty.

'Sometimes,' she said. 'But... not many people come here. Just the estate agent, and she hates it. I've shouted out of the window at strangers, but I never got a response. You're the first.'

'Right,' I said, trying to rationalise this ridiculousness. 'Right. Let's assume I'm not going crazy, and you're real.'

'Bit rude, but okay.'

'What does this mean? There's an afterlife?!'

'Apparently.'

'And, what, you're just

stuck

here. Imprisoned.'

'I don't know what to tell you, Tom.' I heard a sigh, and swallowed a question about whether that meant she breathed, or just made sounds as though she did. 'I've had years to mull this over. Heaven, Hell. God. All of it. And I don't have an answer, because being dead, it turns out, gives zero insight on death.'

I listened to her grow frustrated, and I sympathised. She sounded like someone who had been left behind. By the world, by theology. Even by death.

'Can you eat?' I asked.

'What?'

'I'm just trying to get my head round all this. Sorry, is it okay if I ask you questions?'

'I'd love it!' she chimed. 'Haven't had a conversation in half a decade, so.'

'Right,' I mumbled. 'I think I should start with, I suppose, the technical side. What are the rules?'

Margot laughed. It was sweet, and at a better time would likely be contagious. 'I don't know! I can leave the flat, but it makes my head spin if I go too far. I'm invisible, and until yesterday no one could hear me. I can do the whole going through walls thing, but I walk. What else?'

'Do you remember dying?' As soon as I asked the question, I regretted it. 'Sorry, I shouldn't-'

'It's fine.' She was quiet again. 'I don't think about it much. But I remember being attacked. I don't know who, but it was a guy, I think. I remember blood, and a knife, and staring at the doorway until everything faded out.'

'I'm so sorry,' I said, though it sounded feeble at best. 'I shouldn't have asked.'

'It's fine, really. I don't remember much before that. Of my life. I remember the big things - my family, my mum and sister. My name, obviously. Things like that. I think I came to the city to study, but I don't remember what.' There was a pause, which I didn't interrupt. 'Can we talk about something else please?'

I nodded, and stood. 'Can you smell?'

'Yes, and no offense, but you could do with a shower, mate.'

I smiled, and shook my head. 'I was going to make breakfast. Bacon and eggs with beans.'

'That sounds amazing.'

'I'll shower first though. Then food. Then we can chat as I unpack a little.'

'Okay! Ten years, I've got some catching up to do.'

I opened a box or two before pulling out a towel, and some new clothes. 'By the way - out of curiosity - how old are you?'

'Well,' Margot said as though it was a difficult question. 'I was 20 when I died, so whether you want to count that as 2o, or 30 is you're choice.'

I nodded, and went to leave the room, but I heard her go, 'Oh my god.'

'What?'

'I'm fucking

thirty

?! How did this happen?!'

'You don't sound happy.'

'I'm outraged! How did this happen? I'm so

old

!'

'I'll try not to be offended,' I laughed, before heading upstairs. Her voice followed me, mutterring away.

'I don't feel thirty. Not at all. I barely feel twenty. When my mum was twenty she'd had me already! Tom, I've done

nothing

.'

'To be fair,' I said, stopping at the bathroom at the top of the stairs. 'You've been otherwise engaged.'

'Nice way of putting dead and buried.'

'Now, would you mind waiting outside? I might be divorced, disgraced and hearing voices, but I would still like my privacy.'

'Oh, right. Sure, yeah. I'll just... wait.'

I nodded, and went in. The bathroom was small and outdated in every way, but functional. After struggling with the shower for a while, I finally got the damn thing to heat up, and enjoyed a shower without soap or shampoo. They were still boxed, and I could have another shower tonight. Frankly, despite Margot's complaints, this was more a way to wake myself up a little. I was in a bit of a daze, and couldn't quite get my thoughts straight.

In the middle of rubbing my face under the water, I had a thought that made me pause.

Could Margot be watching me right now?

It wasn't a daft question, was it? After all, she

had

clearly said she can walk through walls. Plus, I wasn't exactly awful to look at - a bit of a belly was expected at my age, but I was strong. For knocking forty, I was quite proud of how I looked.

And then there was my, you know. I never liked the word 'cock', and 'penis' sounded weirdly medical. I was decently endowed, with seven and a half inches and enough girth to make my wife unable to wrap her hand all the way around it.

Sex, in fact, had been the one thing we didn't really argue about. It was almost nightly, and I would always make an effort to make her cum.

My wife - ex-wife - was a stunner. She was tall, brunette, and beautiful. Legs for days and an arse for England. The memory of her, in this line of thinking, with her hand on my dick stroking me to full length made the same happen in real life.

Again, I considered the idea that Margot could float through at any moment, and I would have no idea. Maybe she already had.

Shamefully, I felt myself get even more aroused at the thought, as I started to jack myself off under the water.

I thought of my wife, her expert tongue, her lips wrapped around me as she gagged. I remembered one time, when we were newlyweds, when we had gotten frisky at a midnight showing to some stupid Christmas movie. We were in the cinema, her hand in my pants, my fingers inside her. We had a secret bet going on who would cum first, and whoever lost had to be the other's unquestioning slave for the weekend. She'd lost. I'd had her every way I could think of that weekend, and I'm fairly sure she didn't put on a shred of clothing for over 36 hours. We made a mess of the bedroom, where I had tied her up face-down for a while just to eat her out.

I loved going down on her - seeing her squirm as I drew her close to orgasm, having complete control over when she came, it was addictive.

The only thing she never allowed was anal. She'd had a boyfriend before me who she tried with, and it had actually resulted in a small rip, which she said was insanely painful and put her completely off. I understood, but that didn't stop me slipping a thumb in as we fucked doggystyle. Any more than that, and she would call it all off.

All this time, as I relived some of our greatest hits, I was hammering myself in the shower, getting closer and closer until-

'Oh, fuck,' I moaned as I came. 'Oh, FUCK!' The feeling of relief was huge, as the water washed away the white liquid.

I sighed a content sigh, cracked my neck, and turned shower off. I smelled better than I had that morning, but a proper shower would be needed later.

I wrapped up, grabbed my clothes, and dressed in the bathroom. If Margot had violated my privacy, I could get angry about it; if she hadn't, I had no intention or interest around exposing myself to a ghost.

How silly was that. A ghost.

Nonsense, Tom. Nonsense.

o-O-o

Stepping downstairs, dressed in clean but slightly soggy jeans and a plain shirt, I listened for Margot.

I was about to call out, when, on the second last step, it felt for all the world like I had walked outside - an awful chill ran up my spine, and a gust of wind seemed to pass over me, making me shiver.

'Jesus!' I muttered to myself as I trundled down.

'Sorry,' I heard, her voice close to my ear. 'Was it cold?'

I didn't stop, trying just to block her out a little. 'Freezing.' the confusion her simple existence brought me made me want to shut her out.

'Sorry,' she said again, trailing behind me. 'You're warm, if that helps.'

I sighed, and dragged the box full of food to the kitchen, lifting it up onto the counter. Most of it was cans - beans, soup, that kind of thing. I had a loaf of bread and some cheese, too.

Cheesy beans on toast it was.

After a minute or two spent finding the toaster and plugging it in, the bare room started to fill with the smell of toasting bread; a nice, normal that allowed me to forget my worries for a moment.