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Amendment – confused felon.

‘Who am I? Who are you?’ he says around a curled lip.

‘I’m the person who lives here.’

He scoffs.

… It’s a little bit hot. (Sue me!)

‘Since when?’ His brows raise.

‘Since 8am Sunday.’ Confusion grows until dread promptly replaces it. He shifts, and I watch his hands clench and unclench. ‘Oh Stars, is this the part where you murder me? Look, let’s just talk this out. You could be anything you want to be, why resort to murder? You look like a sharp young man with a bright future ahead⁠—’

The felon sneers. ‘Obviously, I’m not here to kill you or I wouldn’t have announced myself, would I?’

Was it obvious? Not sure about that one. I can safely say I’m not too keen on that chauvinistic asshole tone he’s got going.

‘Okay,’ I start slowly, trying for amicable. ‘So, this is, what? Just a misunderstanding.’

‘Evidently.’

Not exactly forthcoming with the info. Okay.

‘Um…’ I look for a segue. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Walker.’

I frown. ‘That’s not a name, that’s a noun.’

‘Oh, by all means, let’s debate the origins of my name while you invade my home.’

‘Your home? I live here. This’ – I gesticulate with my hands to the badly decorated decor – ‘is all mine,’ I finish, taking a second glance at the room and wondering if it’s worth fighting over. Pull it together, Miller – you have nowhere else to live!

‘Your home? You could hardly call this your home – you dirty little squatter. I’ve been haunting here for fifty-six years.’

‘There must have been some sort of mix-up, some sort of…’ I look around the room as if its dated-wallpaper walls harbour the answer to this ridiculous blunder. My mind feels like it’s falling over itself trying to build a single thought. Is the house shaking again? How sweet of it to commiserate with my terror. Wait, did— ‘Did you just say haunting?’

‘Yes.’

‘As in, dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re dead?’

Alleged dead-man rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, dead. As in expired, deceased, decomposing in the Greyfriars cemetery two hundred metres from here – dead.’

Hm. Well, colour me stumped.

My mind spirals down the toilet bowl of confusion and I find myself flushed under the scrutiny of a dead-man’s gaze. Why is he here? Choosing to haunt this house is like choosing to get a root canal on a perfectly good tooth. The chances any sane person would do such a thing are slim to none.

I study the dead-man. His shoes are very shiny. Apparently, the dead have access to polish. And of course, they’d have the time. His suit is very well tailored – not that I know anything about tailoring, just that the dark navy pants and white button-up shirt fit him like a glove. I’m willing to bet money I don’t have that the jacket folded over his forearm does too. His tie is loose around his neck, like he’d been midway through taking it off.

That’s when I notice the pale flesh twisting in a mass of burns trailing up his neck braided with some sort of glowing tattoo, it looks like licks of the same flame I assume burnt him.

I meet his eyes. Can fire burn in the colour green? That’s how it looks to me. Like his eyes are alight with fury.

I’ve been caught staring, and now he’s glaring.