They say that when you die, you retain your memories.

Chris had been a genuinely nice guy – a guy with a warm heart and friendly demeanour. What’s more, he, Mortimer, had lived and laughed alongside him – something his dead companions didn’t exactly evoke. OK. So they had their uses from time to time and offered him company when he desired it. Even so, that was it. They were dead, not living. Anyway, their conversations weren’t exactly inspiring.

Stop moping and think of a solution. A voice in his head told him. If you want to find your mojo again, then get on with it and stop wallowing in self-pity. This voice spoke the harsh truth. He needed to man-up. Nodding, Mortimer set his face in a line of steely determination, created a pile of papers and began to draft down possible ideas.Mass suicide? Too messy. Global war? Too soon. Revenge cult? Too predictable. NO.

Fate always catches up to you in the end.” They add. “It was only a matter of time. In your case, fate so happens to be in the form of me!

How dare you call me ‘it’?” It was my turn to point the finger, as I glide over to where he is standing and gibbering. “‘It’ has a name,” I continue, scowling. “It’s Clara and, if you ever look at me like that or refer to me as a thing rather than a human being again, then I’ll find out where you live and I’ll haunt you for the rest of your puny life and that’s a PROMISE!” And that’s how you threaten someone…ghost style.