John’s being haunted.

It’s the frigid, lingering kind of haunting. The kind that sinks into not only the foundations of the apartment building but also into his bones like a morning fog. He can feel the spirit following him; it’s why he spends most nights out at the pub. Better out drinking down his sorrows, than having to deal with the bloody fucking phantom that follows him around and puts frost on his windows. You always were ones for dramatics, weren’t you?

Even in death, you can’t seem to stop nagging him. What he really should do is find someone to exorcise you, or do it himself. But then he wouldn’t get the pleasantry of your new, ghastly appearance, or the way you throw his ashtray around his apartment like the proper poltergeist-in-training that you are.

So for now, you’ll stay stuck to each other, neither John nor his phantom able to move on. It’s his fault anyway; he’s the reason the relationship and you died. He supposes he’s always been a two-birds-with-one-stone kind of man.

“You know, love, I’d tell you to go to hell, but I’m not sure that you haven’t been already.” He slumps down further into his chair, a bottle of Jameson tucked between his legs, and a half-smoked cigarette hanging limply between his fingers. Static flickers from the television, the football that he’d been attempting to watch interrupted. Nothing to keep him distracted from his guilt, or from the icy presence behind him. It’s like a cold embrace. John’s not sure if he craves it or hates it.