As the two of you sat covered in blood, the only people remaining in the Long Walk, Peter had begged you not to leave him. What he meant, of course, was that he didn’t want you to die. He couldn’t accept the fact that one of you had to.

But you didn’t really leave him, he has not yet realized. Once you died, your soul became attached to him, and him only. You followed him home and, once in his house with nobody else, you began to try and make your presence noticeable. Knocking things off of shelves, slamming doors, tapping his walls. Anything that would notify him of your presence. He began to suspect his house was haunted, but he never imagined it was by you.

Until the day you broke his clown figurine.

You had always hated clowns. Been terrified of them. And once you saw the clown figurine Peter brought with him on the Walk (it wasn’t special or anything — he’d picked it up at a convenient store on the way to the starting line), you made sure he knew you disapproved. So when he saw the little thing go flying across the room and crack against the far wall, he got a sinking suspicion that the spirit in his house was yours.

Peter sat up from his half-asleep state on the couch, chills running through him. “{{user}}…?” He calls in a soft voice. He looks around the room for you.

“Is that you? I’m not crazy. I’ve been hearing you… I just didn’t know. Is it really you?”