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1. Stumble means to step awkwardly while walking or running and fall or begin to fall
2. Scrape means to remove an unwanted covering or a top layer from something, especially using a sharp edge or something rough

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Slovenly means untidy or unclean in appearance or habits

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I love a lot of horror stories, and this is a very interesting story, and it's not boring to talk about things after death.

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1. Immediately mean without interval of time
2. Exhibit mean to submit (something, such as a document) to a court or officer in course of proceedings also: to present or offer officially or in legal form
3. Shore means the land along the edge of a sea, lake, broad river, etc.
4. Grooves is slang, to take great pleasure; enjoy oneself: He grooving on the music. to get along or interact well
5.

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1. Abandoned mean to leave without intending to return
2. Betrayed means "an act of deliberate disloyaty" also can mean "healping an enemy" such as a person who gives secret information to a country that is at war with his or her own.
3. Spattered (especially of a thick liquid) to hit and cover a surface with small drops, or to cause this to happen: The bike was splattered with mud.

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1. Vulnerable meaning Exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.
2. Gnashing meaning Grind (one's teeth) together as a sign of anger (often used hyperbolically).
3. Breeze meaning A gentle wind.

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Haunt mean of a ghost manifest itself at a place regularly.

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1. Linger :
meaning to take a long time to leave  or disappear
2. skulk :
meaning to hide or move around as if trying not to be seen, usually with bad intentions

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1. Wandering :
meaning traveling aimlessly from place to place; itinerant

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Blaring means to make an unpleasantly loud noise.

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Confession means the act of admitting something wrong or illegal

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Such an interesting, creative fiction story telling us about the afterlife of a boy. I like it.

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grunting means making a low sound instead of speaking, usually because of anger and pain

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Installment means one part of serial story

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I became fascinated ok, obsessed with finding out the tall man's dark secret. I skulked around like a whisper, a chilly presence at the back of his neck. If only I could see into his mind.

As a ghost, I can access the souls of others, but not always, and certainly not immediately. Often people leave clues about where they're most open and vulnerable. He seemed especially blocked.

So I continued to follow him around. His life was confined to a few activities. About 2 weeks into his residency on Baker Street, I followed him on a morning jog down to the Bay. Every footfall was an intense effort. He hated every minute, grunting and gnashing his teeth like someone mad with grief.

There was a photography exhibit in a warehouse by the shore. He stumbled in, headphones blaring. The photos were all black and white portraits of soldiers who came home from war long ago. The tall man lingered over each face as if they might speak to him. I looked for my grandfather. He was once a hero, but he was nowhere to be found in this little gallery. The tall man bought a book of the photos and walked home, his sweat chilling him more than I ever could.

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I have a confession to make. For the last week, I've been messing with someone. He deserves it, I think.

First, a bit of background. I am dead. My death should have been the end of everything. I should not be able to tell stories. But, I died an untimely death, which changes the rules a bit. So here I am, thinking, talking, feeling, wandering, and doing everything but breathing.

I haunt an apartment building that my grandfather once owned. I died there, by falling from a fire escape. I get very sad when I think about how I died, but from a strange perspective - it's as if the tragedy befell someone else. After I died, they renamed the street after me.

So, to introduce myself officially: I'm Jimmy Baker, the ghost of Baker Street.

I haunt inhabit one of the rental units in my grandfather's building. It was abandoned by a guy named Rob. He left in a hurry. His clothes lay in a heap on the floor of the closet. A rusting notebook sat in the bathroom sink. Ripped sheets betrayed a dirty mattress in the bedroom, and stains spattered the carpet like an abstract painting. It was disgusting and perfect.

For two years, I lived in Rob's slovenly palace like a prince. I didn't have to interact with people or other ghosts. During the day, I would read my books, and sit in the freezer to cool off from the earthly temperature. At night, I would float over to the Baker Street Bistro and linger in the window to ruin romantic dinners. Then I would go to the Bay and watch the sharks thrash under the water before returning home.

I don't sleep.

Then Rob's friend moved in. A tall man who doesn't own a single coat. In fact, all of his belongings fit into a  leather carryon. He didn't do much to clean the place, so I thought he might be a temporary inconvenience. But after a few days, his intents were clear. He had a cleaning crew come in and pick up all the clothes from the floor. They cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen. He bought a toothbrush and a desk. He brought a lady friend over. She was not very impressed by the mess. They talked about boring things like computers, and then they kissed.

That would not do. I had to get him - them - out of there.

Soon I found my opportunity. He's a terrible sleeper, and as a ghost, I can't resist that.

And so, for the last week, I've been messing with him, subtly. Just enough to drive him insane. In the middle of each night, I turn on the lamp and make it glow red. He watches it for about 10 minutes, then gets up to turn it off. It doesn't turn off though. He's the only person that will ever see it. Last night he stayed up waiting for it, and as soon as he gave up and fell asleep, at around 4 am, I turned it on.

Wow, I feel so much better. Journaling really is good for the soul. And I've got to take care of my soul. It's all I have these days.

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The tall man's initials are HGB. The three letters are carved in gold on the outside of his single suitcase. He sits down on the couch in the apartment, still in his jogging clothes. He opens the book of photographs, and I float near  him to look over his shoulder. He smells. I pull back, surprised by my own sadness. I don't have a body. I don't sweat. I don't eat or drink or hug anyone anymore. If the tall man killed someone, he probably doesn't even realize what his actions did, what he took, and what he can never give back. My temperature rises a bit. I am no longer sad, but angry. The tall man starts to sweat anew.

I am lost in thought when I see the picture. It's on page 280. My grandfather, very young (although older than me) and in uniform. He has his arm around another young man and they are standing at the bus stop downtown. The other young man's eyes are blurry. They look filled with milk. The caption reads: Harold Baker and "Jumpin" Jerald Jurgen. Childhood friends, they fought together on the Western Front. Jurgen lost his vision to a grenade in November '44.

That's strange. My grandpa had a best friend, but I never knew him, even thought my grandpa practically raised me.  What happened to Jumpin Jerald Jurgen after they got home? And why did the tall man seem so interested in the photo?

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The tall man eats very little and is able to stand in one place for long periods of time. If it weren't for one thing, I'd mistake him for a ghost.

His coffee habit is a dead giveaway that he 's human.

Since I was never an adult, I can never understand why people like coffee. The tall man requires at least two cups when he wakes up, and then four more cups in the afternoon while he works at his computer. The whole apartment, which used to stink of damp radiator leakage, now smells of burnt beans. I much preferred the leakage.

Coffee and wine: the two "adult" beverages. One evening, I watched the tall man drink wine with his lady friend. The bottle had a twist off cap, and they didn't even finish it before they started acting weird. She chuckled eagerly, and her cheeks flushed pink, as if she was embarrassed. I could see in his vacant eyes and the way his brows lifted slightly and crunched together that his mind was elsewhere. She went to sleep early, but he stayed up, looking at the ceiling with his brows still crunching.

I realized he had trouble sleeping before I started flickering the red light. I watched him all night. I wondered if he had a dark secret. Perhaps he was a murderer on the run. That would explain his single suitcase and lack of belongings. It would explain his obsessive attention to details on the computer. It would explain why he didn't have many friends. It would explain why he didn't like the lady very much.

Was he going to kill her???!

In the morning, despite having slept very little, the man got up to make coffee. He was very pale and had bags under his eyes. He shook himself off in the kitchen, doing a strange sort of dance. Color returned to his face when he took the first sip.

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Installment #5: More questions than answers 

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Installment #5: More questions than answers 

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Before I died, I loved to climb mountains. Not big, thin-aired Himalayan mountains, but what grandpa called "kid mountains" just across the bridge. He bought me a special pair of boots that were heavy and had deep grooves cut into the soles for navigating the trails.

I miss the feeling of ground, even ground that betrays you with rocks that slip and cause you to tumble and scrape your knees. I can float to the kid mountains any time I want, but riding in the car with my dad was part of the fun. And when my grandpa was alive, he would come too, carrying walking sticks and wearing a floppy hat to protect his wrinkly skin from the sun.

My parents moved to Mexico after I died. I could have followed them there, could have watched them grow old, comfort each other, and learn to laugh again. I could have blown in as a breeze through their window in the jungle, and they would have known it was me. Parents are smart like that. But I think, ultimately, it's better for me to stay here and give them space to heal.

The tall man has not left bed today. He doesn't show emotion ever, but he is emitting only enough heat to survive. I think this means he is unwilling to try to be happy today. He has not opened the photography book he bought yesterday, but I wish he would so I could look at the picture.

Suddenly, the phone rings and the tall man is forced to sit up and walk across the room. He starts speaking rapidly in a language I cannot understand - Turkish? Italian? Japanese?

Who are you, HGB?