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. 

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.

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.