Lights on, door closed, I dug through the collection of academic odds and ends in the bottom drawer of my dresser. When I came up with my little canister of pushpins I turned to the corkboard mounted on the wall beside the window and stopped cold.

Every postcard, bus schedule, and reminder note tacked to my bulletin board was hung upside down. Need I point out this was not my doing?

I was all set to work up a good case of indignation over David being in my room and messing with my stuff when I felt a breath of cool air on the back of my neck, and that same cold, moist grip on my arm. I swear my heart stopped beating, and I let Sarah's postcard flutter to the floor when I heard the voice whisper slowly and harshly, "Mussst hhhhelp meee."

And then I let out the scream.

Flailing my arms to shake off the sensation of being held and shaking my head like a whimp who'd walked through a cobweb, I backed out of the bright light of my room into the darkness of the hallway. Wrong wrong wrong! I needed to be in a bright space, not in the pitch black.

Dark blind I stumbled along the hallway and floundered into the living room, diving for the torchiere that stood at the back corner of the futon. My fingers made contact.

"Please," the harsh voice whispered.

I fumbled with the lamp switch, too much pressure, and it toppled to the floor, crashing sickeningly on impact. Oh, God.

The kitchen. I could put the light on in the kitchen. Light. I needed light.

I turned away from the futon and stumbled over the torchiere. My ass and my elbows made contact with the floor we couldn't afford to cover with so much as a throwrug. And I sat wincing and whimpering, but I sat on my own. Nothing touched me; nothing held me. I let out a sigh of relief and looked up.

My heart leapt into my throat at the sight. He stood - if you could call it standing - not five feet away from me, solid as smoke.

There was nothing to call him other than ghost.