Last night I was in an apartment building I've never been to, a large hotel-like structure, yet I knew it was where I lived.
As I walked down the hall I saw that my apartment's door was open and three strangers were inside, two sitting and one standing. They were conversing in French which I recognized so when I burst through the entrance demanding to know what they were doing there, I did so in French without hesitation.
They looked at me blankly as I started to notice the door number in my peripheral vision. Turns out I was mistaken. I apologized and explained that I lived in the apartment below them, still in French.
They were gracious about it and I went downstairs which turned out to be the basement. It was unfinished with rough stone floors and crude walls. I passed a dingy laundry room with a woman sitting on one of the machines, waiting.
I couldn't believe I would've chosen a basement apartment, so I discovered a sign with the room numbers down there. Though my apartment should've been on that floor by any numbering system that made sense, it wasn't. I wandered upstairs and kept looking.
It was like I was describing the event to someone else, how I didn't believe in ghosts and yet there I was seeing one across from me. He wasn't transparent or anything, he looked perfectly solid except that my aunt wasn't aware of him and I knew he was dead.
I felt my grandfather's hand on my shoulder but when I looked up, it was my aunt. And then I woke up and my shoulder was pressed against a pillow.
9 years ago on TTaT: Finally, another book