The Spectre

George was by the window looking out into the night when a familiar sensation descended upon him. The room became suddenly cooler and a shiver ran through him. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look over his shoulder toward the armchair. Maybe it won't be there...

But it was there; the same shadowy form as always.

The shape moved and George sensed it looking around, trying to see him. His innards trembled.

“Is somebody there?” The spectre's voice sounded distant and thin.

George's bowels quivered. This couldn't go on, whatever it was he had to confront it.

“Look,” he began, “I'm sorry but you're going to have to leave.”

The spectre stood up and George took an involuntary step backwards.

“Who are you?” the spectre asked.

“My name is George Asquith and I'm the owner of this property.”

"This house is mine now," it replied.

"No,  I have lived here since 1924 and -"

"That was eighty-six years ago,” its voice wavered, “please, leave me alone!"

Eighty-six years ago? It must be trying to trick him. George frowned, trying to remember the last time he'd seen the date but his memory remained vague. He recalled a funeral but he couldn't put a year to it.

He remembered the mourners in the room viewing the deceased: men with stern expressions; women with handkerchiefs pressed to their faces. And, for the first time, he saw the face of the deceased.

It was his own.

Something began to happen. The room changed as if a veil had been lifted and George could feel himself crossing over. He saw the 'spectre' clearly now, a terrified man of about 40.

"I'm so sorry,” George apologised as he seeped out of the world, “I seem to be mistaken."