You roll over in bed to find a ghost staring back at you from the other side. Your jaw drops in shock, then your eyes widen in horror.
Your mouth is dry.
“Did….did we, uh…?” you begin weakly.
The ghost scowls. They look hurt.
“No,” they say. Their words come out in a hiss of ice-cold breath that stings your face. “I’d never do such a thing. You were asleep.”
You rub your eyes with a groggy hand, feeling significantly calmer now.
“That’s a relief,” you say. As an afterthought, “Thanks.”
The ghost rolled their eyes. At least you think they did. Their actual eyeballs seem to be featureless, softly glowing shimmers of silvery energy, which makes it hard to tell.
“Can we please get to the point?” they ask impatiently. “It’s taking a lot out of me to hold a form you can perceive.”
You blush.
“Sorry! Erm, what ghostly business brings you here tonight?”
Their face flickers, fades out almost imperceptibly around the edges.
“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing to be honest,” they say slowly.
They seem to have lost some of their coldness, although perhaps your face has just gone numb.
“It’s alright,” you say encouragingly.
You don’t know why, and you don’t question. It’s just in your nature to make yourself emotionally available to a stranger in distress.
They seem to regain their solidity.
“It’s…well, it’s your cat,” they begin, and you bristle.
“What about her?” you ask, an edge suddenly in your voice.
“She knocked your salt shaker off the kitchen table, and now it’s spilled everywhere,” the ghost informs you.
You grimace at the thought of the mess that awaits you when you eventually get up in the morning.
“She’s such a brat sometimes,” you complain.
“A cute brat,” offers the ghost. “Anyway, now that there’s a salt barrier, I can’t get to the microwave.”
You roll onto your back, sighing deeply as you stare at the ceiling.
“And you want me to clean it up,” you conclude.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” the ghost replies meekly.
“Why do you need a microwave at this ungodly hour?” you frown.
“That’s where I sleep,” they say.
You are very tired, and the ghost is becoming less solid by the second.
“Just sleep here,” you mumble, rolling back into your original spot. “I’ll fix it in the morning.”
The ghost opens their mouth to protest, but they fade out of human perception before they can say a word. They have sapped all of their energy to manifest for you tonight, and so they have no choice but to rest where they lay.
In the kitchen, Hopscotch sits in the middle of a field of spilled salt, licking her paws smugly. She lazily rises to her feet and stretches with an impossibly wide yawn.
As she walks out of the kitchen to find her favorite spot on the sofa, she lets her feather-duster tail drag the floor behind her, cutting a clean channel through the field of salt.
