A question is asked and an answer is given. That's how it's meant to work. It's how information is passed.

Sometimes, an answer is unexpected. It can give pause for thought. It can alter your next question or alter your perception of life. And, in this case, death.

Cassidy's thoughts were caught in a whirlwind that blew through his mind, sweeping up everything in its path. They were then dropped in random heaps he was unable to decipher or form into identifiable phrases. His previous interactions had been unusual, not least because of their method, but none of them had prepared him for this.

Was she playing with him? He'd asked if she was a ghost. Was this her way of getting back at him for asking such an obviously stupid question?

"You died?"

Yes. Seven years ago.

"Are you serious?"

Serious about what?

"About dying? You're joking, right?"

About dying? You think that is a joke?

He hadn't suggested death was a joke. Having lost both his parents, he could categorically say it really wasn't. That wasn't his intention. But how could she be serious?

Besides, Amy said she wasn't a ghost, not that he needed the affirmation. Ghosts were not real, and she'd agreed with him. She could not be dead.

Any other time, he would be laughing at himself. Any other time, also, he wouldn't even be thinking this way. It just wouldn't occur to him. He had his views on life and death, and the finality of each. Amy was alive. Whether or not she was playing games was another matter. She was alive.

"No," he said. "Of course not."

The lipstick marks had faded, leaving only the smudge. It had reduced in size, though appeared grubbier. Knowing the result, but trying anyway, Cassidy said:

"I wasn't trying to make fun of you. I just don't understand."

Silence. No movement. No ants.

Batteries again? Or had Amy taken offence at his comment? What did she expect would be the reaction to telling someone she was dead?

"Amy?"

He was wasting his breath and his time. His hope for answers had resulted in adding to the bewilderment, and then she'd left him hanging. She was the one who started speaking to him! He was doing her a favour by answering in the first place. He could have ignored that first message, which was, granted, unlikely. He could have left the mirror inside the wardrobe, so he wouldn't have seen it, anyway. Even with the wardrobe in use, the mirror would have been obscured. That, coupled with the row of clothes hanging in front of it, would have made it effectively invisible and, thus, forgotten.

OK, fine. It wasn't fine, and he was angry at the abandonment, but he wasn't going to show it outwardly. Though she was no longer having a dialogue with him, she could still be watching. He'd act as if it didn't bother him at all.

He was used to doing that with Elise. She'd make some biting comment or use a judgemental tome and he'd take it. Pretend it didn't concern him. It was just her way. Well, maybe this was Amy's way. He accepted it from his ex-girlfriend, true. Amy and Elise were completely different. One was an annoying stranger who had yet to show her face. The other was an ex-girlfriend with two faces, who'd held his heart in her hand and taken pleasure in crushing it.

But, let's not be bitter. eh. The thought made Cass smile and he fully realised how that might look to Amy, should she be able to see him. Good. Let her think he wasn't concerned.

"Whatever," he said, hoping she'd heard.

He left the room.

Before going immediately downstairs, he checked the other rooms. The inspection was purely to remind himself of the state of them, so he could assess the amount of work he still had to do. That was all. It was in no way to see if 'Amy' was, indeed, a flesh and blood person sneaking about his house.

Honest.

Though there was no real rush to have everything put away fully, the sight of the piled-up boxes niggled at him. It was not unknown for him to procrastinate, and a closed door was a good way to shut away one's problems. Elise had employed this tactic on numerous occasions, sometimes in his face. He'd only received a broken nose once, and it was obviously his fault for being so close behind her as she was storming off.

Well, that was what she told him, and who was he to argue?

He shuddered at the recollection and scowled at his so recently past self. He couldn't remember the occasion where he'd chopped off his testicles and handed them to his ex for safe keeping. At least, now, he'd retrieved them and put them back where they belonged.

For some reason, shutting the bedroom doors and ignoring the boxes felt like a step back to those times. Elise would both want him to get the job done, but complain when he was spending the time doing so. He needed to make the choice himself, and that choice should be proactive, not inactive.

Right, let's do this.

First, his bladder nudged him for relief and, once that was attended to, Cassidy started work. He'd taken the time to label the boxes so, in most cases, they contained items from the rooms written on their sides. Occasionally, there'd be an interloper slotted into a different container, but that was to ensure each was as full possible. It meant less chance of the contents rattling around and being broken. Not that he had much in the way of possessions.

He wasn't one to collect bric-a-brac. His mother would enjoy buying ornaments from car boot sales. Anything for a bargain, whether it had a place or not. She'd find one. Each would be treated as a little treasure, and she'd glow with every acquired prize. His father called them 'dust collectors,' though he had never lifted a duster or can of furniture polish that Cassidy had seen, but it was just bluster. He didn't really mind his wife buying her trinkets, and winked at his children whenever he complained. Cass hadn't inherited her love of ornaments. He would tell himself he liked to 'travel light,' but he seemed to have more boxes than would offer proof of that.

The bathroom was the closest box, and also the closest room. It made sense to tackle that first. It didn't take long to sort through, with toiletries and a plentiful supply of toilet rolls being the majority to transfer. One thing he did do was buy in bulk when he was able to. Why buy a pack of coffee pods when you could purchase a box of five for the price of four? Toilet rolls came under the same umbrella, hence an entire box being dedicated to the three ply, quilted product.

He frowned at the word kitchen, written three times. Why hadn't he left them downstairs, maybe even in the actual room itself? Why bring them all here, when they would only need to be moved back down again?

He shook his head and sighed. Oh well. The box was heavier than expected, and the rattle from within told him he was carrying part of the dinner set. The plates and bowls were ones he had taken with him when he and Elise started to live together. They were also the 'ugly' ones she'd insisted he removed when he removed himself. She didn't want that 'trash' left lying around.

Walking carefully, he moved to the top of the stairs. It was difficult to see his way down, with the need to keep the fragile kitchenware safe in his grip. Leaning slightly against the wall, partly for support and partly for direction, he took one step at a time. Creak... There was nine. Groan... There was seven. Eventually, there was floor.

His plan for the kitchen had been settled when he had originally come to look around the house. This cupboard for pans, this for the crockery he was currently putting away. Mugs and glasses would be in another, with a small number of each already in place. Various ones for food and one for his treats. Whenever Cass lived alone, he had his stash. Crisps, salt and vinegar or sweet chilli – or both, why not? Popcorn, for when he wanted to pretend he was being healthy. Cereal bars. Biscuits and more. He wasn't prone to stuffing his face full of unhealthy morsels, but liked to know they were there just in case he did fancy doing so.

One down, two to go.

His unfinished conversation with the enigmatic Amy was soon forgotten as he worked. Rather than dwell on or wonder at her, he concentrated on the task before him. If the house was haunted by a non-ghost, then he'd hoped she knew how to clean up after herself. If she didn't, he'd tell her to go non-haunt someone just as messy. By the time he was back on the landing, he had only one thought on his mind. 'Kitchen' number two.

The bottom of the second load threatened to give way as he lifted it, and he had to hold it awkwardly to ensure it didn't spill out when he stood. Why had he filled them so full? It was tempting Fate to have a word with its friend Gravity and give an extra pull downwards. They'd no doubt find much hilarity in the broken pieces strewn across the floor. Cassidy wasn't going to let them have their fun, so kept one hand in place across the bulging base.

The stairs beckoned him as if in league with the other two rascals, so he moved more cautiously. Again, he needed the wall's help with his descent. His arms were aching from the unwieldy way he had to hold on to his burden, but he knew he couldn't rush. Next time he moved, he would be more sensible about where things were left.

He stepped onto nine, knowing the sound it would make was an indication of progress rather than of complaint.

Oh, wait. Had he miscounted? He must have. He was too busy worrying about the box to correctly register which step he was on. It'd be the next. Or... the next?

What?

Surely...?

Carefully, he peered past the cargo. He was still only two steps down... How was that possible? He must have... could he have been mistaken?

OK, another step. And again. One more and, slowly, another.

Still, there was no sound from either step nine or seven, both of which would have made their presence known. He stopped and looked again. He...

He hadn't moved.

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