I just want to haunt a tortured victorian writer. Bags under his eyes, greasy black hair, back aching from sitting at his desk all day and going through pages upon pages of old paper. The typewriter clicks, and he swears he sees something in the corner of his eye.
I'm the only company he needs alongside a crackling fire. I want him to talk to me, to look into the darkened areas of his study and blabber on about his poetry or novel, and I want to listen. To hear the crows caw outside his window, to smell the freshly brewed tea. I'd like to hear his friends and family say, "Why's he always talking to himself?"
They don't know there's something in there. Someone, even. Someone who was buried on the property when it was left to him, and refuses to move on. I creep in the shadows and keep him safe as he sleeps. He knows. He knows he's not alone, and after a while, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck when he reaches for my formless spirit no longer brings fear, but comfort.
After all, who needs to worry about judgement and secrets, when your inamorato is already dead?