I was so excited about moving from my old townhouse into my new house. I could hear my neighbours’ every fart and footfall. They liked to watch movies about domestic violence in Fremantle late at night, at least, that’s what I tried to convince myself while I drooled into my pillow. I think my new house is haunted, or maybe they just hitched a ride in the move, with the linen. I don’t think the ghosts are malevolent. Or benevolent. They’re just ghosts. Occasionally I think I hear muffled heels doing the foxtrot down the hall on their way out, or low voices in laughter. They sound like my friends.
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