The sun managed to dance through the tiny window in my room. It was a large room, so clinically white, and with no other beds but mine.

Why must I be isolated like this?

It’s so depressing. Maybe I’d be better off dead.

I want to cry. It’s so difficult cooped up in one spot. And in such a large room.

The clock on the wall ticks away, ticking the seconds of my life, the minutes, the hours, the days.

They took my belt, my lighter, my ball point pen. As if I would stab myself with an ink pen and light up my pants.

Sometimes I feel like I’m imprisoned in a cubicle on some distant alien world.

There are also times I can’t remember who I am, how I got here, why I got to be here.

That’s about the time Doc appears and jolts my memory.

Hi words are always the same. “Can you tell me who you are?” “Can you tell me where you are?” “Can you tell me why you are here?”

Then he administers the medicine that makes my blood feel like ketchup.

Why does he ask the same questions all the time?

My answers are always the same.

“My name is Lester Davenport. I come from a plain white house in a plain ordinary neighborhood. I’m at the…the…Institute of Paranormal Studies. I’m here because of the ghost!”

Then the doctor asks, “What ghost?”

And I answer, “The Ghost Upstairs.”

“How long has this ghost been haunting you?”

“Since boyhood.”

“And has he troubled any others?”

“As far as I can tell, he murdered those three you heard about.”

The questions and answers are always the same.

Why won’t they let me go?

It’s not my fault that a ghost targets me, haunts me.

The medicine only serves to disquiet me, increase my misery. You can’t stop a ghost by treating the haunted, I keep telling them.

After awhile, the questioning and the meds seem to distort the very room about me. Walls swirl. Shadows envelope me. I feel so faint.

I can tell my mind is eroding. I must remember…remember…remember.

Somehow, during that night that seems so long ago, the ghost had attacked and killed my brother Peter.

I was the only one home at the time. Who would believe the ghost I had always spoken of would come downstairs and suddenly become violent?

No one would believe me. I was branded a murderer, a homicidal maniac.

I did the only thing I could do. Run.

I booked myself into a tiny room in the town of Mansfield, many miles away. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, through the night, in that far away room, hoping the ghost would not find me here, trying to figure what I should do next.

I had to get some ready cash. I was broke and hungry.

Hitting the streets in the morning, I noticed a distorted, pale figure in the distance. I hid in a nearby doorway.

It was The ghost. Somehow, he did track me here.

While I crouched in the shadow, the man walked by. Never stopped to learn his name, poor soul. Instead of me, he became the victim and the ghost just dissolved into nothingness.

My good fortune, as he had plenty of dough in his wallet, enough to stake me for a couple of meals and rent.

With what was left, I hopped a train to Calverton.

The ghost couldn’t possibly find me here, could it?

I found a nice place to hole up, a two-bit little café, Sally’s. I was looking for a place to quietly live my life. Sally was looking for a man.

We hit it off well together, and finally my soul was at rest and I had someone to love and to solace me.

Weeks went by, the happiest weeks of my life.

We began to renovate the old place.

Then, one day, I heard a rumbling from the attic.  Rats, I hoped.

But, it was the ghost. It had tracked me down.

As the ghost entered the room, Sally began screaming. I wanted so to comfort her, to protect her, but the ghost found another victim.

I ran outside, screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to stop traffic, urging someone to listen and to help.

Then, all became a blur, and I ended up here.

Well, it’s med time again. Here comes Doc with the same questions.

“Can you tell me who you are?”

“Lester Davenport.”

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“The Institute of Paranormal Studies.”

“Can you tell me why you are here?”

“The ghost!”

“What ghost?”

“The ghost upstairs.”

This time, the med did not make me feel as drowsy. I overheard Doc talking to his assistant by the door.

“This is the worst case of Dissociative Identity Disorder I have ever seen!”

“Then the medicine isn’t doing any good?”

“Not a bit. Some patients have multiple personalities but Davenport, he has only one other.  And it’s a killer!”

“So, Doc, he has no idea of the second personality?”

“No,” answered Doc. “He’s convinced we're paranormal investigtors. He blames the ghost upstairs,” Doc repeated “upstairs” as he pointed to his head.