Where do all the ghosts dwell?

So Merceline had hobbled around the house like a wounded soldier, even though her legs and feet were perfectly fine. "Yes, I was almost killed by my cat. Yes, I will have him put down. Yes, I do need help putting on my undergarments," she told her friends on the phone, her neighbors on both sides, the local butcher and little elderly ladies at various bus shelters. Pity was expected.
Merceline reveled in the shocked expressions of strangers. She sat at bus stop number six, wearing bright red sunglasses and her sturdy green hat, staring straight ahead at the playground and entertained the thought that she may be a thrill seeker.
I've never jumped out of an airplane before, she thought with a kind of grim determination, and I suppose now I must, for this is what thrill seekers do.
She would never admit it, but imagining herself jump out of a plane made her terribly frightened.
Renton had survived his slip in the hallway with only a burn on his big toe from the telephone cord. He surprised everybody when he mentioned it, and he wore thongs on purpose, even on rainy days, just to have something interesting to say.
"Well! To be frank- ("Oh, that's your name is it?" he said to one stranger when the man he was telling suddenly beamed and exclaimed excitedly: "What a coincidence! Were your parents staying at the Marmone Hotel that year, as well? 1952?" Renton told him his name was not Frank, in a sour tone as he didn't appreciate being interrupted, and explained impatiently that his parents had never been to Hotel Marmone as they were not fans of Frank Sinatra and he, himself, had only heard one song) it's not just medical implications here, is it? It's the fact that Merceline doesn't know the sex of our cat, isn't it?"
People nodded, looking awkward.
Yes, thought Renton as he sipped a carton of iced chocolate, it is rather shameful not to notice whether your pet should be wearing a blue knitted vest or a collar with a dangling heart shaped pendant. He made a mental note to check out this situation.
Merceline was hanging her hat up on the heavy wooden coat-rack when Renton walked in the front door. She watched him bite into a thick-crusted meat pie. She pondered: would there be glass in that pie? If he was daring and thrilling?
Out loud she said: "Where have all the books gone? The ones in the upstairs room?"
Has she been scrolling through ebay looking for bowls with skulls printed on them and dark coloured blankets displaying girls in bikinis? Renton wondered while searching for hidden custard in his teeth with his tongue. He replied: "What, the room with all the wigs?"
Merceline tried to look down her nose at him in some form of disgust, but he was taller than her so she spent a bit of time tilting her head backwards and forwards without realizing what she was doing.
"Merceline, love," he said tenderly, looking at this thin, bright, rather odd lady before him, "let's have a picnic out in the park by that old house."
Merceline peered at him, much like a stern old lady would. "All we have is ham," she said, displeased, "and maybe some dried apricots."
"Well then," he smiled, "let's have a ham picnic out near that old house by the park."
She suddenly smiled and it lit up her entire face. "Let me get some glass."

Can there be more than two?

There seemed to be a hailstorm starting outside just as Merceline situated her lime green hat in the correct position upon her head.

"Here," Renton's arm appeared under her nose. He held out an umbrella and Merceline gave an unappreciative sniff.

"Well it's no good going out now! I'll get knocked unconscious by a falling hailstone!" She turned and walked into the living room, where a fire was roaring and a sleepy-looking cat lay curled up on a fat and fluffy rug.

Renton thought it was very unlikely that Merceline would get hit by the hailstorm on the account of her wearing such a sturdy hat. Merceline sat herself on one of the plump armchairs and called out: "Do we have any of that old brandy left? Renton? The brandy!" all at once without waiting for his answer.

Renton detached himself from the umbrella (brown with a splatter of artistically drawn water splashes making it look permanently wet) and went upstairs to run a bath. What bliss a bath could be. What heaven! Renton, on the odd occasion he took one, would fall into a sort of rigid trance and would lie for such a long time underneath all the bubbles and rubber sailboats, existing in peace, until he would suddenly remember something important he should be doing and leap out of the cool, grimy water looking like a bleached prune. 

"I said Renton!" came a shout from down below. 

Merceline stared about the room as if she'd suddenly appeared and hadn't the foggiest idea how she got there. She looked at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. She didn't know who the figure was, and she didn't care, but she liked it. Yes, she thought approvingly, I like that painting. She turned her gaze to the small square table with a set of sparkling crystal glasses that sat near the window. There were small squat round glasses and tall elegant wine glasses, skinny glasses that could hold a single flower and tiny shot glasses with a bubble pattern all the way around, all arranged neatly on a silver tray. Well, yes, I believe I like those, too, she thought, although this thought made her tired.

She then looked at the cat. No, she thought sharply as she watched it sleep, I don't believe in the slightest that I like that.

Renton came wandering in at this point. He was wearing a maroon bathrobe.

"We have to get rid of that cat," said Merceline. She pointed a long finger at the fluffy orange ball and sent it a look of pure disgust. "That cat has to go."

"What? Get rid of Terpentin?" Renton asked incredulously, "but love, we've had her almost four years."

"Now! It's attitudes like that..." she started, but stopped when Terpentin suddenly stretched, opened her eyes, climbed gracefully to her feet and walked off in the direction of her food bowl.

"No," said Merceline,"I don't like it."

Renton said, "I made sausages earlier on."

Merceline declared she was a vegetarian and Renton frowned, trying to work out exactly when she had claimed this.

"Yesterday before last," she offered unhelpfully, "just as I witnessed the horrible massacre of all those poor horses."

"That was Wild Stride, the cartoon. And anyway, there's no meat in the sausages because I had them made especially." He didn't cross his fingers behind his back when he said this and he felt odd. He had a feeling of rebelliousness. Why, maybe he should open his bathrobe and walk around, just for the fun of it. His trembling hands had just touched the fuzzy bathrobe cord when Merceline said: "Sausage-less sausages?" and they jumped back to his sides like guilty school children.

"Oh dang it all!" he grumbled. He undid the cord in one swift motion and said loudly, "I'm putting them on! They like to cook for seven minutes only." 

Merceline stood up. "Good lord, Renton, your bathrobe is open."

"Enjoy the show, lassie!" and he turned around just as Merceline reached out to close his robe. Her hands grasped air, she stepped awkwardly, stumbled over Terpentin, who meowed softly, and fell onto her left arm. 

There was a crunching sound.

Renton would have looked over to check if she was alright, but he had turned down the hall at high speed in his haste to aid his rumbling, naked stomach and skidded on a puddle. He slid a few feet before crashing into the phone table.

"Renton!" called Merceline, "I think-"

Oh, dang it, Renton thought as he stared at the growing stain on the ceiling, left the bath running again.

What is that weird smell?

"Look at that," said Jeremiah, "Just, fucking look at that."
Sierra swung around a streetlight pole and replied in a faraway voice while looking up at the stars, "If I were to join the circu-"
Jeremiah kissed her then and she didn't finish.
"Okay then," he said, staring down the street, "Let's go this way."
"I think I left my phone in the kitchen."
Jeremiah glanced at her hands. "Oh, well, Frances has it by now. What do you think about the harbour?"
Sierra bowed her head as she walked and wondered: what did she think about when she heard the word 'harbour'?
"Boats," she answered firmly, "and chips. Seagulls. Little pebbles."
"Nah that's the beach," Jeremiah dismissed her words easily, and Sierra said: "You're right," in her faraway voice that he knew too well.
"I'm wrong, actually, but thanks for giving it to me."
Jeremiah spent most mornings gazing into his pale reflection while combing his brown hair, and then he would throw the comb into his little rubbish bin, eat a bowl of nutrigrain, swap the lamp and ornament clock around in the living room before slipping seventy cents into his jacket pocket and leaving through the bathroom window.
This was his routine most mornings.
Sierra hummed songs that she heard on the tv the night previous while washing up the dishes, making sure to scrub the suds out of the sink and that all the knives, forks and spoons were facing the same way in the stand-up drainer. She then chose shoes without laces, opened the curtains at every second window, drank a can of blueberry mix breakfast drink standing next to the fridge then counted to twenty-four and six seconds before leaving the house.
They met up outside Marmy's Apple and Bookshop; Jeremiah tried not to mention anything about fire and Sierra avoided bringing up dogs, telephone boxes and baking soda.
"I think I'd like the circus," Sierra said, picking up her own thread of conversation, "and I think I'd like it because I like bright colours."
Jeremiah nodded.
"I also like candy."
"I'd like flying and doing those trapeze acts."
"Yes," Sierra said pleasantly, "flying is one of those magical moments in life where everything is better all at once."
"Like a breath of fresh air," agreed Jeremiah.
"Like leaping into heaven."
"Flying into heaven."
"Oh, quite right."
But, this morning, Sierra hadn't cleaned any dishes, hadn't opened the curtains or checked the cutlery. She had skipped the blueberry drink and counted to forty-four and three seconds before reluctantly reaching out to grab the door handle.
Jeremiah had glanced knowingly up and down the street while leaning against the bookshop window. He had a funny feeling in his stomach.
Sierra had come walking up with a hot-dog. She said, "The sauce is too rich but I enjoy the way it melts into the bread."
Jeremiah gave a tense smile, as if his cheeks hurt.
"Let's go to the skate park," Sierra suggested after swallowing, and they went.
In the hours that followed, Jeremiah had watched Sierra, not closely because that would encourage questions. He glanced at her from time to time, wondering what was different. Was it the way she concentrated on things, really looked at objects, as if it was the last time she would see them? Was it her bouncy blonde ponytail, or the red ribbon around her wrist?
He glanced, he wondered, but he didn't dare ask.
Then the sun went down and she had started talking about the circus.
"I know what you're doing," he said complacently, "You're planning on running away."
"Hmm," Sierra clutched her bag strap a little tighter and said, "where would I go?"
"The circus."
She laughed. Jeremiah clenched his jaw. He glanced at her and noticed her eyes, her carefully brushed hair, the red lines on her white skin, and he softened.
"You don't have to drink that blueberry crap every morning."
"What," Sierra started, in a rather icy tone for such a conversation, "would you know about blueberries?"
He shrugged, "They're expensive all year round."
"They're n-"
"Just tell me what's going on!" he yelled suddenly. He stopped walking and so did she. Sierra blinked at him, waiting. He thought she was probably biding time to think of a lie and this made hole in his chest grow bigger. "Sierra, I'm warning you-"
"Are you?" she said, feeling sort of detached from whatever moment they were having. She turned to walk but he grabbed her bag strap.
"Hey!"
"Don't walk away-"
"Fuck you!"
Jeremiah was stronger than her, and the bag shot out of her grip as he tugged her backwards, spilling the contents all over the dirty sidewalk. Gum wrappers, pens, hair clips and headphones, a notebook and a packet of tablets rolled around their feet.
Sierra bent down as if someone had fired a gunshot behind her, madly grabbing the items while Jeremiah stared at the orange and white tablet box. A pack of twenty-four. The kind she could never use because of one ingredient.
"It's for someone!" she said hurriedly as he swiped it up and stepped backwards, unable to take his eyes off the packet. "Wait! No!"
"So you weren't going to join the circus," he said quietly.
"Jere-" she stopped, not wanting to go on. She was suddenly so tired, so afraid, she felt like a shell. The real Sierra, the girl with substance and positive solutions to all problems, had drifted away without her realizing and left her with a body she had to somehow operate as normal.
Jeremiah turned around and walked to the railing. She stood frozen, watching. He threw the packet over as hard as he could, turned back and took her hand.
"Come on," he said.
They walked on; Jeremiah staring ahead at nothing much but with a grip so strong it was almost painful, Sierra focusing on the concrete slabs that made up the path while tears ran silently down her cheeks as she tried to make out odd bits of graffiti, her bag and all the contents splayed out behind them, forgotten.