Ghosts form a ring around me, facing outwards and moving as I do, ephemeral hands linked. They have stood like that since I was an infant, imperceptible to everyone else. I’ve given each of them names, of course. Not that they respond to them. It’s just for my own entertainment, really. What’s that saying? If you don’t laugh, you cry?

The naming started genuinely enough. The very first spirit I became somewhat attached to - as much as a 5-year-old can become attached to an outward-facing ghost - was the one with hair that cascaded down to her hips. She leaves a transparent, bloody trail wherever she steps. A large, dark, blob stains the back of her breezy, yellow summer skirt. Smitten as I was, I overlooked these facts when naming her.

I dubbed her Garnet, my birthstone, of which I was particularly fond. To no-one’s surprise, I was also particularly fond of my dear, dear ghost. I wouldn’t connect the dots between this early crush and my identity until my teen years, though. I had a habit of announcing my knowledge of the precious gem to any newcomer to my pitiful social circle. What 5-year-old brags about their knowledge of birthstones, I hear you ask? A desperately lonely and haunted child, that’s what.

I named Salt and Pepper, the figures on either side of Garnet, about 2 weeks later. I figured Garnet’s direct neighbours also deserved names. Salt has a shaggy, silver mane that just fails to hide the angry red mark wrapped around his neck. Pepper, curiously, is the only...