man calmly enters the room. I have been transferred to a private room because my depressive moods and late night rages were affecting the other patients, and to be honest I am glad of the time alone. The young man has no business coming in here, and I turn my head to tell him so.
  But the young man is no longer there.
  Not there; not visible, yet still present.
  I feel the first pangs of terror as a faint gnawing sensation at the base of my spine, then, gradually, it begins to spread, like a virus.
  Initially I think I am experiencing a hallucination, having seen him only at the periphery of my vision. But, no, that is impossible. The details are too clear. I know, for instance, that he is wearing faded jeans and no shoes. His hair is long, the ends resting on his collar, and he has a short dark beard reaching across his cheeks and under his chin.
  Fear gnawing. Spreading. Flowering towards my heart.
  If the young man had been some kind of vision, a waking dream bleeding over from my subconscious, then surely I would not be able to process such tiny details. Yet still disbelief hangs over me â I am not a superstitious man, not once in my life have I experienced anything that could be described as otherworldly.
  I close my eyes. Open them. I expect to see a dark veil, my fear manifest, terror stretched across my vision like a drawn curtain. My heart swells, pressing against my ribs.
  The young man is now squatting in the corner, his big bare feet splayed wide apart and one hand resting palm down on the floor between them. His face is raised, and his pale blue eyes are staring right at me.
  "Hello," I say, too grief-stricken and depressed to fully understand. Too frightened to know how I should act. "What do you want?"
  What I really mean is: What is happening to me? Why have you come? What have I done to deserve this unwanted attention? Are you even real?
  The young man smiles. His front teeth are crooked, the incisors yellow. His mouth begins to move, the thin lips forming words, but I cannot hear his voice. It is as if he is speaking to me through a layer of glass â a barrier which cuts out the sound. He continues to speak, smiling, nodding, punctuating certain passages with a knowing smile, and after making an odd circular motion with his hand â the one that is not resting on the floor â he suddenly stops.
  I realise that I am holding my breath. Since being admitted to the hospital, this strange unannounced visit is the only thing that has provoked any kind of reaction other than anger. I am curious, but I am afraid. So very afraid. Of him, and what he might represent.
  Unless I have lost my mind, the young man is clearly some kind of phantom â what else could he be? He can not possibly be anything else: his edges are ill-defined, almost ragged, and whenever he moves I catch glimpses of the dull grey plaster behind him. The light from the hallway outside the room, when it catches him, pierces his body and opens up bloodless wounds through which I can see the clumsy brush strokes on the painted skirting boards his crouched body would otherwise have obscured.
  "Are you dead?" At any other time, and in any other company, it would have been considered a stupid question. Right here, right now, in this squalid little hospital room, it seems the most sensible question in the world.
  Too many questions, with no answers forthcoming⦠The only reply I receive is more fear, more doubt, more screaming inside my head. I wish that I could pull the covers over my head, like I did in childhood; that single action always kept the monsters at bay.
  The young man grins and shuffles around on his haunches like a monkey, turning his back on me. At last I see what he has been trying to tell me. The back of his skull is matted with blood, with white splinters of bone showing through the
  But the young man is no longer there.
  Not there; not visible, yet still present.
  I feel the first pangs of terror as a faint gnawing sensation at the base of my spine, then, gradually, it begins to spread, like a virus.
  Initially I think I am experiencing a hallucination, having seen him only at the periphery of my vision. But, no, that is impossible. The details are too clear. I know, for instance, that he is wearing faded jeans and no shoes. His hair is long, the ends resting on his collar, and he has a short dark beard reaching across his cheeks and under his chin.
  Fear gnawing. Spreading. Flowering towards my heart.
  If the young man had been some kind of vision, a waking dream bleeding over from my subconscious, then surely I would not be able to process such tiny details. Yet still disbelief hangs over me â I am not a superstitious man, not once in my life have I experienced anything that could be described as otherworldly.
  I close my eyes. Open them. I expect to see a dark veil, my fear manifest, terror stretched across my vision like a drawn curtain. My heart swells, pressing against my ribs.
  The young man is now squatting in the corner, his big bare feet splayed wide apart and one hand resting palm down on the floor between them. His face is raised, and his pale blue eyes are staring right at me.
  "Hello," I say, too grief-stricken and depressed to fully understand. Too frightened to know how I should act. "What do you want?"
  What I really mean is: What is happening to me? Why have you come? What have I done to deserve this unwanted attention? Are you even real?
  The young man smiles. His front teeth are crooked, the incisors yellow. His mouth begins to move, the thin lips forming words, but I cannot hear his voice. It is as if he is speaking to me through a layer of glass â a barrier which cuts out the sound. He continues to speak, smiling, nodding, punctuating certain passages with a knowing smile, and after making an odd circular motion with his hand â the one that is not resting on the floor â he suddenly stops.
  I realise that I am holding my breath. Since being admitted to the hospital, this strange unannounced visit is the only thing that has provoked any kind of reaction other than anger. I am curious, but I am afraid. So very afraid. Of him, and what he might represent.
  Unless I have lost my mind, the young man is clearly some kind of phantom â what else could he be? He can not possibly be anything else: his edges are ill-defined, almost ragged, and whenever he moves I catch glimpses of the dull grey plaster behind him. The light from the hallway outside the room, when it catches him, pierces his body and opens up bloodless wounds through which I can see the clumsy brush strokes on the painted skirting boards his crouched body would otherwise have obscured.
  "Are you dead?" At any other time, and in any other company, it would have been considered a stupid question. Right here, right now, in this squalid little hospital room, it seems the most sensible question in the world.
  Too many questions, with no answers forthcoming⦠The only reply I receive is more fear, more doubt, more screaming inside my head. I wish that I could pull the covers over my head, like I did in childhood; that single action always kept the monsters at bay.
  The young man grins and shuffles around on his haunches like a monkey, turning his back on me. At last I see what he has been trying to tell me. The back of his skull is matted with blood, with white splinters of bone showing through the
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