I don’t like Philip so much anymore.
I woke up this morning in a poor mood. Libby noticed right away. She actually asked what was wrong, rather than cuffing me for not going to work on time. I said I was tired from watching Princess Celine’s dance, though I don’t think Libby was convinced. She even kissed me when I left our apartment, which is the first time I remember ever getting a kiss from her.
That was good. It got worse, though, diary, a lot worse.
I made it halfway through my shift at the mess hall - I didn’t even move around much for once, mainly because I was thinking about what had happened - when a bowl of soup upended itself down the front of my armour. I couldn’t even get mad at anyone, because there was nobody IN the hall to heft the soup.
Then a yak tart hit me in the face. And another in the groin. And another tried to wriggle up my nose.
I ran, but weird stuff kept happening. Pots and pans and buckets and rocks and beer mugs and all sorts of nonsense flew out of the rooms around me, smacking me in the butt and bouncing off my helmet. Whenever I asked for help, though, people just stared at me like I was crazy, and the flying stuff stopped, well, flying. Then when I was on my own again? More flying stuff!
I figured it out once I got to the rat farms to, uh, use you to defend myself, diary. The rats started to hiss as soon as I got down there, and when I got close to the fences they rose up in a big crowd and rushed the door. The invisible something that'd been tailing me appeared, trying to shoo them away.
It was Philip. Ghostly Philip, but Philip nonetheless. He gave me the finger, then floated away.
I know why here's here. He’s come back to haunt me for losing his head to an elephant. He must blame me for his death. I’m glad rats can see ghosts and don’t like them, diary - that way he can’t follow me into the rat farms. Which means I'll be spending a lot more time down here. Good thing that yellow stuff doesn't bother me so much anymore.
I can only see Philip sometimes. He’s an outline with a grouchy face that floats around behind me. He’s stopped throwing stuff; now he seems to be writing things in the dirt whenever I’m outside. I think he’s trying to incriminate me, but because Philip’s illiterate most of what he draws is just lewd stick men and squiggles. He seems really good at doodling thingers, though, which makes me question whether he likes guys or girls more.
Why can’t he haunt Robert? It was his stupid idea! Help me, diary!
Sigh. At least it's the weekend. Wonder what ghosts do on the weekend. Is that their time, maybe? Is there some big club where they can get together and laugh about all the people they've scared during the week? Or do they report in to some central office, and, I dunno, get paid for their hard work? Is there such a thing as ghost gold?
Yeah. Guess I'll never know.
My life sucks,
Dragomir the Guard
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