Let's get one thing straight. Places aren't haunted, oh no, it's people who are haunted.

I feel that if nothing else gets written that has to be. I'm still not sure how all this is going to end - last night I came closest to actually doing it, I'd driven out to the moors, had the pills ready - but in the end chickened out, couldn't do it. So, whatever happens - if I chicken out of writing the rest of this the same way I made the decision not to kill myself last night - at least there's that one thing written down, preserved for posterity. Take it as a warning from someone who knows.

Okay, I'm sensing already that you think I'm deranged, not right in the head, deluded - choose your own word - and you may even be right. All I can say is that this has all really happened, if it's all some delusion brought on by I don't know, a psychosis, a brain tumour, whatever - then so be it. It's my reality, it's what I have to live with. 

(When I said this all really happened what I should have said is ...happened, and continues to happen...)

Let's start at the beginning. Once upon a time... maybe? Crossing the bridge had always been my favourite part of the journey home from work. Closer to home than work, it was like crossing a boundary, leaving behind the stress and drudgery of the work environment, a gateway to my real life where I could do what I wanted, when I wanted.

The mountainous country where I've chosen to make my home means the bridge is high - far enough above the fast running river below to pretty much guarantee that those choosing to jump from it would be pretty much killed outright by the impact with the water. Jumpers are rare though - it's a rural area I live in, not much by way of population - which I guess adds a touch of irony to my story. 

The bridge was closed for a week following the suicide of Clifton Jones. God knows why, it can't take that long to gather evidence (if any were needed, it seemed a straightforward suicide). Maybe it was some bizarre ploy to stop copycats or, I guess, those morbid bastards who congregate around sites of death like flies around shit.

Whatever the reason, it meant a ten mile detour for me, a pain in the arse at the best of times but even more so in the cold, wet and dark winter nights, especially given the poor state of the roads I was forced into driving on.  In retrospect, of course, I'd be overjoyed if that had been the full extent of the trouble Mr Jones had caused me.

I saw the figure on the bridge the first night it was re-opened. Swinging left onto the bridge, my headlight beams picked it out through the driving rain. Just stood there, head slightly slumped forward, next to the low railing over which Clifton had thrown himself. The sight was more disconcerting than anything else - it was the first pedestrian I'd ever seen on the bridge - and it sent a cold tingle down my spine. I slowed the car as I passed the figure, gazed out of the car window as I passed. No movement at all, it just stood there, oblivious to the rain that hammered down. I drove on, slightly disconcerted. Glancing in my rear-view mirror I watched the still unmoving figure diminish into the darkness.

It wasn't until after I had exactly the same experience the following night that the thought crossed my mind that I had seen (twice now) the ghost of Clifton Jones.

Living alone has many advantages but it can also - to put it bluntly - fuck with your mind. I was genuinely creeped-out that second night. Every noise made me jump, something lurked in every empty room, around every corner. Sleep didn't come easy.

The following day I considered taking the alternative route home - ten mile detour notwithstanding - but the mundanities of work, and hours of daylight, gave me a bit of perspective. Which, I have to say, all pretty much disappeared as I found myself approaching the bridge once more.

 This time the figure was standing on the road as I swept around onto the bridge. I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt. Reflected in the wing-mirror I could see it, stood there, same pose as the other nights, still unmoving.

Even as I write this now I still don't know what possessed me to get out of the car. I did though. Maybe it was the shock of the emergency stop, the natural road-rage reaction of any driver having to cope with a stupid pedestrian. I slammed the door, shouted something, strode towards the figure.

No reaction. Of course. What had I been expecting? Not even a flicker of movement. Other than changing its actual position over the three nights it had always maintained its arms-by-sides, head slightly drooping posture. Out of the car I'd become nervous again - and somewhat at a loss as to what to do next. All of a sudden I felt very exposed out there in the bridge, very alone despite the presence of my companion. 

I returned to the car, climbed in. By the time I checked my rear-view mirror, the figure had gone.

I never saw it on the bridge again - although I wish to God that that could have been the case.

It's about ten days since my cough started, I still have it although it's now a full-blown chest infection, the type that sets your lungs on fire every time you cough. Antibiotics haven't worked - the doctor pretty much told me they wouldn't when he prescribed them, never do with a "virus".  For the last three days I've been able to shit through a sieve, yesterday the first flecks of blood appeared in the toilet bowl. My hair has started falling out and two days ago I lost a tooth.

Shit.

Ten days ago was when Clifton Jones' ghost started appearing in my bedroom. The night after my confrontation on the bridge. Maybe if I'd stayed in the car... who knows? Deep down I don't think it would have made any difference - only prolonged the inevitable.

At first I would awaken to see its shadowy form lurking in the corner of the room. Unmoving, stood in the same way that had become so familiar on the bridge. What's it like to wake in the middle of the night and find someone in your room? Go on, imagine it. Let me tell you it's a lot worse even than that.

He's been there every night since and, again just like on the bridge, he's slowly getting closer and closer. My "symptoms" began the first night he appeared and, as I've grown weaker, he's growing stronger, more substantial. I can see his features now, pale (white as a ghost I guess you'd say), mouth drawn downwards into a frown, eyes closed above a hooked Roman nose. He doesn't speak - sometimes I wish he would, the silence only intensifies the horror.

"Clifton Jones' ghost" - that's who it is, except not in the way you might think. I checked the papers for the story of his suicide and found articles about a happily married father of three, a successful businessman with no apparent reason to take his own life, to ruin those of his family. And there were photos - family snapshots and more official looking portraits of a man with seemingly no cares in the world. Photos of a black man, of Caribbean descent so the papers said.

Clifton Jones' ghost - yes, but my ghost now.

He'd been ill before his suicide and maybe a little depressed - so the papers said. He'd left no note, no explanation as to why he'd jumped.

I knew why. Before I'd been unlucky enough to cross the bridge he'd been haunted by this... thing. This ghost, wraith, phantom, call it what you will, was preying on Clifton Jones, every night growing stronger as he himself grew weaker. 

Now it's my turn to suffer. I have my theories - as I'm sure Clifton did - about what's going to happen if I allow it to continue. My visitor - whoever or whatever it is - wants to get back into this world and it's using me to get there. I don't know if I can let that happen, I'm guessing it's probably not going to be a good thing.

Clifton made a decision. He wasn't going to let it happen either. His solution created the living Hell I find myself trapped in.

I have to make a decision too. Last night I thought I had but cowardice and maybe even self-pity stopped me.

I'm not sure I can take another night of this. Last night it was stood at the foot of my bed, tonight it'll be even closer.

The only way I can stop it is to take my life but I know that won't be the end of it. Just like the "curse" passed to me, I know that when I'm gone someone else is going to have this shit come down on them.

People are haunted, not places. 

I drove out to the moors as it was the most desolate place I could think of, less chance of someone going out there. Maybe it's a good choice - I don't know. Do I have the guts to kill myself? I don't know.

It's getting dark outside. I need to decide soon.

What am I going to do?

What would you do?