Live, Laugh, Love, Die

The year was 2060.

Tropical weather brought on by climate change blessed southside London with a 40-degree dry and hot day in April. Inside a recently refurbished one-bedroom flat, four friends pose as a polyamorous unit. One of them brings a bottle of vegan, grape-free champagne onto the coffee table, landing it with a thud.

“Right,” says Brandon, “Should we celebrate, then?”

The other three raise their glasses, and Brandon pours an equal amount into each. After filling his, he raises it high, and whilst standing up, he scans the living room with his eyes.

“It only took us ten years of working multiple gigs, but here we are. Our HOME!”

“Hear! Hear!” says Alyssa, his partner. They had been dating for four years when they met Cory and Trisha.

“All thanks to Cory”, Trisha adds. “Great idea with the polyamory! We would’ve never qualified for the mortgage!”

They clink the glasses, and joy is all over their faces—the vast majority of families, traditional or not, still flat share. London’s housing crisis started in 2040, forcing a significant shift in people's lives. This one-bedroom flat has been on the market for almost a year, as most people could not afford it. Officiating their friendship as a polyamorous unit meant that the two couples now qualified for the four-income mortgage, finally allowing them to become homeowners.

“So, it remains as we agreed,” asks Cory, “You and Alyssa take the bedroom whilst we take the living room?”

“Yes”, confirms Alyssa, “We already moved some stuff in there. I’m so excited, you guys,” she says, raising her glass. “Here’s to the beginning of our lives.”

That night, both couples engaged in lovemaking in their respective rooms. The excitement of owning a home was too much of an arousal. As Cory is engaging Trisha physically, a cat is heard meowing. He stops mid-hip movement and walks towards the window to check the noise. A rough-looking black cat with a bald patch between its ears is staring at them.

“Away, kitty,” he says, waving his hands.

“Just close the window,” says Trisha, covering herself.

“It’s going to be hot, though,” Cory replies.

“It’s already hot,” says Trisha with a suggestive smile, calling Cory back in bed.

Getting the message and rushing, Cory slams the window, and the cat runs away. The window's thud cracks the wall next to it, and some paint falls off. Trisha turns on the night lamp to check for the damage.

“What is that?” she says, pointing towards the wall while Cory gets closer to check it out.

“Live, laugh,” he reads while tearing another piece of wall. “Love, Die.”

“Die?” says Trish, a bit shaken. “Wasn’t it just Live, Laugh, Love? I’m pretty sure my great-grandmother had a wallpaper in the kitchen that said that.”

“Yes,” Cory confirms. “It’s a very ancient philosophy people used to stick around their homes to bring them comfort, I think.”

The lamp starts to flicker, and a cold breeze enters the room.

“What is going on?” says Trisha, hiding more and more under the covers. Cory joins her and holds her hand.

“Die.” is repeated throughout the room in whispers. Out of nowhere, the bald cat is at the bottom of their bed and watches. Her head starts spinning, and a human voice comes through when its mouth opens.

“Boo!” says the voice. “Sell the flat and run away.”

Trisha starts screaming, as Brandon and Alyssa barge into the room, both half-naked.

“What’s going on?” Says Brandon, whilst Alyssa notices the cat with its head spinning and joins Cory and Trish in bed screaming. Unflinched, Brandon grabs the cat and throws it out on the street. With its head still spinning like the blades of a helicopter, the cat rises to their window again.

“Sell the bloody flat, you fools. This is a ghost speaking. Boo!”

Brandon draws the curtain, and the commotion stops with the window closed.

“The fuck was that?” he says, whilst his three friends are all sharing the blanket, comforting each other.

 “We need to email the housing association now.” Says Trisha “This is some weird shit!”

They agree and decide to sleep together in the bedroom for safety.

The morning light, weak and hazy from the pollution, barely reaches the flat’s window. Alyssa groans and shields her eyes with a pillow. Brandon snores beside her, and Cory and Trisha huddle at the edge of the bed, half awake and clutching each other. A heavy knock at the door sends a ripple of panic through them.

“Who would be knocking this early?” whispers Trisha, looking at her phone. “It’s 6:15 a.m.”

Brandon sighs and slides out of bed. “I’ll check. Probably someone who heard us screaming all night.”

He pulls on a T-shirt, yawns, and heads to the door. He opens it to find a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties, wearing a worn-out bathrobe, her silver hair pulled into a messy bun. She has an air of exhaustion and authority, like someone who’s spent years battling with tenants and won every time.

“Morning,” she says dryly, glancing at the dark circles under his eyes. “I'm Edith. I’m from the housing association board. I received your email.”

“Oh, thanks!” Brandon says, trying to sound cheerful. “We, uh, had a bit of a rough night.”

“Yes, I thought I heard some… disturbances,” she replies, her gaze piercing. “I’ll get to the point. You should know that flat has a… history. The former tenant never quite vacated. And he’s not fond of new residents.”

Brandon stares, trying to hold back a laugh. “Wait. Is this flat haunted?"

Edith shrugs. “Call it what you like. The man’s name was George Humphrey. He lived there for forty years before they hiked the rent and drove him out a few years back.”

“And, uh, he’s still… around?” Brandon tries not to smirk, half-glancing back at the others huddled in the bedroom doorway, eavesdropping.

Edith leans in closer, her expression serious. “George believed this flat was all he had – his whole life lived between these walls. Before his death, he broke in and gave his last breath right there on the couch. Since then, previous tenants have heard…weird things. He’s made it clear he doesn’t like newcomers. Especially, well…” she pauses, assessing their modern decor through the doorway. “People like you.”

“People like us?” Trisha steps forward, brows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, young, yuppie types. The kind who’d call this place ‘vintage’ instead of old.” Edith gives them a look that clarifies that she’s been in the building for decades and has her share of grievances with the ‘new generation.’

Alyssa speaks up, her voice laced with annoyance and nervousness. “We’re not here to change his… no, not his. This is our place.”

Edith nods. “George may not care about that. Anyway, he’s not dangerous. Just… inconvenient. If you ignore him, he may leave you alone. Otherwise, you might consider having the place blessed or getting an exorcist. Just don’t go fussing about it to the housing association. They’ll just laugh you off.”

With that, Edith hands them a small worn-out key. “This opens the basement storage. Rumour has it that’s where he kept his things. Some say it’s cursed, so you shouldn’t open it. But it's your call if you’re keen on stirring things up.”

As she turns to leave, she looks over her shoulder and adds, “Oh, and maybe don’t paint over that ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ sign in your entryway. George loved ‘faux-inspirational garbage.’ It reminded him of better days.”

And with that, Edith shuffles back down the hall, leaving the four staring at each other, the key cold in Brandon’s hand.

Brandon breaks the silence. “So… haunted storage?”

Alyssa glares at him. “Brandon, we are not going down there. Let’s just leave it alone. Maybe Edith’s right; if we ignore him, he’ll ignore us.”

But a mischievous grin spreads across Brandon’s face. “Or, maybe George has a story he wants to tell.”

Trisha shakes her head, already backing toward the bedroom. “No way. We’re not poking around cursed boxes of an angry old ghost who hates us. Let’s just email the housing association and—"

Before she can finish, a loud crash comes from the kitchen. They all jump, racing into the room to find every cabinet door open, contents strewn across the floor, and the word “GO!” scratched deep into the paint on the wall.

“Okay, maybe we do need that exorcist…” murmurs Alyssa, her voice barely audible over the cold, spectral laugh that echoes through the flat.

Brandon frowns at his phone as he scrolls through an app. “Aw, it’s a bloody subscription.” He sighs. “They have a free 7-day trial, though, so we’re set.”

“Who needs an exorcist on a subscription?” Cory scoffs. “Dodgy as hell, mate. What’s next, monthly ghost repellant?”

Ignoring him, Brandon scrolls through the terms and conditions as the flat vibrates slightly, vases trembling around them. The tap suddenly bursts on, and a thick, red liquid spills out, oozing into the sink. Without so much as flinching, Alyssa reaches over and turns it off.

“Book him now,” she says with urgency in her voice.

Without much waiting time, there’s another knock. Trisha cracks the door open, and they’re met with a tall man in a faded trench coat, a curly moustache, and a beanie.

“Hey there. I’m Gustav,” he says, his accent vaguely European. “Your exorcist for this morning.”

Trisha’s brow furrows as she steps aside to let him in. Gustav glances around the room, touching the wall and closing his eyes.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, shivering theatrically. “The spirits are strong here. Angry. Possessive.”

Cory folds his arms, eyebrows raised. “So, Gustav…where did you qualify as an exorcist?”

Gustav pulls a laminated badge from his pocket, proudly holding it. It reads, in Comic Sans, "Church of England, Member of Ejecting Spirits."

Cory squints. “This doesn’t exactly look…legit.”

Gustav steps closer to Cory with exaggerated slowness until they’re practically nose-to-nose. “Have you ever seen a ghost up close, city boy?” His eyes widen as he lowers his voice. “They aren’t pretty. They’re old. And mad.”

Brandon suppresses a laugh as Gustav steps back. “Anyway, I took an extra module at Uni for some credits,” he says dismissively. “We’ll need some personal belongings of the spirit.”

Suddenly, the lights flicker, and the word NO appears scratched across the wall.

“Looks like we have his answer!” Cory says, shrugging.

But Brandon, holding up Edith's rusty key, smirked. “Not so fast. We’ve got access to his storage.”

Gustav’s eyes light up with a suspicious gleam. “Good,” he says, extending a hand. “Lead me to it.

They trudged to the basement, flashlights casting narrow beams that barely cut through the dusty air. Gustav led the way, muttering under his breath and clutching a spray bottle that looked suspiciously like lavender room spray.

He turned to the group, whispering dramatically. “I feel the spirit’s presence here. Angry. Betrayed.”

“Or it’s mould,” muttered Cory.

They reached the storage unit, its rusted lock rattling as Brandon turned the key Edith had given him. The door creaked open, revealing rows of dust-covered boxes, stacks of social studies books, and faded protest posters against rent hikes. The walls pulsed with a cold energy that made them shiver.

“This is his stuff,” said Alyssa, spotting a stack of old, yellowed letters on a shelf. She picked them up, squinting at the faded handwriting.

“What’s it say?” asked Trisha, leaning in.

“Looks like he was fighting gentrification for years. He got evicted, but he refused to leave.” Alyssa flipped through the pages. “He even planned to chain himself to his bed if it came to it. They only got him out when…” She trailed off as her flashlight flickered and the air grew colder.

Suddenly, a low whisper echoed through the storage unit. “They took it all. Now, I’ll take it back.”

Cory jumped back, his flashlight clattering to the floor. “Did that wall just talk?”

Gustav nodded solemnly, although a bit of sweat was beginning to form under his beanie. “Yes, it’s the spirit of George, and he’s—well—he’s furious. But fear not!” He raised his spray bottle, misting the air around him in lavender. “This will cleanse his anger.”

The whispering grew louder, now sounding like multiple voices overlapping. “Out, you hipsters, OUT!”

“I think you made him madder,” Brandon muttered as he grabbed Alyssa’s hand.

Gustav took a shaky step forward. “George, spirit of the… um, recently departed, we’re willing to negotiate.” He paused dramatically, turning back to Cory and the others. “Do we have any other items of sentimental value here?”

Brandon held up an old keychain with a mini-library card attached. “Found this in one of his boxes—think it’s worth anything?”

The lights flickered and then dimmed as a single, furious word appeared on the wall in thick black letters: NO.

Brandon grimaced. “Guess not.”

As they all stood silent, uncertain what to do, Gustav took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Right. Time to get real.” As he pulled a binder with sticky notes.

Alyssa stepped forward, stopping Gustav from opening the binder, a touch of sympathy could be heard in her voice. “George, look, we’re just trying to survive here. We’re all working three gigs just to keep this place.”

The shadows stilled, and the whispering quieted.

“Three jobs, you say?” the walls replied.

“Yes”, continues Alyssa, “Three jobs each for ten years to afford your lovely…home.”

The walls sighed.

“Wow. Your generation is even more fucked up, huh?”

They all nod, slightly embarrassed.

Trisha, thinking quickly, held up an old “Live, Laugh, Love” wall hanging she’d spotted in the corner. “George, would this help? We do have to paint over the chipped wall, but we can leave this in the kitchen, like… a tribute?”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, almost reluctantly, a single whisper cut through the darkness. “Fine. No more exorcists, though. That lavender scent is whack.” The group laughs in agreement, only Gustav taking slight offence. “One more thing”, George adds, “I want you to respect this place as a home, not see it as a stepping stone. Treasure it like I treasured it.”

Alyssa gave a relieved laugh, brushing dust off her hands. “Deal. We’ll Live, Laugh and Love in this place just like you did.”

They filed out of the storage room, exhaling in relief as the door shut behind them. Back in the flat, Brandon collapsed onto the couch, pulling out his phone. “Looks like Gustav’s services come with a subscription fee,” he muttered, cancelling it with a few taps. “At least we got our free trial.”

Gustav huffed. “You’ll regret that. This flat needs ongoing protection.”

Trisha rolled her eyes. “Pretty sure we’re fine. George seems like a man of his word.” Smiling, she set the “Live, Laugh, Love” sign on the kitchen wall. “Now that I think of it, this sign does make sense.”

Gustav pulls another card out of his pocket. “I am also a Ghost Therapist. If there are cohabiting issues, just call me here.”

Brandon picks up the card and shows Gustav the door. “Thank you, mate. That’ll do for now.”

The gang huddles in the bedroom, contemplating their next move as the flat remains silent. Shadows cast by the flickering lights dance across the room, making them feel as if they’re not alone.

Alyssa whispers, “Maybe Edith was right. George cares about this flat—many before us have not respected what this place meant to him.”

Brandon scratches his head. “What does he want, then? A protest?”

The lights start flickering aggressively.

Trisha’s eyes light up. “Maybe if we show him we’re willing to fight for what he stood for, he won’t try to scare us away.”

The lights flicker even more intensely.

Cory’s face breaks into a grin. “A protest in honour of George! In his flat. That’s got to be the ultimate tribute!”

An excited “Yeeeees” can be heard through the walls.

They pull together makeshift signs out of cereal boxes and pillowcases. Each scribbles a slogan they imagine George would approve of: “Housing is a Right!” “Rent Control, Now!” “No More Corporate Landlords!” They cover the flat with these homemade signs, laughing as they tape them up on walls and in the windows facing Brixton High Street. In a final, respectful touch, Trisha pulls out her phone and plays a 2020s folk anthem, something she imagines George would have heard in his younger days. They all stand around, awkwardly chanting along to the beat.

The lights stop flickering, the whispers soften, and the bald cat sits calmly in the corner. A faint, almost amused voice breaks through the silence, dripping with sarcasm: “Bless your clueless little souls.”

The group jumps, but there’s relief in George’s tone, softer than before. “But…you tried. That’ll do.”

The room falls silent, the lights stabilise, and the temperature returns to normal. George’s spectral form appears faintly, now embracing the bald cat as he tips an imaginary hat in their direction. He glances at the signs plastered around the flat, rolling his eyes with a bemused smirk. “Those are tacky as hell.”

The group stands frozen, wondering if they’d somehow managed to annoy him even more. George sighs, shaking his head. “But you’ve got… potential. Just keep the music down, and for god’s sake, water the plants.” He motions to a dusty fern they hadn’t noticed in the corner.

“Oh,” says Alyssa, glancing nervously at the dying plant. “Will do, George.”

George’s apparition fades, leaving a faint warmth behind. The bald cat rubs up against their legs, and a faint chuckle lingers as George’s voice echoes one last time. “And stay away from that dodgy, Gustav chap. He walked in with dirty shoes.”

They laugh, mostly in relief, collapsing onto the couch as the final traces of George’s presence fade. Brandon, feeling oddly sentimental, holds his hand out to the group. “To George?”

“To George,” they echo, clinking glasses.