I have a ghost. He lives in my house, or as he would say, I live in his. When he was living a human life, he used to be a flamenco teacher. He died in this house and then I took this place and I also made it mine. 

At the beginning, I never imagined it was a shared place. My ghost helped me acknowledge it. Apparently, it is OK, in ghost's codes, to scare the hell out of people to make them know they are not alone. 

With time, we both have learned to admit the presence of the other. We also have tried to stay each one in his or her own dimension –this is harder for him to keep than it is for me–.

In November I build with flowers, food and candles, an altar de muertos for him. This has helped me to get to know him better.  (And I can say by now that I am sure that when I say that I have a ghost, he thinks it's the other way around, that he is the one who has me. )