Dead people

My house is located on the site of a cemetery. It's on the first floor. And right between the toilet and the bathroom in the hallway, I have graves—I even trip over them. Almost real.

I already know my dead ones, because they're active, the bastards. Grandma, her son, and her daughter-in-law. Apparently, a family burial.

In the morning, I wake up to the sound of an old woman coughing behind the wall of the next room.

Grandma gets up, grunts, groans, and goes off to bang the dishes. She turns on the radio, and it always plays some cheerful Soviet songs. Or the news announcer, in a well-trained voice, tells the story of days long past.

Then the young people wake up. They wash, eat, run off to work. Grandma washes the dishes, groans, and leaves.

I go back to sleep.

 At 11 a.m. she comes back, banging around in the kitchen, then silence falls. Until the next morning.

And lately, she's been waking me up in the mornings. She bursts into the room, shakes my shoulder with an icy hand, and says:

"Get up, you'll be late for school."

Apparently, she thinks I'm her daughter. They never used to come into my room.

I even invited psychics. They turned around, turned up their noses, and said, "Call the priest."

A priest... But where can I find one, a truly holy priest?

That's how my dead people are. That's how we live, sharing the apartment.