Phil scratched at his pastel wig while staring at the seconds count down on the file transfer. 3, 2, 1...complete. He ejected the SD card and glanced at the files on the screen. What on earth did Dan record in the middle of the night? Pacing? He knew for sure that there was at least some of that happening. Existential crisis? Probably not. Existential crises and procrastination were practically kissing cousins. If Dan had been having a midnight existential crisis, then he'd be unlikely to find the motivation to record it.

Smiling and shaking his head, Phil closed the laptop and leaned back in the chair. Dan should be home with the flour soon. He raised his arms above his head and stretched back with a hum. Mid stretch, the door bell rang. Phil jumped up and went to let Dan in, who'd no doubt, forgotten his keys.

Half way down the corridor, he paused for thought. That wasn't right. Dan had taken his keys with him. He'd seen him do it. It wouldn't have been family either, they'd phone first. Friends would have messaged. A package, maybe? A subscriber? Hopefully their address had not been leaked. As much as he loved their subscribers, there were boundaries. Phil glanced around the flat quickly to find it mostly tidy. Not really visitor worthy, but unexpected visitors would just have to deal with the clutter. It was their fault for coming unannounced, anyway.

The doorbell sounded again, and Phil approached the door with equal amounts of curiosity and trepidation.

…...

Dan walked towards the flat, flour in hand, feeling better than he had in years. He felt light, somehow. Not at all like he'd expect to feel after being hit by a car. The driver had been pretty upset, and nothing he said to try and appease him had worked.

But he was fine. Sure, it had hurt at first, and there was a bit of time there that he couldn't remember, but he was fine. The car was fine, the flour was fine, he was fine, everyone was fine. But the driver had immediately called the ambulance, and a crowd had started to gather. In the end, he'd given in to his embarrassment and quietly slipped away in the confusion.

He took the long way home, needing a little time to think it out, even if it did mean more exercise. He tried to think of it as substitute pacing. Done outside. In a straight line. In a way, he was conserving energy by not having to turn when he got to the end of the room, like he had to in his bedroom.

Dan sighed. He knew a weak justification when he heard one, but he really did need the time to get his brain in order. He couldn't believe he'd been that distracted that he'd actually walked in front of a car. It seemed more like the kind of situation Phil would get himself into with his well documented clumsiness. Maybe it was the hoody, blocking out his peripheral vision. Yeah. That was probably it. Phil would be worried, and then he'd laugh, and then he'd be worried again. Then he'd sort out what needed to be done, and everything would be ok.

Dan finally turned the corner to the flat and stopped in his tracks. A police car was parked outside, and two officers stood outside the door. Fuck! That was quick. He started to panic. Was it an offence to leave the scene of a crime? He couldn't remember. It might be. Shit! It probably was.

He hid back around the corner for a second. How the hell had they known it was him? Did someone recognise him? Did he drop his wallet? Dan felt cold for a second, his hands clammy. He breathed a few deep breaths and tried to summon the logical half of his brain again. It was an accident. True. They couldn't put him in jail for being hit by a car. True. They clearly already knew who he was, so hiding around this corner didn't help him in the slightest. There was no avoiding this. Dan closed his eyes and silently screamed into his knuckles. Overwhelmingly true.

After another calming breath, Dan turned the corner again and walked towards the flat. As he got closer, he heard "residence of Daniel Howell," from the female police officer, and "accident". Phil was at the door, looking confused, shocked and a bit fearful. As he came up behind them, the male police officer was asking "Do you happen to have any contact information for his family?"

Dan coughed to let them know he was there.

"Actually, you don't need to contact them. I'm here. I've not fled the countr-"

"I have their home phone number," Phil interrupted him, and brought out his mobile with shaky hands. He tried and failed few times to put in his passcode as his hands shook. Dan looked askance at him. The police officers didn't even turn around.

"Uh...do you really need to call my parents?" he asked a bit louder. "I'm not in kindergarten. I'm legally an adult."

"Do you need a hand with that?" the female police officer asked Phil gently. Phil's eyes darted about a bit as he held out the phone to her.

"Er...yeah. Thanks. The passcode is 0587." The female officer took the phone and typed in the code.

Dan stood behind them, hands raised in a 'what the hell is going on' fashion. "Seriously. Guys...and lady. If you need to talk with me about this, talk with me. Not my parents. Me. Dan Howell. I'm right here. Got hit by a car. Walked away from the scene of the crime like an idiot. That's m-"

"The number should be under 'Dan home'," Phil interrupted again, face white. "Never did get around to changing it."

"Phil!" Dan yelled. "Could you not? Could you not give out my family's information, please?" The please was less of a courtesy and more of an exclamation point. Nobody took any notice.

"Thank you," said the police officer, taking down the number and handing back the phone.

"Do you know..." Phil paused, as the police started to turn. "Do you know where he's been taken?"

The police officer looked through her notepad and found what she was looking for. "The ambulance was called out from the Royal, but he'd be in A & E, or critical care. So they'd only be letting family members visit at this stage."

Phil trembled visibly and clutched his phone tighter to his chest. "Oh," he said a bit woodenly. "Ok."

Dan's eyes narrowed in confusion. What on earth was going on? "Phil," he said gently, because his friend genuinely looked like he was going to faint. "I didn't go to hospital, Phil." Phil didn't respond, but Dan pressed on. "The guy who hit me felt bad, and he called the ambulance. But I left before it got there." Dan thought for a second. Unless the guy who'd hit him had a stress heart attack after he'd left, and he'd been taken to the Royal. And the police had fucked it up and got the identity wrong. But Phil wasn't looking at him, he was looking at the police.

"Thank you for your help," said the male officer. "If you need someone to talk to," the female officer was holding out a card with Samaritans written on it. Phil took it numbly, and nodded his thanks. Dan crossed his arms, and waited for the police to turn around and see that they'd made a huge mistake. Finally, they closed their notebooks.

Then they turned around and walked straight through him.

Dan stood with his hands outstretched in the stop position, and his eyes wide. The footsteps of the police disappeared behind him, and eventually the sound of car doors closing reached his ears. They had just walked straight through him.

In the door way, Phil stood staring at the concrete just behind where Dan was standing, his face blank and pale.

"Phil?" Dan said weakly.

Phil seemed to come to himself after a second, and took a shaky breath in, before turning and closing the door behind him.

Dan stared at the closed door for a long time before looking down at his hands. They looked the same to him. Huge and slightly white from where the shopping bag was cutting off the circulation. Normal. He looked back up at the door. Surely the police weren't right. He was here. He wasn't in the London Royal. Clearly.

Dan walked up to the door. Maybe Phil was just in so much shock that he hadn't seen him there. And maybe the police officers were aliens that can walk through solid matter. His brain supplied. He staunchly ignored it, and reached for the handle. His hand passed straight through it.

Dan's mouth made an 'o' of surprise. He pressed his lips together and tried again. His hand passed through the handle like it was made of smoke. He tried again and again, with the same result, before lashing out at the door with his palm. His hand went straight through. He snatched it back out and held onto his wrist, like it should hurt. But it didn't. Dan swallowed thickly, and tears prickled behind his eyes. Clenching his hands, and screwing up his face, Dan shut his eyes and walked two steps forward.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in the corridor. The door was behind him. He'd just walked through a door. He pressed his hands together and smashed them against his lips, trying to keep the panic from crashing out. There was no denying it now. He'd been hit by a car, taken to hospital and had died. Dan was a ghost. He dropped his hands from his face and let the flour fall to the floor. He looked at it for a second. What was it? Ghost flour? Seriously? He didn't even believe in ghosts and now there's ghost flour? Phil would never let him live this down.

A small, slightly mad giggle erupted from his mouth. There would definitely be no living it down. Not now. The giggle turned into a strange whine as Dan fought a sob. He was dead. It was done. No more life. No more gaming channel, no more late video sessions, Riverdale marathons or frustrating editing sessions. No more long days of deepening the sofa crease, or sorting out book pages with Phil. His heart clenched hard. Even though he could hear him in the next room, it felt like he'd lost his best friend.

Dan closed his eyes and let himself feel it for a second before he squashed it down. Phil was not dead. He was in the next room. Dan was dead. But he was still here, somehow. Astral projection maybe? He grimaced. How astral projection was any more logical than just being a plain old sheet wearing ghoul was anyone's guess.

"I'm a ghost," Dan said aloud, in an effort to try and accept the apparent truth. His voice was a bit weak, and irrationally, it annoyed him. "I'm a ghost?" His mouth turned down in utter disgust, like he'd licked a nintendo cartridge. "I'm a fucking ghost? Are you fucking kidding me?!" He bared his teeth and tensed his hands in frustration for a second like he was strangling the air, before letting out an angry huff. His rage cooled quickly to a simmer of generalised annoyance.

A lifetime of not believing in the supernatural and now he was a member of the holey-sheet-wearer's association. And who even knew about any of the other creatures. Were zombies real? Were-wolves? Unicorns? Vampires – and if so, did they fucking glitter? Dan sighed and shook his head, for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He'd reserve judgement on the rest of the supernatural, but for now, he had to admit that ghosts where real. And he was one.

"Well, fuck," he pouted one more time, and went to go find Phil.