My name is Caspar Benson. I live in London, England and I have just turned fifteen. I am not here to relieve myself to you as one would a biography, I only invest a small portion of myself and the reason is so that I may get an answer to my own most unorthodox problems.

I am possessed with the uncanny tenure of seeing dead people. Even in the most tranquil of surroundings it seems that I play host to a whole plethora of ghostly incantation. They frequent my company at the most in-opurtune moments and can be overbearing and troublesome to say the least. I wonder if you might think of this as a gift from God? Could it be a holy career prospect, am I the gate keeper for representing those whom have passed a voice in the real world? Well, I hope not.

Is it by coincidence that I am named Caspar? Did my parents know something that I didn't or can I place the choice of this moniker down to simply bad taste. Caspar. That friendly ball of cotton wool that floats before unreal characters, the laughable entity that is the comical outlook of death.

Do you see a representation of a ghost as perhaps “Spielberg” might?

I see a very different picture. Not the allure of my friendly name-sake but a portrait of death in a more repugnant tone: Ghoulish, abhorrent and uncensored. They sport no cosmetic improvement or Hollywood make-up artist to embellish their looks. As they died, they stand before me.

I often heard voices and have learnt well not to mention these facts for fear of being presented (at regular intervals) to the psychiatrists office. Indeed this was more than enough to secure my silence.

Can you imagine, the small frightened child lying in bed at night listening to footsteps crossing my bedroom floor, uninvited whispers in the darkness or maybe just the shock of objects levitating around my room? It is perhaps more surprising that I am not shackled in a straight jacket or left to bound around a padded cell. The torture of having to bare this without being able to confide it for want of being treated like a nut case is far from God given.

My first actual glimpse of these ethereal beings came on my tenth birthday. I was rather enjoying my party and as I was obliged to blow out the ten candles that adorned the top of my cake. This was witnessed by my parents, a few school friends and a whole host of paranormal gate-crashers. I also had the company of a rather newly departed couple who had apparently ended their days under the wheels of a drunk drivers vehicle. All in all though I think that I handled the task quite well considering. It wasn't actually a blowing out of the flames on the candles, it was more like a tsunami of ***** that extinguished them. This didn't go down very well with my parents or school chums, although I do believe their were a few spiritual sniggers in the background.

I have since learned to curb my initial reactions to these visitations to a more admirable and controlled response. Let us just say that the day was a problematic one and leave it at that. Although I did get to have a lovely chat with the impending nut doctor but thought better than to tell her the real story.

I have heard the most unusual and explicit conversations, stuff that would excite any budding writer of horror and gore but I had never actually conversed with any of my unearthly visitors. In the early days I was only privy to hearing them and I believe that I have felt them as they have careered past me and on many occasion through me but I have not had a proper dialogue. That is until now.

I had never heard of the term “Spirit Guide” until recently, I didn't actually know what one was but I do now. I have read (mainly from Google) about them and everyone one on the planet seems to be an expert except me, although now I know that they mostly all spinning a yarn for gullible persons to believe. I was never overwhelmed by a Navajo Indian nor a Swashbuckling Pirate guide and I definitely never swooned around in a spiralling stupor.

No! She just casually approached me and said hello. It took me some time to actually realise that she was dead and something I found very hard to digest. However this actuality was helped along enormously, when just to prove a point she disappeared in front of me and materialised instantly behind me. Without a doubt the most surreal confab I have ever experienced.

Her name is Gloria, she is seventeen, or perhaps I should say she was seventeen at the time of her death but apart from the fact that she is deceased, she is the most stunning girl I have ever met. No greyish ghostly apparition, just a fun and loving corpse to be around.

Over the past few months we have become very close in fact I would use the words love as a most positive account of the feelings we have for each other. When we touch, yes we can touch and we have on very consistent occasions. Our relationship has at time been one of an intimate nature. I am not afraid to say that I love a ***** and she is without a doubt my special spectre. The fact that no-one else can see her is a nothing to me but I have had to refrain from holding her hand or cuddling her in company. I do get some of the strangest looks from people, I suppose one can understand this. We have discussed this and at time it makes sense that I should pretend that she isn't there but it kills me to have to ignore her. It doesn't do to talk to an invisible being with your parents or friends present believe me.

The dilemma we had was where do we go from here? It isn't something one can really ask about is it? I do not know about any Agony Aunt column that would really be applicable in this instance. I wonder what the reply would be if I did confide in my mother or father. I do believe it would be an Institution for me and perhaps a Exorcist for her. Many young couples can have many troubles with loving someone within the wrong ethnicity or religious persuasion although I have never heard say of any difficulty that portrays the one we are suffering from.

The only option I have it seems for a happy life with my beloved is death, not a nasty death though I want to be in the same physical shape as I was when I lived. Blades leave scars so poison was the way to go. As my life ebbs away I know my folks will think that I died alone but my Gloria is with me every step of the way and it is in her arms that I lay, dead to the world but more alive in my demise than I ever was in my short lifetime.

While others get old and infirm and eventually laid to rest, we will still be young and in love.