To a certain extent, all rented properties are haunted. The spectres of previous tenants lurk in the bedside tables and slogan mugs they left behind; their fag smoke lingers in the carpets; the post they failed to redirect piles up in the hall. Neighbours, too, can feel like phantoms: we might rarely see them, but we hear their footsteps and their music, inhale their cooking smells, or simply somehow sense their recently departed presences on the communal stairs. As for landlords: they’re probably the biggest ghouls of all.
In light of all this, it’s perhaps surprising that we haven’t seen more housing crisis ghost stories, or, as Róisín Lanigan’s debut has been billed, a “gothic novel for generation rent”. I Want to Go Home But I’m Already There is the story of Áine and Elliot, who have just moved into a rental together in a gentrified area of London. It’s a flat that, ominously, no one else seemed to want. They are both keen to enter a more adult stage of life, but something about the place unnerves Áine from the very start.
