My Ghost Roommate

I snap my eyes to hers. “Sorry?”

“Your apartment, the one I tricked you into renting. I’m a terrible person. It’s haunted. It’s truly haunted.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Haunted …?”

“He died too young. It was a murder. A terrible and gruesome murder. An act of arson. You can even see the burn spot on the wall near the kitchen. Even worse, some rumors say it was a suicide. Oh, but I can’t bear the thought! What a tortured, terrible spirit he must be!”

I frown. “I didn’t read anything about a murder—”

“Oh, of course, they hushed it up, kept it out of the papers, but …” Mrs. Shaheen’s large, wary eyes drift to the door where the tiny numbers are drilled into the wood, the last one cockeyed in the slightest. “It’s a sad fact about 313 … that a dark, tormented soul haunts its walls, the ghost of a young man who died too young … and who bitterly hates the living. Especially anyone who lives longer than him.” She squeezes my arm with surprising strength. “How old did you say you are?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, you’re so, so brave.” I just now realize she left her cane by her door, clutching my arm with both of her hands. “But I will understand if you no longer wish to stay. I should have disclosed this information before.”

My ability to take a sip of my coffee is taken away by her tight grip on my arm. I smile patiently at her. “I am perfectly fine staying here, ma’am. It’s a rather big place for the price, and the location is close to my new job, which I start tomorrow. Not to mention the … well, the … nice coffee shop on the corner down the street.” And there goes my heart again, drifting away to the charming, dimply, tight-shirted barista in his apron. Is it too late to down this cup and go right back for seconds?

“Of course, there may yet be nothing to fear!” she says suddenly. “You can avoid the wily spirit’s wrath if you follow three simple rules.”

I blink away thoughts of Byron. “Three simple—?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? First rule is: don’t ever open your fridge after midnight. Big no-no.”

I squint skeptically at her. I’m pretty sure I already broke that one a few times just last night.

“You can look at me all you want with those cute, questioning green eyes of yours,” she sings, “but it will not change the fact that the cunning phantom has a large appetite for midnight snacks. Ready for rule two?”

“Mrs. Shah—”

“Don’t mention anything about a certain rock band that isn’t a Prince, Princess, or King, but the other one. The ghost has a bad, bad, bad association with that band, and any mention of it, so—”

“You mean Queen?”

The woman throws a conniption and backs away as if I just turned into a neon flamingo. “Goodness, child, are you taking any of this seriously?? You’re playing with fire here! Now speaking of fire, there’s just one more rule, the most important rule of all, and I—”

“I’m okay, Mrs. Shaheen. You don’t have to worry.”

“But I haven’t told you—”

“Really, I’ll be fine. In fact …” I lean toward her. She takes a step back. “I don’t even believe in ghosts.”

Who knew that such an unassuming set of words could completely render the woman speechless.

My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. “Sorry, I gotta take this. It might be my new boss.”

“Oh, child …” is all the woman says as I give an apologetic smile, wrest my arm free from her vice grip, then let myself into the apartment. I’m pretty sure she’ll be standing there for a good hour or two, likely listening at my door, ready to burn some sage or call an army of priests to assist at the first sign of distress.

Once inside, I shut and lock the door, then pull out my phone and slap it to my ear. “Hello? Sir?”

“Griffin James? Hi, this is Marcia at Pixelomenon Multimedia. How’re you doing today?”

Oh. Marcia? Maybe it’s my new boss’s secretary. I smile. “Great, thank you! I was just about to call and—”

“I regret having to do this over the phone, but we have had to go in a different direction with our graphics artists, which resulted in a premature cut of half of our new hires. I’m afraid that includes you, Mr. James.”

I drop to the couch, stunned. “Me …?”

“If you reapply in four to six months, we may have positions open again. You do have a notable résumé.”

Not notable enough, apparently. “But I … I just got a new place, and—”

“I hope you understand, this came as a surprise to many. Here at Pixelomenon, we strive to ensure—”

To be honest, her sweet and meaningless words just melt together into a murky stew of dread, and I’m left sitting on the couch staring blankly at the kitchen. What am I going to do now? How will I pay my rent?