My Ghost Roommate

“As accurately as possible.” I shift uncomfortably, then add: “Please.”

Her eyes harden as she stares me down dubiously. Then rather suddenly, she sighs and shrugs. “Well, it’d look rather boring, actually.”

“Boring?”

“Yes. The spirit and the living must be bonded to each other on an emotional level that transcends life and death. An object of great significance to both is placed between them, as well as a candle lit by the living. Then the two must lie next to each other, as if stargazing, and think upon a singular thought in perfect unison—though I’m not sure how to convey that in a computer graphic. Perhaps a thought bubble? Never mind, awful idea, I’m not an artist. Another thing—and this part’s important—the living participant must be absolutely, fully willing to surrender their body to the dead. Once the ritual finishes and the dead’s spirit is absorbed into the living body … there is no telling how long they’ll peacefully coexist.”

She makes the process sound just as eerie and odd as she does totally mundane, like she sees this sort of thing happen every Monday at her Pilates class. Not that I can picture her at a Pilates class. “Coexist …?”

“Yes, coexist. Once bonded, they become one. The spirit will know every thought, memory, and emotion of the living, and vice versa. The two will be inexplicably bound to one another, sharing the same body, mind, and soul. Only an act of great discordance can split them.”

“Great discordance …? Like what?”

She eyes me suddenly, snapped out of her thoughts. “I don’t know. You asked me to tell you about how to get the spirit into the living. I don’t know the first thing about getting it out. Maybe you need a priest?”

I bite my lip. I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. “I appreciate the insight, Mrs. Shaheen, and … I think I have enough to complete my graphics assignment now.” I’m standing already. “Thanks so much for your time.”

“You didn’t drink your tea.”

“I … sorry, I think my stomach’s a bit … I should have declined, I’m just a little …” I give her a nervous titter. “I really do appreciate it so much. And I love your costume. So pretty. Sparkly.” I’m already at the door.

“You should’ve asked me about cuttlefish and how the very last thing they like to do is cuddle. Venomous little bastards, they are. Want to hear about—?”

“Goodnight.” I force a smile and see myself out.

In the hallway between our apartments, I’m left to rethink this whole birthday gift I’d just promised West. What if it actually works? What if I give him what he wants in exchange for what I need?

Or what if we become trapped in my body forever?

“Uh … say what?”

It’s ten minutes later. I’ve had to explain everything to poor West a dozen times. “It’s what the lady said.”

“An object of importance …?”

“Also, we have to be emotionally bonded. Deeply emotionally bonded, or something.” I sigh. “I doubt this is gonna work at all. Is it too late to scrap the idea?”

West is pacing around my living room. “Well, who knows? Won’t hurt to try it.”

“Won’t hurt?? It can be dangerous! And she didn’t know how to undo it, so even if it does work, we—”

“—might be trapped in your body together, yeah, I heard that part. Y’know, the idea isn’t so weird.”

I frown at him. “I agreed to do this for Halloween so you can help me with the Byron situation. I did not agree to let you live in my body full-time, rent free. I’m not just a different apartment for you to move into!”

“It wouldn’t be rent free. You’d get all my swagger and game.” He strokes his chin and observes the mirror, in which there is no reflection. “I feel pretty ‘bonded’ to you or whatever, I think. Hey, haven’t you and I gotten pretty close over the past couple of days?”

I roll my eyes. “West, you’re not taking any of this seriously. This thing could have dire consequences.”

“At least I don’t fear ending up trapped in your nut sack anymore. You know what? This gives me a lot to think about before tomorrow. I’m gonna find the perfect object of significance while you’re asleep tonight.”

“I’m not sleeping at all tonight. I’m gonna research everything she told me and see if it’s all just made-up bull crap in her hyperactive imagination.” I head to my laptop, flip it open, then tap away at the keys.

My phone rings from my bedroom where I left it. As West continues to search around the apartment for his “super-perfect almighty object of significance”, I go to my bedroom and take a look at who’s calling.

I freeze. “I think it’s him!”

West pops up from the laundry bin, a sock atop his head. “Him …?”

“Byron.” The phone keeps ringing. I stare down at it with palms that have become fountains of sweat.