Haunted Roommate: She's the Ghost Who Babysits Me

I'm a cheapskate, so I decide to rent a haunted apartment at a low price. On the first night of moving into said apartment, the taps turn on by themselves. I yell angrily at the empty apartment, "You'd better pay the water bill, then!" The water stops flowing immediately. It has me thinking that this is the beginning of a long, arduous battle between humans and the supernatural… Unexpectedly, I see a piping hot meal on the dining table the next day. Chapter 1 When I opened the door, there was a full spread already laid out on the dining table. There was shakshuka, shrimp marinara, sauteed greens, and a bowl of egg drop soup. Everything looked and smelled perfect. As someone who basically lived on fast food, I started drooling on the spot at the sight of the food. My hunger quickly overpowered my fear. I cautiously picked up the cutlery laid out and tried a bite of the shakshuka. It was delicious—so delicious that I almost swallowed my tongue. I tore into the food like a starving ghost, polishing off every dish on the table, not even leaving a drop of soup behind. Stuffed and satisfied, I rubbed my now-round belly and let out a burp. I sincerely threw out praise to the empty air. "You've got skills. Keep this up, okay?" After that, I left for work. When I got home that night and opened the door, the smell of food hit me in the face again. The dishes that waited for me on the table were BBQ ribs, chili con carne, sauteed broccoli, and zucchini soup. I shamelessly polished everything off again. After freeloading like this for three days straight, I started to feel a little guilty. This ghost not only had a good temper, but she also clearly knew how to run a household. I dug a pink sticky note out of a drawer and, using a thick black pen, wrote, "Hi. What should I call you? I feel bad just eating your cooking all the time." When I finished, I placed the note neatly in the center of the table. The next morning, breakfast was already set out as usual. There was oatmeal, a cucumber salad, and hand pies. Next to my sticky note, there was another one exactly like it. Her name was written in an elegant script on it. Ivy Lowell. It was a nice name. After I finished breakfast, I left another note. "Ivy, with cooking skills like yours, it's a shame you're not a food blogger." I was just making small talk. That night, when I got home, another hearty dinner was waiting. Under my note, there was now one more line in Ivy's delicate handwriting. "What's a food blogger?" I couldn't help but burst out laughing. It looked like Ivy had died quite a few years ago. All of a sudden, a thought popped into my head—a very bold thought. I spread out a sheet of paper and wrote a shopping list. Lobster, premium beef, black truffle, caviar… I wrote down every fancy ingredient I'd ever heard of but could never afford. When I was done, I glanced around the room, feeling guilty. The air was completely still. I left the list in the middle of the table and went to bed with a strange sense of anticipation. The next morning, the first thing I did when I woke up was to rush to the dining room. The table was completely bare. Forget lobster and beef—there wasn't so much as a single hair. A small wave of disappointment washed over me. It looked like I'd pushed my luck and driven Ivy away. I sighed and turned to head into the kitchen to make myself some instant mac and cheese. When I turned back around, I noticed a new note pinned to the table. It was the same familiar handwriting, but the strokes seemed to carry a hint of chill this time. "Squanderer." I froze, then started laughing out loud. So this ghost couldn't just cook—she was also a thrifty, budget-conscious woman. I liked that. I immediately grabbed a pen and wrote back, "Sorry, Ivy. I was just joking. From now on, let's stick to regular dishes. I won't bring up such ridiculous things anymore." I made sure to apologize sincerely. Sure enough, when I came home that night, my usual dishes and soup were back on the table. They were all simple, inexpensive, and everyday dishes, but I didn't think I'd ever enjoyed a meal more. … Over the weekend, I was sprawled on the couch gaming when the doorbell rang. I checked the peephole to see my coworker, Rick Quill. What was he doing here? Chapter 2 Rick and I weren't exactly the best of friends. He came from money and always had his nose in the air at the office. He especially despised people like me—the kind who would fight just to get a few bucks off with a coupon. I opened the door. Rick waved a hand in front of his scrunched-up nose, standing in the doorway, looking disgusted. "Is this where you live, Leo? This place looks like a dump." His eyes swept over my tiny one-bedroom apartment, full of contempt. "I heard your rent is suspiciously cheap. There isn't some problem with this place, is there?" I said evenly, "It's great. It's bright and spacious, and the neighbors are nice." He let out a theatrical laugh. "Neighbors? Do you even dare step out of this place in the middle of the night? I heard someone died here, you know." He was clearly just here to laugh at me. I couldn't be bothered, so I turned to close the door. Unexpectedly, he slipped inside before I could act. "Come on, don't be so quick to kick me out. I was kind enough to come all the way here to check on you. What's with that attitude?" Rick sneered. He wandered around like he owned the place, wrinkling his nose, inspecting everything like he was touring a slum. "Clean, isn't it? Did you hire a cleaner? That's not really your style." As he passed by the table, he stopped and pointed at a porcelain vase in the corner. "Look at you, having antique decor. Is this thing even real?" My chest tightened. "It's just a regular decoration." It was already there when I moved in. Rick curled his lip and reached for it. "Let me see." "Don't touch it!" I snapped. It was too late. His hand brushed the vase, and he fumbled it. The vase tipped and fell straight toward the floor. My heart jumped into my throat. Right before the vase could kiss the floor, it just stopped. It hung there in midair, barely half an inch from the ground. Time seemed to freeze. Rick's grin froze on his face, and his eyes went wide like he'd seen a ghost. A second later, the vase floated back up and settled neatly in its original spot on the table without a single scratch. A dead silence fell over the room. The color drained from Rick's face, and he looked awful. He pointed at the vase with a shaking finger. "It… It…" That was all he managed for a good while. He couldn't even finish his sentence. Then, he let out a short, strangled yelp. He spun around and bolted. He practically crawled out, not even daring to look back. I stared at his back as he fled, then at the vase, and sighed. "Ivy, how many times have I told you to keep a low profile?" I scolded the empty air. "Do you know how much it would've cost to replace that vase if it had broken? Would you have paid for it?" The air stayed perfectly still, of course. I didn't expect her to answer. That night, as I lay in bed, I had an idle chat with Ivy for the first time. I told her about the annoying crap at work and how unbearable Rick had been that day. I told her how badly I wanted to make real money so I could buy a place of my own. I didn't want to have to bow and scrape for everything anymore. Somewhere in the middle of my rant, I fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up shivering. The temperature in my room felt like it had dropped to freezing. I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself, but I was still shaking. I grabbed my phone and saw a new text from the power company. That month's electricity bill was 380 dollars. I stared at that number for a full minute. 380 dollars? How was it possible for me to use that much electricity when I lived alone? Then, it hit me. I thought about the faucet turning itself on, the TV lighting up in the middle of the night, and those damned home-cooked meals that magically appeared every single day. Did all these paranormal events run on my power? A rush of anger surged in me. With my phone still in hand, I jumped out of bed and roared at the empty room, "Ivy! Get out here! What's with this electricity bill? It's 380 dollars! This is daylight robbery! What, you think you're doing all of this for me out of kindness? No, you're using my electricity to do it! You're paying this bill!" My voice bounced around the tiny apartment, thick with rage I couldn't hold back. The ceiling light started going berserk, flickering on and off wildly. A chill shot up my spine, sharper and deeper than ever before. In the corner, a patch of shadow began to twist and ripple, gathering into one spot. A human-shaped silhouette, darker than the darkness around it, slowly peeled itself out of the shadows. The figure was tall and slender—it was a woman's outline wrapped in an indistinct shroud of black mist. There was no wind, but it felt like the air had been sucked from the room in an instant. Then, an icy, emotionless voice rang out. It wasn't in my ears, but directly inside my head. "Say that again." Chapter 3 The fear only lasted a second. The next, the anger that came with being broke rushed in and took over. I shoved my phone screen toward the shadowy figure, making sure the "380 dollars" on it were clear. "I'm telling you, you're paying for this!" I stuck my neck out like I was ready to die on this hill. "Look at this—it's 380 dollars. Do you know how much I make a month? After rent and utilities, I'm basically living off air. "You're here every day doing your little home-renovation projects, cooking, and moving things with your mind. All of that takes a toll on my electricity, alright? On what planet do you not pay your share?" The dark mass in front of me visibly paused. The flickering light snapped back to normal. The room didn't feel quite so icy anymore. That icy voice rang out in my head again. But this time, there was a hint of… grievance. "I don't have any money." I was so exasperated that I almost let out a derisive laugh. "Oh, so you're broke and proud of it now?" I held my arms across my chest and launched straight into lecture mode. "Listen to me, Ivy. We're roommates now, and roommates settle things clearly. You're living in my apartment and using my electricity—I think it's fair that you're cooking for me to offset rent. But you can't go over the top with power usage! "From now on, we're going green. Cut down on energy use. Don't leave the TV on for no reason, and stop making such complicated meals. Two dishes and a soup are plenty. Also, no more randomly materializing to scare people, especially my coworkers. Emotional damages are expensive." I went on and on like that. Ivy didn't move; she just stayed there and listened quietly. When I finally finished, she slowly retreated back into the shadowy corner of the wall. Then, a word echoed in my head. "Okay." I heaved a huge sigh of relief, feeling like I'd just pulled off some epic negotiation. Collecting debt from a ghost—I was probably the first person in history to do it. From that day on, Ivy really did start going green. The TV stopped turning itself on in the middle of the night; dinner went from three dishes and a soup down to two dishes and a soup. The spread was simpler, but the taste was still just as amazing. Our "cohabitation" slipped into this bizarre kind of harmony. Every day when I got off work and came home, there was always a hot meal waiting on the table. The apartment was always spotless. I started buying her offerings—paper dresses and paper makeup sets. There was a local belief that burning these offerings would deliver them to the dead. I had no idea if Ivy actually needed any of it. It just made me feel better. Each time I burned the offerings, I would mutter, "Here's some pocket money, Ivy. Buy whatever you want, alright? Don't hold back." I couldn't see her, but I could feel the air in the apartment growing softer and warmer. … Ever since the night he got scared off, Rick hadn't stopped giving me the evil eye at work. He didn't dare tell anyone about the vase incident. It sounded way too insane; no one would've believed him, anyway. But he started tripping me up at every turn on the job. One day, our director, Stan Walker, handed our team a rush project and told us to deliver a full proposal within three days. The team lead split up the work and assigned the most critical data analysis section to Rick and me. Right in front of everyone, Rick flashed a fake smile and said, "Leo, you've got more experience with this part, so I'll let you take the lead. I've got an important dinner tonight, so I might need to leave early." Then, he actually clocked out on the dot and strutted off, dumping the whole mess squarely on me. Chapter 4 I worked overtime alone at the office until late into the night. Staring at the dense rows of data on my monitor made my head spin. By the time I got home, it was almost 1:00 am. There was still a warm bowl of soup sitting on the table, which warmed my heart. I finished the soup, then collapsed onto the bed and passed out. The next morning, my alarm yanked me awake. The second I opened my eyes, I remembered the work I still hadn't finished. I let out a wail, accepted my fate, and dragged myself up to turn on the computer. But when I saw the screen, I froze. My project file was already open, and inside was the data analysis I'd done halfway. What surprised me was that the rest of it had been completed by someone else—and it was done to absolute perfection too. The model setup, the data comparisons, the chain of reasoning… Every item was clearer, more precise, and more insightful than anything I could've done. There was no way this was at my level. In the bottom-right corner of the screen, there was a tiny pink sticky note. On it was Ivy's familiar handwriting. "Go to bed earlier." I didn't know how to feel as I held that heaven-sent proposal. … At the meeting on Monday, I forced myself to stay calm as I went up to present the proposal. Stan's expression shifted from neutral to surprised, and finally to impressed. "Leo, this analysis is excellent. It's very in-depth. I didn't realize you had it in you." I ducked my head, my face burning. Down below, Rick's expression was as dark as it could get. The moment the meeting ended, he cornered me in the pantry. "You're really something else, Leo. So, where'd you copy the analysis from? Or did you pay someone to ghostwrite it?" His jealousy was practically dripping off him. He went on, "I'm warning you—don't think you can claw your way up by playing these cheap tricks. I'll be watching you." I couldn't even be bothered to argue with him. This whole thing did ring a loud warning bell in my mind, though. Ivy was incredible. Who on earth was she, really? What had she worked as when she was alive? That night, for the first time, I didn't talk to her about work. Instead, I asked about her past. "Ivy, what did you use to do? Why are you still tied to this apartment? How… did you die?" I stared at the air and fired off a string of questions. The room remained silent. Just when I thought Ivy wasn't going to answer, my laptop screen suddenly lit up on its own. A search bar popped up, and letters began appearing one by one, as if typed by an invisible hand. I-V-Y-L-O-W-E-L-L. Ivy Lowell. The results loaded. The very first one was a news link from five years ago. "Financial Prodigy Ivy Lowell Killed in Car Crash, Rising Star of the Industry Falls." The article's photo showed a young woman in a tailored business suit. Her features were delicate, but her bearing was sharp and professional. In her eyes was a calm, cutting focus that felt far more mature than her age. The short bio under the photo said she'd been the chief analyst at Primero Capital. Primero Capital was the very company I was working at now. And the location of the car crash in this article… was right downstairs from this apartment building.