Twelve days. That was how long Ethan had lived in the house without a single ghostly encounter. No floating knives. No crawling figures with twisted necks. No screams in the middle of the night. The silence should have been comforting, but it wasn't. If anything, it was worse.
He had spent those twelve days patching up the place as best he could. Loose floorboards hammered down, cracked walls patched with cheap plaster, shattered windows replaced with whatever the local hardware shop had in stock. Even the door—his proudest achievement—no longer looked like it would collapse if someone sneezed on it. Yet no matter how much he worked, the neat little welcome mat sitting innocently at the entrance never seemed to collect dust, never moved, never aged. Always clean. Always waiting.
Ethan lay on the couch he had bought with the last of his savings, a couch that didn't smell of mildew or hay, and stared at the ceiling. "Twelve days done. Two left," he muttered. "If ghosts keep calendars, she's probably got Day Fourteen circled with a big red marker: Kill Ethan."
He thought of calling a priest, or maybe an exorcist. Maybe just moving into the bus station until graduation. But before he could work himself up into a real plan, his eyes closed. Sleep dragged him down. He didn't even remember when his thoughts slipped away.
When he woke again, it was already morning.
"Monday?! Already?!" He bolted upright and nearly tumbled onto the floor. He grabbed his crumpled timetable, half-torn from being shoved into his bag days ago. His eyes widened. "First day of college and I oversleep? Of course. Classic horror protagonist move. If the ghost doesn't kill me, my GPA will."
He splashed water on his face—pausing for a full thirty seconds to make sure the water was water and not blood this time—and shoved on whatever clothes smelled least like fear and dust. Backpack slung over his shoulder, he sprinted out the door and down the uneven road toward the bus stop.
The bus was already waiting. Its metal sides gleamed just a little too much under the morning light, like it had been polished in anticipation of him. Ethan stumbled inside, tossing a quick glance at the driver, who wore an unnervingly wide smile. The man didn't say a word, just stared at him through the rearview mirror as Ethan shuffled toward the back.
The bus was quiet. Too quiet. Most passengers sat stiffly in their seats, faces turned toward the windows as though they couldn't bear to look anywhere else. One old woman clutched a handbag in her lap, knuckles white. A young man with headphones sat across the aisle, but Ethan noticed there was no music leaking from them. Dead silence.
He slid into a seat by the window, pressing his forehead against the glass. The town of Nolite rolled past: streets lined with shops that looked older than time, buildings whose shadows stretched longer than they should have in the morning sun. He tried to distract himself by thinking of the ghost, of what would happen tomorrow when the two-week mark arrived.
"Maybe she's just gone," he whispered to himself. "Maybe she left me alone because I asked nicely. Yeah. That's definitely how ghosts work. Politeness always wins."
The bus hit a bump, and his stomach lurched. He glanced around. Nobody else moved. Nobody else reacted. Even the old woman clutching her handbag didn't sway. Ethan pressed his lips together. "Yup. Totally normal bus ride. Definitely not cursed."
When the bus screeched to a stop in front of the campus, he was the first to stumble out.
The college looked like it had been designed by someone who had read the word "modern" once and immediately thrown the dictionary into the trash. The buildings were tall and gray, glass panels reflecting a sky that seemed too pale. Students milled about in groups, laughing too loudly, their voices echoing like the sound carried farther than it should. The laughter didn't fade when they stopped smiling.
Ethan tugged his bag higher on his shoulder. "Well. Guess this is where I spend the next four years. Please let the ghost kill me before finals."
He found his lecture hall after wandering the maze of hallways, each corner looking suspiciously like the last. The classroom was already half full. He slid into a seat near the window, grateful for the sunlight streaming in. But then his heart skipped—because in the reflection of the glass, he thought he saw her. The ghost. Pale face. Bloodstained dress. Hovering just behind his shoulder.
He whipped his head around. Nothing. Just the empty aisle.
"Of course. Hallucinations. Totally normal first-day jitters." He let out a nervous laugh that no one else joined.
The professor arrived, a tall man with a neat beard and a voice that droned like an engine running out of fuel. Ethan tried to take notes, but every so often he noticed the man pausing mid-sentence, eyes locking on him. The stare lasted a second too long. Then the professor would continue as though nothing had happened. Ethan scratched the back of his neck. "Not creepy at all. Definitely not cursed. Probably just… bad eyesight."
By the end of the day, his nerves were frayed. He stumbled out of the lecture hall and into the evening air, deciding that the only way to pay for food, rent, and possibly holy water was to find a part-time job. The first place hiring was a small convenience store near the bus station.
It was open twenty-four hours. Ethan didn't like that detail, but money was money. He walked in, and the automatic door gave a long screech like it hadn't been oiled in decades. The fluorescent lights flickered, buzzing in a way that made his teeth ache. Behind the counter stood a thin young man with a nametag that read "Ken."
"First shift?" Ken asked, smiling just a little too wide.
"Yeah," Ethan said, glancing around. The shelves were lined with items, but half the labels were faded, and some of the drinks in the fridge looked decades old. He wasn't sure if the expiration dates were in another language or just scratched away.
Ken handed him an apron. "Don't worry. It's easy here. Just… don't talk to the customers."
Ethan blinked. "Excuse me?"
Ken just kept smiling.
The night passed slowly. Customers drifted in and out. Some didn't speak at all, just pointed at things and left money on the counter. One man shuffled in wearing a black robe. Ethan's stomach dropped. He recognized that robe. The church. The fake church. The man didn't look at him, didn't say a word, just bought a packet of matches and left. Ethan stood frozen until Ken tapped his shoulder.
"You'll get used to it," Ken said.
"I really hope not," Ethan muttered.
By the time his shift ended, the streets outside were empty. The bus ride home was quieter than ever. Ethan stumbled through the door of his house, dropped his bag, and collapsed onto the couch. His body ached, his brain buzzed with exhaustion, but sleep didn't come easily.
Tomorrow was the fourteenth day.
The ghost's deadline.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, every creak of the house sounding like footsteps. At some point, he was sure he heard them upstairs—slow, deliberate steps on a floor he hadn't repaired, where no one should be walking.
His eyes squeezed shut. "If I die, I'm haunting my dad first," he whispered..
And with that thought, he finally drifted into uneasy sleep.