Ethan woke up from his slumber. His body ached like he'd wrestled three gorillas and lost, but that wasn't what bothered him. No, it was the feeling. That prickling sense that something was wrong. Something watching. Something dangling.
He opened his eyes slowly, and there it was.
Hair. Long strands of black, oily hair were hanging through the cracks in the broken ceiling—so close that they hovered just six inches above his face, swaying like they were alive. He didn't even want to imagine what kind of shampoo this ghost used, because the smell wasn't herbal or fruity. It smelled like old blood and burned wood.
"Hey!" Ethan shouted, sitting up halfway on the couch but still keeping his face far away from the dangling strands. "Last time you didn't have this hair, right? There's no continuity!"
The ceiling groaned, beams shifting as if about to give way. Cracking sounds echoed through the room, each snap louder than the last.
Ethan threw his hands in the air. "First of all, I don't have money to rebuild that shit, so please don't cling in there! You know how much a roof costs? Spoiler: more than my tuition."
The ghost's hair withdrew slowly, strands slithering back into the ceiling like worms. For a second, silence. Ethan dared to hope she'd gone for good.
Then he spotted her in the corner of the room. She was crouched low, knees bent like some broken doll, dragging her fingernails against the wall. Skkkrrrrk—skrrk—skrrrk. The sound was like a knife carving bone. Dust fell in little streams where she clawed at the plaster.
Ethan froze, then exhaled. "Okay. Okay. You know what? Scratching the walls? Fine. Annoying as hell, but better than crashing through the ceiling and crushing me in my sleep. So… carry on, Picasso."
The ghost didn't even twitch. Just scraped, and scraped, and scraped.
Ethan rubbed his temples. His patience was thinner than the door hinges he'd replaced. And speaking of the door, he decided he'd had enough of this morning. He stood, stretched, and walked toward it.
His hand touched the knob, cold metal against clammy fingers. He twisted. The old wood groaned like a dying man. Then—
The ghost appeared right in front of him. Not floating this time, not crawling. Just there. Face hidden, hair draped forward, blocking his way like a living "No Entry" sign.
Ethan didn't move for five long seconds. His heart thudded like a broken washing machine in his chest.
"…I'll be sure to haunt you, Dad," he thought, staring at the door instead of the ghost.
He tried gathering courage, just enough to tilt his eyes upward. He managed to look at her neck—pale, bruised, twisted like a rope had once been there—and then stopped.
"Nah," Ethan muttered, stepping back slightly. "I am not ready for this."
Her head twitched.
Ethan cleared his throat and tried to sound more polite, like he was speaking to a cranky landlady instead of an undead horror. "Uh, excuse me, Ms. Ghost. I'll be leaving now, if you could kindly move. Can you?"
"No."
The word cut the air like a blade. But the sound wasn't from in front of him. It was behind him.
Ethan's eyes widened. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head a fraction—then froze.
"Don't. Don't, Ethan. You've seen movies. If you turn all the way, you're dead. Classic rule. Front only. Forward only. Don't do it." He swallowed, face slick with sweat.
"Um, well, actually, Ms. Ghost, I have to go to college. I'll be late, you see. Professors hate tardiness, and I can't exactly tell them 'Sorry, a ghost was blocking my door.' So, please move."
"No."
This time, the sound was from above.
Ethan didn't look. Couldn't look. Instead, he smiled faintly, that broken smile of someone who had accepted death and was just waiting for the paperwork to be filed. "You're dead, Dad. Just wait until I haunt our house. You'll regret every cent you saved on this deal."
The ghost didn't laugh. She never did. Instead, she twitched her head, slowly lifting her hair back to reveal just a sliver of pale cheek. Ethan took a deep breath.
"Alright," he said, speaking to the thing in front of him. "How about a compromise? I go to class, I come back, and you can scratch, float, dangle your hair, whatever. But right now, I need to leave."
"No."
"Okay," Ethan sighed. "But like—why not?"
The ghost tilted her head. Her long fingers curled and uncurled, nails scraping each other like knives. The silence was heavier than her voice.
"Look," Ethan said, trying logic, trying sarcasm, trying anything. "If I fail college because of you, do you know what happens? I won't get a job. No job means no money. No money means I can't fix this house. You like your scratching walls? They'll collapse. Boom. No more walls to scratch. You see how this works?"
The ghost leaned closer.
"No."
Ethan threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. You're like a broken NPC with one dialogue option. Ever think of expanding your vocabulary? Try 'maybe.' Or 'we'll see.' Spice it up!"
The ghost didn't react, but her hand shot forward—fast enough to blur—slamming into the doorframe just beside his head. Wood splintered under her nails.
Ethan flinched, then laughed nervously. "Okay. Point taken. You're serious about this."
Her other hand rose, dragging a line down the wall. White paint peeled under her touch like paper.
Ethan's heart hammered. "Alright, new plan. I'll… uh… just sit here. Yeah. Just stay in the house. Forget college. Forget the outside world. Who needs degrees, right? We'll just… bond. You and me. Eternal roommates."
The ghost tilted her head again.
"No."
The word hit harder this time, like it shook the whole room. Ethan felt it in his ribs, in his teeth, vibrating through his bones.
He stumbled back, hands clutching his head. "No what? No leaving? No staying? Make up your mind, lady!"
The ghost bent lower. Her face was almost visible now. Almost. Ethan stared at the ground, refusing to look higher than her collarbone.
Her hair swung like pendulums, brushing the floor. Her lips moved slowly, as if forming words she'd forgotten how to speak. Her fingernails tapped on the wooden boards in a steady rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"No."
Ethan slumped to the floor, groaning. "This is hell. Not the flames-and-demons kind, but the bureaucratic nightmare kind. Trapped by a ghost who only knows one damn word. I swear, if this was a video game, I'd uninstall."
He covered his face with both hands, peeking through his fingers. The ghost hadn't moved. She just crouched there, shadowy, waiting.
The air in the house was thick, heavier than ever. The walls seemed closer, the broken ceiling wider. The smell of blood drifted from nowhere, everywhere, filling Ethan's lungs until he gagged.
He forced himself to laugh, because laughter was the only weapon he had left. "Alright. Fine. One word ghost. You win this round. But I promise you this—if I die here, I'm haunting you back. And trust me, I'll be the most annoying ghost you've ever met."
For the first time, the ghost's head twitched in a way that almost—almost—looked like amusement.
"No."
Ethan smiled weakly, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Figures."
And the stalemate continued.