Ethan was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling like a man waiting for the roof to finally collapse on him. It wouldn't have been a shock. Half the boards were already bent, one of them had a hole, and every now and then he swore he could hear rats playing football inside the beams.
"Well, I have to take leave, damn…" Ethan groaned, hands resting on his stomach. His eyes slid to the corner.
The ghost was there again. Her favorite spot, apparently. Sitting hunched in the corner of the living room, knees tucked in tight, arms around them, head bowed. Fingernails scratching. Skkrrrrt, skkkrrrrt. That awful scrape of nail against plaster. Like chalkboard times ten. Ethan sighed, long and heavy, but didn't even flinch anymore.
"Yeah, sure, remodel the wall. Don't mind me, just paying rent here," he muttered.
And then he drifted off. His eyelids closed, his breathing slowed, and somehow, despite the fact that there was a corpse-white woman carving hieroglyphics into his walls, he fell asleep.
But not for long.
At some point in the night, something shifted. The sound of scratching stopped. Ethan didn't notice it right away, but his skin did. A sudden drop of temperature. A crawling sensation on the back of his neck. Like a freezer door opening in the dead of summer, except there was no relief—only dread.
He twitched and pulled the blanket higher… only to realize there was no blanket. He never bought one.
Ethan snapped awake, groaning as his shoulders tightened against the chill. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, yawning. His breath puffed white in front of his face.
"…Cold. Real cold. And I didn't even forget to pay for heating, because news flash, there is none."
He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. He scanned the room, eyes darting toward corners where the ghost usually appeared. But she wasn't there this time. Instead, the wind howled, rattling the repaired window and making the boards creak like teeth grinding.
Ethan frowned, then turned his head toward the source. There, on the far wall, was a massive hole.
It hadn't been there yesterday.
The jagged edges of the wall jutted outward like broken ribs, plaster crumbled on the floor, wood splinters everywhere. Through it, the night sky bled in. The moon hung low and pale, casting beams of light across the ruined floor. The wind tore through the opening with a mournful whistle, bringing with it the smell of wet earth, old rust, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe.
Ethan blinked at it once. Twice. And then he just sat back down, expression blank.
"Called it," he muttered. "Called it right from the start. You leave a ghost alone long enough, it upgrades from scratching paint to demolition work. Classic."
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling again. The cold gnawed at his skin, threading through his bones. He rubbed his hands together, blew into them, then stomped his feet against the floor just to feel something other than the icy grip.
The breeze wasn't just air. It had weight. Pressure. When it swept across his skin, goosebumps rose sharp and violent, like needles piercing him. His teeth chattered and his fingers stiffened, but what unsettled him more was the sound carried on the wind.
It wasn't just the whistle of air through a hole. It was layered. Beneath it, a whisper. Faint, broken, unintelligible. Like voices overlapping from far away.
He squinted into the hole, hugging himself tighter. "Oh sure. A talking breeze. Nice touch. Five stars, ghost. Really building the atmosphere here."
The curtains fluttered—except he didn't have curtains. Just rags hanging from rusted nails. They flapped wildly, stretching toward him like hands. The boards under his feet groaned. The couch trembled. The breeze pushed harder, sweeping dust into his eyes.
He coughed, wiping his face, blinking furiously. The chill slid down his spine like wet fingers. He rubbed his arms again, desperate for warmth, muttering under his breath.
"Carpenters. Builders. Yeah. Gotta call them. This is… beyond duct tape. Hell, this is beyond prayer."
He stood slowly, every step crunching against bits of plaster. The hole yawned wide, the edges jagged, like the house itself had been bitten. Through it, the sky stretched open and merciless, clouds dragging across the moon like torn fabric.
He stared at it for a long moment, face unreadable, hair blowing wildly in the gust.
"Phew…" he sighed. "Now I can't repair this mess all alone. I have to call for carpenters and some builders. Yep. Normal sentence. Totally normal problem. Not haunted at all."
The breeze answered with another howl, like it was laughing at him.
The night dragged on painfully long. Ethan sat wrapped in a jacket, shivering, staring at the hole as if expecting it to grow bigger. The whispers never stopped. They threaded through the gusts, tugging at his ears, his nerves, his sanity. But Ethan had already accepted that sanity was optional here.
By dawn, he had made up his mind. Contractors. Professionals. Whatever. Anything to patch the house back together before it collapsed on him.
The next evening, he was still home. He had taken leave again, mumbling curses at the ghost as if it cared.
And then came the knock.
It was soft at first, then firmer. Tok, tok, tok. On the half-broken, clinging door. The hinges rattled like they were begging for mercy.
"Ohh… quick response. I'll rate five stars," Ethan said, standing and dusting off his pants.
The door creaked open before he even touched it. Three figures entered the house.
They didn't look like carpenters. They didn't look like builders. They didn't look like anyone you'd want showing up at your door unless you had a death wish.
The first wore a black hoodie, hood drawn low, shadows covering most of his face. In his hand, he held a hammer, but it wasn't shiny and new. It was old, rusted, stained. At his hip hung a small straw doll, tied with red string.
Ethan tilted his head. "Huh? What are they? Carpenters? Why in black dress? Huh! Maybe look cool. What else could it be?"
The hooded man shifted, the straw doll brushing against his leg like a silent threat. Ethan squinted at it.
"To hug and sleep?" he asked aloud.
The second man stepped forward, dressed in black from head to toe, but not like a worker. More like… a ninja. Wrapped in cloth, face masked, only his eyes visible. And in his hands—long, gleaming—a katana.
Ethan's mouth opened. He pointed at the blade, then nodded slowly. "Hee… haa… got it. A long saw to cut planks. Very efficient. Totally carpenter vibes."
The third man was the worst. He wore a sleek black suit, polished shoes, tie knotted perfect. A businessman, maybe. Except in his hand, he carried a gun. A simple, undeniable firearm.
Ethan's eyes lingered on it. He tried to laugh, but the sound cracked halfway out of his throat.
"What's that? A gun? …Nah, may be a nail gun. Eyes lie sometimes." He paused, staring longer. "…Well. But not this time, I guess."
The three stood there, silent, the air around them colder than the night breeze.
Ethan swallowed.
"Yeah. Definitely not carpenters."