The next morning smelled like old coffee and guilt.
Lena stood in the kitchen staring at her phone, scrolling through half-written texts to Eli.
Hey, so… how exactly does one tell if a ghost is flirting or plotting murder? Asking for a friend.
She deleted it. Typed another.
What do you bury besides corpses?
Deleted that, too.
Finally, she settled for:
Morning! Did you ever figure out that engine problem? :)
Safe. Noncommittal. Tragically boring. She hit send, then slammed the phone face-down on the counter.
"God, I'm flirting like a haunted Victorian."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," came a smooth voice from behind her.
She jumped. Julian was leaning against the fridge — transparent, smirking, and wearing a black waistcoat that somehow glowed faintly at the edges.
"Jesus— don't do that!"
"I can't say I've ever been mistaken for him before, but I'll take the compliment."
Lena pressed a hand to her chest. "Do you… just materialize wherever you want?"
"Technically, wherever you are. You're quite the gravitational force, Miss Mortimer."
"Right. So I'm haunted by an egotistical Casper with a crush."
"Guilty as charged."
He grinned, but his eyes carried something deeper — a sadness that kept creeping through the charm. It made her chest tighten, which annoyed her immensely.
"Fine. You're here. Make yourself… metaphysically comfortable, I guess."
She poured another mug of sludge coffee, then frowned. "Hey, can ghosts drink coffee?"
"Not unless you want your floor perpetually sticky."
"Then stop looking at it like it's an aphrodisiac."
He laughed — a low, melodic sound that made the spoons rattle in the drawer.
"You really do make this house come alive," he said. "Quite literally. Haven't you noticed? It reacts to you."
She narrowed her eyes. "You mean the creepy giggles and haunted plumbing?"
"Those are responses. The house feeds on energy — grief, laughter, passion. You've woken it up."
"Oh great. I'm the ghost whisperer and the caffeine supplier."
That afternoon, Lena took her laptop into town, desperate for Wi-Fi and normalcy. The café, "Bean There, Done That," smelled like sanity — espresso, cinnamon, mortal people.
She set up in a corner booth, opened her notebook, and tried to work on her new set:
When your ghost roommate keeps watching you shower…
"Too dark?" she murmured.
"Little bit," said a voice beside her.
She turned. Eli Graves stood there, coffee in hand, still in his black shirt, looking very much like a man who'd just stepped out of a sepia photograph.
"Oh," she said, startled. "You— you drink coffee?"
He smiled faintly. "I'm alive, Lena."
"Right. Sorry. It's been a weird week. Sometimes I forget who is and isn't corporeal."
He slid into the booth across from her. "I was nearby. Thought I'd check if you were… settling in."
"That's one word for it." She sipped her drink. "Do you believe in ghosts, Eli?"
His gaze sharpened. "You've seen him again."
"Maybe. Depends on your definition of 'see.' Sometimes it's mirrors, sometimes it's my fridge."
He leaned forward. "What did he say?"
"That you're dangerous," she blurted. Then winced. "Sorry, that came out less dramatic in my head."
Eli's face didn't change, but his eyes did — something flickered there, something dark. "He's twisting things. He always has."
"You talk like you've met him."
"I've studied the Mortimer hauntings for years. Julian's death was… not an accident."
Lena frowned. "You think he was murdered?"
"I think he murdered someone."
Back at the mansion, the air felt heavier.
She opened the door and nearly tripped over a pile of rose petals strewn across the floor. They formed a path — winding down the hall, leading toward the parlor.
"Oh no," she whispered. "We're not doing this."
But she followed anyway, muttering the whole way. "It's like The Bachelor, but everyone's dead."
In the parlor, Julian waited, seated at the piano again, playing something heartbreakingly beautiful. Candlelight flickered around him, impossibly suspended in midair.
"You came," he said softly.
"I live here," she snapped. "Also, roses? Seriously?"
"A romantic gesture. I was told mortals like those."
"You've been haunting Pinterest, haven't you?"
He smiled — that same, devastatingly sincere smile that made her forget, momentarily, that he wasn't breathing.
"Dance with me," he said.
"I don't dance with ghosts."
"Then think of me as a memory."
Before she could protest, the air shimmered. Music swelled. Her feet moved — not by choice, but by some gentle pull.
She spun. The world blurred. His hand (cold, real, trembling) touched hers.
"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered.
She wanted to deny it. But yes — she did. Every nerve tingled like static.
Then, the laughter started.
Low at first. Then rising. Disembodied chuckles echoing from the walls, circling her like vultures.
Julian stiffened. "Stop it," he hissed at the empty air. "She's not yours."
The laughter turned shrill. The candles flared — blue flames licking the air.
"Julian!" Lena gasped. "What's happening?"
"It's the house! It's jealous!"
The laughter built to a roar. The floorboards rippled like water. Portraits fell from the walls. Lena stumbled, crashing into Julian's arms — or rather, through them, landing hard against the piano bench.
When she looked up, he was gone.
Only one thing remained — carved into the piano lid, deep and fresh:
LAUGH AND DIE.
Eli burst into the house ten minutes later.
He found Lena sitting on the floor, pale and shaking.
"What happened?" he demanded.
She pointed at the piano. "It told me to die if I laugh."
Eli's jaw clenched. "It's escalating. The Mortimer curse always starts this way — seduction, humor, then hysteria."
"Seduction?" she asked, incredulous.
"You've felt it, haven't you?" His tone was softer now, almost pleading. "The pull between you and him. That's how it gets you. The house wants passion. It doesn't care if it's love or fear."
Lena laughed weakly. "You're saying my emotional baggage is supernatural now?"
He knelt beside her. "I'm saying it feeds on you. Every joke, every spark of attraction — it makes the walls stronger."
She looked at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, how his hand hovered near hers but didn't quite touch.
"Then what do I do?"
"Stop laughing."
"That's like telling a shark to stop swimming."
He smiled faintly, despite himself. "Then maybe learn to swim somewhere safer."
They stared at each other for a beat too long.
And the house, listening, creaked — almost… approvingly.
That night, Lena dreamed again — this time of both men.
Julian, whispering in her ear, words that felt like music.
Eli, standing in the doorway, watching her with sorrow.
The laughter of the house beneath it all, steady, hungry.
When she woke, her mirror was fogged again.
Three words gleamed through the mist:
Choose wisely, darling.