Chapter 1
I rented a haunted apartment just to save some money.
On my first night there, the faucet turned on by itself. I shouted into the empty air, "You paying the water bill or what?"
The water stopped instantly. I thought that was the beginning of a nightmare.
But the next morning, I found dinner waiting on the table: steak, salad, and soup for one.
*****
On the table was a note, written in blood—deep red, with a rusty metallic smell hanging in the air. The handwriting was so sharp and aggressive, you could just tell it had that boss-level energy that didn't take crap from anyone.
I, Maxine, a classic broke optimist running from rent and bills every day in this crazy city, just stared at that bloody note for a solid thirty seconds, completely spaced out.
My brain kicked into calculation mode.
The steak, salad, and soup, looked absolutely killer—and the aroma was practically illegal. It smelled so damn good.
At any restaurant, a meal like this would easily run me fifty bucks.
'Going halfsies, that's just twenty-five apiece. Now that's a sweet deal...' I thought.
'Fear? What even is that?' I thought. 'When you've gone three days without food, fear is just some word that can't fill you up.'
I picked up my forks, grabbed a piece of steak, and popped it into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in years.
It was so damn good, I nearly swallowed my tongue.
As I wolfed down the food, I mumbled into the air, "Man, you're seriously stingy. You're already dead—can't you just loosen up a bit? Can't you cut me some slack?"
The room was dead silent, except for the sound of me chewing.
After I finished eating, I let out a satisfied burp. I eyed the greasy dishes, and my lazy side won—so I just stacked them in the sink and didn't bother washing them.
'Guess I'll just treat this as a test and see what my "roommate" will put up with,' I thought to myself.
The next morning, I was woken up by the faint clinking of pots and pans.
I tiptoed over to the kitchen door and saw that the dishes in the sink were spotless, lined up perfectly like soldiers waiting for inspection.
There was another note sitting nearby.
This time, it wasn't written in blood—just regular black ink. The handwriting was still elegant, but the message was icy cold.
It read: [Dishwashing fee: five bucks per load. Pay up at the end of the month.]
I couldn't help but laugh, half annoyed, half amused. 'Man, you're really something else.'
I'd been alive for over twenty years, and this was legit the first time I'd run into a ghost who was such a stickler for rules.
My stubborn pride was instantly lit up. 'You wanna mess with me? Fine, let's go!'
I deliberately dumped a bulging trash bag right in the doorway, blocking the way. 'Let's see if you've got the guts to haul that out. If so, be my guest.'
The next day, the trash bag was gone.
There was a sticky note slapped on the door: [Trash run fee: ten bucks.]
I dragged myself home late at night after work, half dead on my feet, stumbling around in the dark looking for the light switch.
With a soft click, the living room lamp flicked on by itself—a perfectly cozy glow, not harsh at all.
Suddenly, something inside me just kind of melted. Right after, a note floated down from the lampshade.
It said: [Left the light on for you—electric bill's gonna be separate.]
Whatever bit of warmth I'd started feeling got smashed to bits the moment I saw those four words: [Electric bill's gonna be separate.]
I rolled my eyes up at the ceiling. 'Seriously, even as a ghost, this adult-sized toddler can't let go of those high-maintenance, bossy habits.'
Day after day, our weird little cat-and-mouse game just kept dragging on.
Bit by bit, I started to get the hang of how my ghostly roommate operated. His name was Hadden Shortle.
After I'd been scribbling "What's your name?" on sticky notes for a full week, he finally answered me.
The name, elegantly written in blood, appeared right beneath my question. Hadden Shortle.
He was a total neat freak—if I so much as dropped a single hair on the floor, it would magically drift into the trash by itself.
He was a total control freak, too. If any book on my shelf wasn't lined up from tallest to shortest, sure enough, they'd all be perfectly arranged by the next morning like some ghostly librarian had dropped by.
He was a wizard in the kitchen, but damn, could he hold a grudge. Just one offhand comment about the food being salty, and I'd be stuck eating bland salad for three days in a row.
He was a world-class roastmaster. I'd snagged a bargain dress and was twirling in front of the mirror, feeling like a million bucks. Then, as if on cue, words started to appear in the steam on the glass: [Your fashion sense is a disaster, your taste is terrifying, and your wallet is honestly pathetic.]
I stomped my foot and snapped at the air, "Excuse me? Who put you in charge, you cheapskate ghost who insists on going Dutch even in the afterlife."
The words on the mirror shifted: [Look who's talking.]
I was starting to get used to having him around, and honestly, I was kind of digging it.
At the very least, I never had to eat instant noodles again.
At least, in this freezing city, I finally had somebody who'd bother to leave the light on for me—even if that "somebody" was technically dead.
Even if he was charging me for it.
That day, my one and only best friend, Lizzie Green, dropped by for a visit.
I warned Hadden ahead of time, "Heads up, my BFF's coming over. She's a total scaredy-cat, so keep it chill today, okay?"
Suddenly, a magazine floated up off the couch and spun itself to a big bold page that said "OK" in giant letters.
As soon as Lizzie stepped inside, she gave a big, theatrical sniff. "Maxine, what, did you win the lottery or something? You got a maid now? This place is so spotless, it doesn't look like you actually live here!"