To save a buck, I rented a notoriously haunted apartment. The first night, the faucet turned on by itself. I yelled into the empty air, "You're paying the water bill!" The water shut off instantly. I thought that was just the beginning… I just never expected that the next day, I’d find a three-course meal waiting for me on the dining table. 01 The note was written in what looked like blood. Crimson, with a faint metallic tang in the air around it. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, radiating an air of non-negotiable, C-suite authority. I, Chloe, a perpetually broke optimist just trying to outrun my rent and bills in the big city, just stared at that slip of paper for a solid thirty seconds. My brain did a quick calculation. Three dishes and a soup. A perfect balance of meat and vegetables, plated beautifully, wafting a soul-snatching aroma. A meal like this from any restaurant would set me back at least fifty bucks. Going Dutch, that's twenty-five. Worth it. What is fear, anyway? To someone who’d been living on instant noodles for three days straight, “fear” was just an adjective that couldn’t fill my stomach. I picked up my fork and speared a piece of glistening, braised short rib. I put it in my mouth. Rich but not greasy, it melted on my tongue. So good I nearly swallowed my own tongue. As I devoured the meal like a starved wolf, I mumbled at the air between mouthfuls. “I mean, seriously, Mr. Ghost? You’re a little cheap, don’t you think? You’re already dead, what’s with all the penny-pinching? Lighten up a little, will you?” The air was silent, filled only with the sound of my chewing. After I finished, I let out a satisfied burp. Staring at the greasy plates, my inner sloth took over. As a little test, I piled them in the sink and left them there. Consider it a little experiment to probe my new “roommate’s” boundaries. The next morning, I was woken by the faint clinking of pots and pans. I tiptoed to the kitchen doorway and peeked in. The dishes in the sink were sparkling clean, stacked in a perfectly neat pile, like a row of soldiers awaiting inspection. Next to them was another note. Not in blood this time, just a standard black pen. The handwriting was still impossibly elegant, but the message was ice-cold. “Dishwashing Fee: $5 per service. To be settled at the end of the month.” I burst out laughing. Unbelievable. Truly. I, Chloe, in my twenty-odd years of life, had never met a ghost with such a strict moral code. My competitive spirit was officially ignited. So, he wanted a battle of wills? Fine by me. Game on. I deliberately left a full garbage bag by the front door, blocking half the entryway. Let’s see you take this out, I thought. The next day, the garbage bag was gone. A sticky note was on the door: “Errand Fee: $10.” I came home late one night after working overtime, dragging my half-dead body through the door and fumbling for the light switch in the dark. Click. The living room lamp turned on by itself. It was a warm, gentle glow from the floor lamp, soft and easy on the eyes. For a moment, a corner of my heart softened. And then, a slip of paper fluttered down from the lampshade. “A light left on for you. Electricity bill to be calculated separately.” That tiny spark of warmth was instantly crushed by the words “ELECTRICITY BILL.” I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. This guy. A giant man-child whose corporate habits followed him even into the afterlife. The days trickled by in this ridiculous, comical “war.” I gradually started to figure out my ghost roommate’s personality. His name was Sebastian. That was the answer he finally gave me after I spent a week writing “What’s your name?” on sticky notes. Two elegant, blood-red words appeared beneath my question. Sebastian. He was a neat freak. If I shed a single hair on the floor, it would float its way into the trash can. He had OCD. If a single book on my shelf was out of height order, the entire thing would be perfectly reorganized by the next morning. He was a master chef but held a grudge like no one I’d ever met. I complained once that a dish was too salty, and he served me nothing but plain boiled vegetables for the next three days. He was also brutally honest. I bought a dress on sale and was twirling happily in front of the mirror. Words slowly condensed in the steam on the glass: “Questionable aesthetics, questionable taste, and an even more questionable wallet.” I stomped my foot in frustration, yelling at the air, “Who asked you? You’re a penny-pinching cheapskate who wants to go Dutch even in death!” The words on the mirror changed: “Right back at you.” I started getting used to his presence. I even started to enjoy it. At least I never had to eat instant noodles again. At least, in this cold, sprawling city, there was now a “person” who would leave a light on for me. Even if I had to pay for it. One day, my one and only best friend, Jessica, came to visit. I gave Sebastian a heads-up. “My best friend is coming over. She scares easily, so you behave yourself today, you hear me?” In the air, a magazine levitated off the couch and flipped open to a page with a giant “OK” printed on it. The second Jessica walked in, she took an exaggerated sniff. “Chloe, did you win the lottery? Did you hire a maid? This place is way too clean to be yours.” I let out a dry laugh. “Just turning over a new leaf.” As soon as the words left my mouth, the TV, which had been playing a reality show, suddenly flickered and switched to the business channel. A crisp, articulate male voice began analyzing stock market charts. Jessica jumped. “Where’s the remote?” “Probably… a loose connection,” I said, straight-faced, as I changed the channel back. We were chatting when the cup in front of Jessica slid a few inches across the table on its own. “Ah!” she shrieked, a sound that could shatter glass. “The cup! The cup just moved by itself!” I calmly slid the cup back and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. That’s just my roommate. He’s a bit of a prankster, but he makes great food.” Jessica stared at me in horror, her eyes screaming that she was looking at a crazy person. “Chloe…” Her lips trembled. “Are you… are you under too much stress? Are you hallucinating?” I sighed. I knew there was no explaining this. After sending a thoroughly spooked Jessica on her way, I slumped onto the couch, feeling a little dejected. See? An encounter like this was destined to be a lonely one. No one would ever believe me. The light in the living room dimmed slightly, becoming softer, warmer. I turned and looked toward the huge floor-to-ceiling window. The evening sun coated the glass in a layer of gold. And for the first time, the tall silhouette of a man in a white shirt appeared before my eyes, clearer than it had ever been. He was still translucent, like a walking mist, but I could make out his neat, short hair and his ramrod-straight back. He was holding a cloth, meticulously wiping a smudge on the window I’d missed that morning. His movements were focused, deliberate, with an almost obsessive elegance. Suddenly, my friend’s worry, the world’s disbelief… none of it mattered. In this massive, lonely city, I finally had a home. And a very, very unique family member. 02 The good times didn’t last. The cold winds of corporate downsizing finally blew their way to a low-level worker like me. Layoffs. A sterile email, a few lines of soulless corporate jargon, and just like that, the meager salary I endured a two-hour daily commute for was gone. I walked through the crowded streets, clutching a cardboard box of my personal belongings, feeling for the first time like a piece of discarded trash. Back home, I threw myself onto my bed and pulled the covers over my head. All the frustration and anxiety I’d been suppressing finally broke through. I cried my heart out, as if trying to purge every single hardship I’d endured in this city over the years. I don’t know how long I cried, but eventually, the faint, soaring melody of a classical piece drifted in from the living room. It was Dvořák's "New World Symphony," my favorite. I had mentioned it once over dinner, just talking to the air. “This piece is so beautiful. It makes you feel like you can get through anything.” I sniffled and dragged my heavy feet out of the bedroom. On the dining table sat a plate of steaming Coke-glazed chicken wings, my absolute favorite comfort food. Next to it, a note lay quietly. It had only two words. “On the house.” Tears, traitorous and hot, streamed down my face again, splashing onto the dark wood of the table. This time, they weren’t tears of self-pity. They were tears of warmth. I ate and cried, and for the first time, I spoke to the empty room with genuine sincerity. “Thank you, Sebastian.” It felt as if a faint sigh echoed in the air. With a full stomach came renewed strength. I wiped my tears, opened my laptop, and started blasting out my resume. Reality was harsher than I’d imagined. The resumes I sent vanished into a digital black hole. The few interviews I landed all ended in rejection after the final round. The number in my bank account dwindled daily. Rent, utilities, and Sebastian’s meticulously kept “ledger” of my debts felt like mountains pressing down on me, suffocating me. Anxiety gnawed at my nerves. I started having sleepless nights. Finally, I received an interview notice from a company I’d only dreamed of working for. It was the endgame in my career plan. I dug out the only decent suit I owned from the back of my closet, ironing it again and again, terrified of a single wrinkle. On the day of the interview, I woke up extra early. I was so nervous that when I bought breakfast at the coffee shop downstairs, my hand trembled, and I spilled an entire cup of scalding Americano all over my crisp white shirt. In that instant, my world collapsed. I ran home in a panic, threw the stained shirt on the sofa in despair, and stared at my red-eyed reflection in the mirror. I wanted to die. The interview was in an hour. There was no time to buy a new one. Was this it? Was I going to have to give up? I sank to the floor, defeated, tears welling in my eyes. Just then, I heard the low hum of the washing machine starting up in the laundry room. I froze. I scrambled over and saw my coffee-stained shirt tumbling inside the machine. Twenty minutes later, the wash cycle finished. The dryer kicked in. Another twenty minutes passed. A clean, warm shirt, smelling faintly of fresh linen, appeared on a hanger, dangling from my bedroom doorknob as if held by an invisible hand. I stared at the pristine shirt, feeling like I was in a dream. I threw it on and bolted out the door. The subway station was a nightmare of rush-hour traffic. I watched the seconds tick by, sweat beading on my forehead. Just as I was about to give up and try to fight my way onto a bus, the subway turnstile directly in front of me beeped, the light turning green as the gate swung open. I didn't have time to think. I darted through. On the platform, the doors of my train were slowly sliding shut. It's over, my heart sank. But just as the doors were about to meet, they seemed to catch on something. A harsh alarm blared, and they sprang open again. I practically fell onto the train. I gasped for air, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was all too much of a coincidence. A coincidence that felt like someone was clearing a path just for me. I arrived at the company five minutes before the interview was scheduled to start. Sitting in the conference room, every second I waited for the interviewers felt like an eternity. My turn. I took a deep breath and walked in. Four interviewers sat in a line, their expressions grim. My palms were sweating. The self-introduction I had practiced so many times completely vanished from my mind. My brain had just blue-screened. As I stood there, mortified and wishing the floor would swallow me whole, a black pen on the table suddenly rolled to a stop right next to my hand. I instinctively picked it up. The cool touch of the metal helped to calm my racing heart. I glanced down and saw a single, tiny but clear word meticulously carved into its side. Steady. My heart settled instantly. That one word was like a shot of adrenaline straight to my soul. I looked up, met the lead interviewer’s gaze, and offered a confident smile. “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Chloe…” I have never aced an interview like that in my life. A week later, I got the offer. The day I got my first paycheck, I rushed to the supermarket, bought a good bottle of wine, and a ton of fresh ingredients. Back home, I cooked up a feast. I filled two glasses with wine, raised one to the empty living room, and declared loudly, "Sebastian, this one's for you! Thank you for being my five-star support system!" In the air, the other wine glass trembled slightly, clinking against mine with a soft, clear sound, as if in response. I smiled, but my eyes were wet. I knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't alone. I had an invisible guardian angel. 03 After landing the new job, my “cohabitation” with Sebastian entered an era of unprecedented harmony. I was the breadwinner, and he was… well, he was the one who kept the house in immaculate order while using his elite corporate logic to supervise my spending and plan my finances. I even started to savor this unique companionship. Coming home to a hot meal every day; having a "CFO" help budget my salary each month; finding relevant books and materials mysteriously appearing on my desk whenever I hit a wall at work. He was like a silent mentor, an all-powerful butler, a… a complete stranger I knew better than anyone. I knew nothing about his past. And as our silent partnership grew stronger, so did my curiosity. Sebastian, how did he actually die? The vague online news report said he died from an “accidental gas leak.” But it never sat right with me. A man with such intense OCD that he arranged books by color and height, a man obsessed with rules and order to a pathological degree… how could he make a rookie mistake like forgetting to turn off the gas? I tried to ask him. “Sebastian, how did you die?” The lights in the room flickered. The cup on the table vibrated. He seemed to be trying to communicate something, but it was as if some force was holding him back, preventing him from getting the message across clearly. The more violently he reacted, the more suspicious I became. I decided to start with the apartment itself. I found the real estate agent who had rented me the place, a man named Marcus. I asked to meet him at a nearby café, using the excuse of wanting to discuss renewing my lease. Marcus was the same as I remembered, warm and friendly, with sincere-looking crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. “Ms. Chloe! How are you settling in? I told you, didn't I? Great location, great layout. It’s just… you know, what happened before. Not everyone can handle it. But you look so well, I knew you’d be fine,” he said, making easy small talk. “It’s been great,” I smiled, then casually brought it up. “I was just a little curious about what actually happened here. I looked it up online, but the news was so vague. Just said the owner passed away in an accident.” Marcus took a sip of his coffee. His eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “Ah, well, that’s all in the past. Just an accident. You’re young, don’t dwell on things like that. Just enjoy the apartment. It’s actually got great feng shui, you know. Look at you, you haven’t been here long and you’ve already landed a better job. Your luck is turning around!” He expertly changed the subject, repeatedly advising me not to overthink it, not to dig into it. His friendliness, right now, felt jarringly off. A normal agent would only care about rent and contracts. Why was he so concerned with my “psychological well-being,” so insistent on stopping me from learning about the apartment’s history? The meeting, far from easing my doubts, sent my internal alarms screaming. That night, I had a dream that terrified me… In the dream, I was standing in a thick, white fog, unable to see anything around me. I heard two voices arguing fiercely. One was familiar, yet strangely different. It was Sebastian. His voice was laced with fury and disappointment. “…I treated you like a brother, and you touched that money! Marcus, are you insane?!” The other man’s voice was muffled, a mix of pleading and viciousness. “Sebastian, just help me one more time, just this once! I swear I’ll pay it all back!” “No! That’s client money! What you did is a crime!” “So you’re just going to let them destroy me?”
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