I was dead. Technically speaking, I was a lingering spirit tethered to a pre-war walk-up in Queens, New York. I died the cliché way: a Wall Street burnout who lost everything in a Ponzi scheme, got diagnosed with terminal cancer, and decided to check out early via a sturdy belt and the ceiling fan. I was bitter, angry, and had successfully scared off twelve tenants in two years. Then came Chloe. She was broke—like, "eating ramen for dinner six nights a week" broke. She walked in with a shady broker who told her the rent was $800 a month. In New York City. That alone should have been a red flag the size of a billboard. "It’s haunted," the broker whispered, terrified to step inside. "The last guy... hung around, if you catch my drift." Chloe just checked her bank account app, sighed, and said, "Does the Wi-Fi work? I'll take it." The Arrangement I intended to haunt her. I really did. But on her first night, instead of trembling in fear, she set up a little altar on the radiator. She didn't use incense; she lit a fancy "Stress Relief" candle and waved a bundle of burning sage around. "Okay, look," she announced to the empty room. "I know you're here. I respect your space. You're basically my invisible roommate now. As long as you don't murder me, I'll keep the place clean and the vibes good. Deal?" I watched her from the ceiling. She was tiny, wearing an oversized hoodie, looking terrified but determined. Deal, I thought. We fell into a routine. She ate mac and cheese; I inhaled the scent of her eucalyptus candles (which, surprisingly, felt like a spa day for my soul). She hung up fairy lights and tapestries to cover the water stains. She turned my tomb into a Pinterest board. I learned about her life. She came from a small town in the Midwest, drowning in student loans, working double shifts at a warehouse while studying for grad school. She was exhausted. One night, she fell asleep with a pot of water boiling on the stove. The water overflowed, extinguishing the flame, filling the tiny kitchen with gas. I panicked. I couldn't touch things easily, but adrenaline (or whatever ghosts have) kicked in. I focused all my energy and snapped the circuit breaker. The sudden darkness woke her up. She smelled the gas, rushed to turn it off, and opened the window. "Thanks, Roomie," she whispered into the dark, shivering. I realized then: I didn't want to scare her. I wanted to protect her. The Scumbag Then came Tyler. He was her "boyfriend," if you could call him that. He was a SoundCloud rapper with a trust fund he’d already blown, addicted to Call of Duty, and possessed the personality of a wet sock. He came over one night, complaining about the walk-up. "Babe, it's freezing in here," he whined, grabbing her hands. "Warm me up." I hovered in the corner, glaring. Get your hands off her. Chloe pulled away gently. "I'll make you some tea." Tyler didn't leave. He ate her food, complained about her cheap TV, and then had the audacity to ask her for gas money. "I need fifty bucks to get back to Jersey," he lied. I knew he lived ten blocks away. Chloe, being the saint she was, gave it to him. I followed him out. I watched him walk into a dive bar, buy a round of shots for some random girl, and brag about "finessing some chick for cash." I made the bar lights flicker and explode. Tyler screamed like a toddler and ran out. It was petty, but it felt great. The Incident A few months later, things escalated. Chloe was sick—flu season hit her hard. She was curled up in bed, miserable. I was pacing (floating?) anxiously, wishing I could just hand her a glass of water. Tyler showed up. He claimed he was there to take care of her, but he reeked of cheap cologne and desperation. "You look hot when you're sick," he muttered, sitting on the edge of her bed. His hand crept up her leg. "Tyler, stop. I'm not feeling well," Chloe croaked. "Come on, I came all the way here," he sneered, pushing her back down.
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