Get out!
His vision tunneled, limbs going rigid. The oven handle scraped into his side as he pressed against the counter, but he barely felt it. Though his mind screamed at him to flee, or to grab a weapon and fight, he was paralyzed. He needed to tell the man to leave, but each word crowded in his throat until he was certain he would choke on them.
A hand – Ximena’s – snatched the man’s shirt sleeve and yanked him outside. The door slammed shut and she shouted, “I’m so sorry, mijo!”
Breaking from his cemented position, Micah rushed to the door and threw the deadbolts and the slide chain. He trembled, nerves short-circuiting and terror pumping through his veins. His cheek pressed against the door, eyes watering, and he slowly sank to his knees and thudded his forehead against the grainy tile. Tremors quaked his chest, dust bunnies and a pencil shaving stirring from his frantic breath.
Footsteps clanged down the stairs outside, the maintenance man’s mutters of “I’m sorry” standing no chance against Ximena’s sharp admonishments.
Shame plunged into Micah’s gut amid the other mess of signals his body was sending him. That guy didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t deserve Micah’s reaction.Micahdidn’t deserve Micah’s reaction.
He balled his fists, intent on taking this energy out on something, but he’d already stomped on half-painted canvases and flipped over his drafting table after returning from the hospital, and it hadn’t made him feel better.
Pushing to his feet, he ran his hands through his hair, slapped his cheeks, and walked to the bathroom. The new mirror looked exactly like the old one, save for the strips of tape on each corner. The silicone sat on the toilet tank. He could return it with Ximena’s dish later, and maybe he could get the maintenance guy a six-pack next time he went shopping.
A shadow drifted in his peripheral vision, and he tensed. Great, now his body was in overdrive, imagining intruders who weren’t there.
Everyone left. He was alone. He’d locked the door.
Even so, he peered down the empty hall. Nothing. But when he turned back toward the mirror, he gasped. Written across it in cheery pink was the phrase:
EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY
2
SOMETHING IN MY HOUSE
Micah - Present Day
Tubes of oil paint rattled in the drawer as Micah rummaged through. He set out cadmium red, phthalo blue, yellow ochre, and titanium white.
The floorboards creaked, and he paused. His bed sat beyond a plant-laden bookcase; the covers were a bit sloppily tucked in, but the bed looked the same as always. The thick leaves of his biggest monstera crowded the corner, tangled in shadows. Like always.
Turning back to the paints, he pulled out lamp black and burnt umber. This was more of an effort to continue the landscape painting than he’d made in the past month, and he applauded himself for–
Ice tumbled into the receptacle in the refrigerator, and he startled. He shut his eyes and blew out a breath.
This was silly. His studio wasn’t haunted. The late-night eighties music was from a neighbor, even though he couldn’t pinpoint which one. The broken mirror was due to deteriorating silicone, even though his studio was apparently the only place with this problem. And the marker on the mirror was… not so easy to explain away.
It hadn’t been there when he walked into the bathroom. Shaken as he was with the maintenance guy trying to comeback inside, he distinctly remembered staring at the mirror, a clean and identical replica to his previous one, and seeing nothing amiss.
The last tenant died. Not necessarily in the studio, but maybe it was a familiar place he was pulled back to. Could that shadow have been him? A ghost who liked to write saccharin platitudes in pink block letters?
Leaning back, Micah wiped his hands down his face. He got up, walked back to the bathroom, and stared at the message.Everything will be okay.Maybe that was written specifically for him. He already had the pity of the landlady and his family; he didn’t need it from a ghost.Hewasn’t the dead one.
He swiped at the message. It faded, but only slightly, and a fine powder of marker dust coated his fingers. Scrubbing at the glass with a wad of tissue did nothing, and neither did applying rubbing alcohol.
Ximena would be pissed if he couldn’t get that off. Actually, she’d probably take it in stride, thinking it was some therapy technique Micah had been ordered to practice.
It was hard to be frightened by an entity writing such an upbeat phrase, but it was still an invasion of his privacy, and he couldn’t take any more nights of Soft Cell. Maybe he needed some fresh air. The coffee shop on the corner had the best muffins, but for some reason the thought of walking over there made his palms sweat. He’d already had several cups of coffee anyway, and going there for a single muffin seemed unnecessary.
There was a gallery showing a couple streets down, and today was the last day. But that was another activity that involved leaving his apartment. He wiped his hands on his thighs, jaw clenched. The gallery didn’t open until five, and rush hour was a bad time to go anywhere. Waiting until the crowd thinned out, maybe at seven, would be better. Except at that point, he’d be in his sweats with dinner and a book. That was fine. He didn’t really want to go anyway.
But it would be nice to have someone to talk to about what was going on. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Courtney was a no. She called once a month to check up on him, which was more than Micah ever expected of an ex, but she was too grounded to believe in ghosts, even with evidence. Dad and Mom? They worried about him enough as it was. They’dwant to send him to some mental health retreat, which might help his anxiety, but it wouldn’t solve his current issue.
Oh, Grandma… If only. She wouldn’t have second-guessed a ghost’s presence. She’d claimed to have sensed many in her lifetime, including Grandad after he passed.
Reaching the bottom of the list, he pondered Ximena’s name, but what would she do? Charge the ghost rent?
