A Ghost Cooked For Me

On the table was roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans with butter.

They looked and smelled very appetizing.

As someone who survived on quick bites, I practically drooled on the spot.

Hunger triumphed over fear.

I hesitantly picked up the knife and cut myself a piece of the roast chicken.

It tasted heavenly.

I almost swallowed my tongue.

I devoured everything on the table and even licked the plates clean.

I patted my full belly and let out a satisfied burp.

I praised the air. “Not bad. Keep it up tomorrow.”

Then, I left for work.

When I returned home in the evening, the aroma of a home-cooked meal washed over me the moment I pushed the door open.

Another home-cooked dinner was waiting on the table.

It was a spread of pot roast with gravy, garlic-sauteed spinach, macaroni and cheese, and a hearty vegetable soup.

Once again, with zero self-restraint, I polished off every last bite.

After freeloading meals for three days in a row, I started to feel a little guilty.

This ghostly roommate was not just good-tempered. It also knew how to manage a household well.

I took out a yellow sticky note from the drawer and wrote in thick black marker. [Hey, what’s your name? I feel bad about always eating your food.]

I placed the note neatly in the center of the dining table.

The next morning, breakfast was laid out on the table as usual.

There was a bowl of grits, a link of savory breakfast sausage, and two buttermilk biscuits.

Beside my sticky note lay an identical one.

A response was written on it in an elegant, flowing script.

[Nathaniel Simmons.]

It was a nice name.

After finishing breakfast, I left another note. [Nat, it’s a waste that you didn’t get into Le Cordon Bleu to hone your cooking skills.]

I was purely making conversation for the sake of it.

When I returned in the evening, an elaborate dinner was waiting on the table.

Under my note, there was a new reply. [What is Le Cordon Bleu?]

I burst out laughing.

He seemed to have been dead for quite some years.

A bold idea occurred to me.

I spread out a piece of paper and wrote down a shopping list.

It included Australian lobster, Wagyu beef, black truffles, and caviar.

I wrote down every expensive ingredient I had ever heard of but could never afford.

After finishing the list, I glanced around the room guiltily.

The air was dead silent.

I placed the list in the center of the table and went to bed with a sense of anticipation.

The next day, the first thing I did after waking up was rush to the dining room.

The table was empty.

There was no breakfast whatsoever, let alone Australian lobster or Wagyu beef.

I was a little disappointed.

I may have driven the ghost away with my outrageous demands.

I sighed and prepared to microwave a box of macaroni and cheese.

But when I turned around, I spotted a note pressed under something on the table.

It was in Nathaniel’s familiar handwriting, though this time, his note held a hint of cold anger.

[Wasteful.]

I was stunned for a moment before I burst out laughing.

This ghost was not just a good cook, but he was also thrifty and responsible.

I liked that.

I immediately picked up a pen and wrote back. [My bad, Nat. It’s just a joke. Let’s just stick to homemade food from now on. I won’t bring up that extravagant nonsense again, okay?]

I apologized sincerely.

Sure enough, when I returned that evening, food was laid out on the table once more.

Although they were all simple, homemade dishes, I enjoyed the meal more than any other I had ever had.

That weekend, as I was lounging on the couch scrolling through my phone, the doorbell rang.

I looked through the peephole and saw my colleague, Whitley Brennan.

What brought her here?