Haunted Roommate: She's the Ghost Who Babysits Me

When I opened the door, there was a full spread already laid out on the dining table. There was shakshuka, shrimp marinara, sauteed greens, and a bowl of egg drop soup.

Everything looked and smelled perfect.

As someone who basically lived on fast food, I started drooling on the spot at the sight of the food.

My hunger quickly overpowered my fear. I cautiously picked up the cutlery laid out and tried a bite of the shakshuka. It was delicious—so delicious that I almost swallowed my tongue.

I tore into the food like a starving ghost, polishing off every dish on the table, not even leaving a drop of soup behind. Stuffed and satisfied, I rubbed my now-round belly and let out a burp.

I sincerely threw out praise to the empty air. "You've got skills. Keep this up, okay?"

After that, I left for work. When I got home that night and opened the door, the smell of food hit me in the face again. The dishes that waited for me on the table were BBQ ribs, chili con carne, sauteed broccoli, and zucchini soup.

I shamelessly polished everything off again.

After freeloading like this for three days straight, I started to feel a little guilty. This ghost not only had a good temper, but she also clearly knew how to run a household.

I dug a pink sticky note out of a drawer and, using a thick black pen, wrote, "Hi. What should I call you? I feel bad just eating your cooking all the time."

When I finished, I placed the note neatly in the center of the table.

The next morning, breakfast was already set out as usual. There was oatmeal, a cucumber salad, and hand pies.

Next to my sticky note, there was another one exactly like it. Her name was written in an elegant script on it.

Ivy Lowell.

It was a nice name.

After I finished breakfast, I left another note. "Ivy, with cooking skills like yours, it's a shame you're not a food blogger."

I was just making small talk.

That night, when I got home, another hearty dinner was waiting. Under my note, there was now one more line in Ivy's delicate handwriting. "What's a food blogger?"

I couldn't help but burst out laughing. It looked like Ivy had died quite a few years ago.

All of a sudden, a thought popped into my head—a very bold thought. I spread out a sheet of paper and wrote a shopping list. Lobster, premium beef, black truffle, caviar…

I wrote down every fancy ingredient I'd ever heard of but could never afford. When I was done, I glanced around the room, feeling guilty. The air was completely still.

I left the list in the middle of the table and went to bed with a strange sense of anticipation.

The next morning, the first thing I did when I woke up was to rush to the dining room. The table was completely bare. Forget lobster and beef—there wasn't so much as a single hair.

A small wave of disappointment washed over me. It looked like I'd pushed my luck and driven Ivy away.

I sighed and turned to head into the kitchen to make myself some instant mac and cheese. When I turned back around, I noticed a new note pinned to the table.

It was the same familiar handwriting, but the strokes seemed to carry a hint of chill this time. "Squanderer."

I froze, then started laughing out loud. So this ghost couldn't just cook—she was also a thrifty, budget-conscious woman. I liked that.

I immediately grabbed a pen and wrote back, "Sorry, Ivy. I was just joking. From now on, let's stick to regular dishes. I won't bring up such ridiculous things anymore."

I made sure to apologize sincerely.

Sure enough, when I came home that night, my usual dishes and soup were back on the table. They were all simple, inexpensive, and everyday dishes, but I didn't think I'd ever enjoyed a meal more.

…

Over the weekend, I was sprawled on the couch gaming when the doorbell rang. I checked the peephole to see my coworker, Rick Quill.

What was he doing here?