Orson was right. The apartment was nicer than the leasing office. Not by a lot, but by enough that it felt comfortable. And really, who was I to complain about a roof over my head and a roommate that actually saw me?

  No one. That’s who.

  “Here it is,” Orson said, floating through the door. Probably forgetting that I couldn’t float through doors. Or, knowing Orson, not giving a shit.

  I fumbled with my key. Not sure why I was in such a hurry to get the door open. As I turned it, I realized Orson could have just handed me his key—given that he doesn’t need to open doors at all. Regardless, I opened it.

  It was a small, one-bedroom apartment that looked mostly unlived in. Which made sense. Orson is a ghost. He doesn’t eat, wear clothes, or sit on things.

  The kitchen was tiny—half-a-hallway tiny. A single tub sink, a miniature dishwasher, a microwave, a few cabinets, and a fridge. Beside that was the living room. Mostly barren, but tidy in that unused sort of way. A TV sat on two cinderblocks and looked about as old as the one in Dante’s back room.

  There were four doors.

  One led to the patio. One was a closet with a washer and dryer, which immediately became my favorite part of the apartment. Worth the rent, if you ask me. (My portion was $400 a month. Which is an absolute steal, and I miss it.) Another door led to the bathroom. The toilet was full of old, still water—not brown, but ringed with green and smelling faintly of mold. There was a sink and a shower about the size of an old phone booth.

  The last door led to the bedroom. That’s where the “magic” happens. Not that it ever did, but if it were going to, that’s where I imagine it would have happened. I was a lonely guy, okay?

  The bed was a twin. Not ideal, but the mattress looked clean enough. Across from it was a closet. Orson floated over.

  “Hey,” he said, “Open up. We’ve got a new roommate.”

  The closet door slid open slowly, revealing only darkness. Then a skeleton fell out and onto the floor.

  It probably would have been shocking to you, but it wasn’t for me. Then the skeleton shambled to life, dragging itself across the floor toward me. Dull blue orbs of light glowing in its eye holes (I know there’s a better word for that).

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  It stopped, sat up, looked right at me, and said, “You aren’t scared?”

  I shrugged, “Why would I be scared of a skeleton? I have one of my own.”

  “Greg, this is Amir,” Orson said with a sigh, “Amir, Greg.”

  “Grim,” the skeleton replied, “My name is Grim.”

  “It’s Greg. I told you, you aren’t cool enough to carry a name like Grim. Plus,” Orson raised his voice, “You can’t give yourself your own nickname!”

  “I didn’t,” Greg argued, “That’s what they used to call me.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Orson looked at me and rolled his eyes, then looked back at Greg.

  “Anyway, GREG, Amir is going to be living here from now on, so try and be cool.”

  “Would’ve been nice if you asked me first,” Greg said, standing and heading back toward the closet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Orson replied, “but if I recall, your opinion is worth exactly the rent you pay. Which comes to, if I’m doing the math right, nothing.”

  “Whatever,” Greg said, getting ready to close the door, then looked at me and added, “Just don’t be too loud and keep your stuff out of my room.”

  He shut the door.

  “It’s a closet,” Orson said.

  “A closet is a room, dumbass,” Greg replied from inside.

  “A closet is an accessory to a room! And you would know that if you had brains in that skull!”

  “You don’t have brains either!”

  “I don’t need them! I’m the spiritual consciousness of my former self! I’m ectoplasm held together by thought! All of me is brains, dipshit!”

  Silence.

  Then a bony hand forced its way out from under the closet door. The fingers curled into a fist, except for the middle one.

  “Real clever,” Orson said, floating away.

  Greg struggled to pull his hand back inside. It was awkward enough that I almost felt bad for him.

  Almost.

  I followed Orson into the living room.

  “You don’t remember who you were?” I asked.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” he said.

  So, we didn’t.

  Instead, I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. My stomach felt like it had forgotten every word except “hungry”. However, the only thing in there was a bat who, I swear, grimaced at the sudden burst of light, hissed, then wrapped itself deeper into its wings.

  “Oh. My bad,” I said, closing the door.

  I wondered how the bat got in and out. It had to eat, right? It didn’t matter. I looked at Orson.

  “We need some food, man.”

  “You need some food,” he corrected.

  Regardless, Orson decided to tag along. I had an idea first, one that would totally redeem me in Orson’s eyes.

  Fun fact, ghosts don’t have eyes, but they can sense us. They only look at us when they’re doing it out of habit. A lot of people don’t know that.

  Before we left, we stopped by the leasing office. “Dante,” I called.

  “What?” he shouted from his bedroom.

  “It’s Amir. I’m going out to get groceries. Want anything?”

  I heard a few quick steps before he shoved the door open, not in a way dissimilar to how I open bathroom stalls in an emergency.

  “A hamburger!” he yelled. “Can you get me a hamburger?”

  “Can do. Do you want anything else?”

  “Get me whatever you’re getting for yourself. It’s been so long; I don’t know where to start.”

  “You like Twinkies?”

  “TWINKIES! YES! HERE!” Dante was screaming at me in a weird mixture of angry and excited. He disappeared, then came running back with an armful of cash and threw it at me. Bills scattered across the floor. I scooped up the hundreds—six of them.

  “This is plenty,” I said as I pocketed the cash, “I’ll bring you back some of the good stuff.”

  “Go!” he shouted. “I’m starving!”

  I turned and left, then stopped and turned back.

  “Do you have a fridge?” I asked.

  His mad smile dropped. He said, “No.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  He nodded eagerly.

  Shortly after we left, I heard Dante shout, “F**K!”

  It wasn’t the excited kind. It wasn’t even the frustrated kind. It was the kind you say when something very obvious has finally occurred to you, and you’re a little late to stop it.

  I let myself believe it was excitement. Or hunger. Or both. When you’ve lived off vending machine food long enough, even the idea of real food can do strange things to a person. I knew the feeling well.

  Orson floated beside me as we headed back toward the trailer park. Neither of us said anything for a while.

  For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t invisible. Not to Orson. Not to Greg, even if he hated me. Not to Dante, who needed me. I had a key. A place to sleep. A role, however stupid it was.

  That should have felt good.

  Instead, all I could think about was how easy it had been. How quickly things had lined up the moment I stopped questioning them. That had never worked out well for me before.

  Still, I kept walking.

  I always do.

  Boy, was I an idiot.

  Eye sockets is the word he was thinking of, but every time I suggested it, he would think for a moment before saying, “I don’t think that’s it. Sockets are wrenches, I’m pretty sure.”

  NOT poop emergencies, he wanted to clarify. Other kinds of unspecified bathroom emergencies.