Chapter 1The Haunted Housekeeper

I'm a cheapskate—I rented a haunted house.

The first night I moved in, the faucet turned itself on.

I yelled at the empty air, "Are you gonna pay the water bill?!"

The water stopped instantly. I thought that was just the beginning...

But the next day, I found a lavish breakfast waiting on my dining table.

And later, this female ghost asked me to help her get revenge.

Avocado scrambled eggs, pan-seared shrimp with tomato sauce, buttered sautéed spinach, plus a bowl of creamy mushroom soup.

Perfect in color, aroma, and taste.

As someone who lived on pizza delivery, my mouth watered on the spot.

Hunger conquered fear.

I tentatively picked up a fork and took a bite of the avocado eggs.

Delicious.

So delicious I almost swallowed my tongue.

I devoured everything on the table like a hurricane, not leaving even a drop of soup.

Full and satisfied, I rubbed my round belly and burped.

I praised the empty air sincerely, "Great cooking. Keep it up tomorrow."

Then I went to work.

That evening when I got home and opened the door, the aroma of food hit me.

Three dishes and a soup were on the table again.

Red wine braised beef ribs, black pepper tofu stew, garlic broccoli, and vegetable meatball soup.

Shamelessly, I polished it all off again.

After freeloading for three days straight, I started feeling a bit guilty.

This "female ghost" not only had a good temper but was also great at managing a household.

I dug out a pink sticky note from the drawer and wrote in bold black ink:

"Hi, what should I call you? I feel bad always eating your food."

After writing, I placed the note neatly in the center of the dining table.

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

Oatmeal porridge, a small dish of pickled cucumbers, and two freshly baked beef pies.

Next to my sticky note was an identical one.

Written in very beautiful handwriting.

"Evelyn Hartley."

The name sounded nice.

After finishing breakfast, I left another note: "Evelyn, with your cooking skills, it's a shame you're not a food blogger."

Just making conversation.

When I came home that evening, a hearty dinner was on the table.

Below my note was a new reply: "What's a food blogger?"

I burst out laughing.

She must have been dead for quite a while.

Suddenly, an idea came to me—a very bold idea.

I spread out the paper and wrote a shopping list.

Australian lobster, Kobe beef, black truffles, caviar.

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

After writing, I guiltily glanced around.

The air was completely silent.

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

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

The table was completely empty.

Forget lobster and beef—there wasn't even a hair.

I felt a bit disappointed.

I guess my demands were too excessive and scared her away.

I sighed and was about to cook some oatmeal myself in the kitchen.

When I turned around, I saw a note pressed on the table.

It was in Evelyn's familiar handwriting, but this time the strokes seemed a bit cold.

"Wasteful."

I stood there stunned, then couldn't help but laugh out loud.

This ghost not only could cook but was also a thrifty, good girl.

I like that.

I immediately picked up my pen to reply: "Evelyn, I was wrong. I was just joking. From now on we'll eat home-cooked meals. I'll never mention that nonsense again."

My apology was very sincere.

Sure enough, when I came home that evening, three dishes and a soup appeared on the table again.

Although they were all cheap home-cooked dishes, I ate more contentedly than ever before.

On the weekend, I was sprawled on the couch playing video games when the doorbell rang.

I looked through the peephole and saw my coworker, Marcus Quinn.

What was he doing here?