Chapter 1Her Ghost Showers At Midnight

Right before graduation, I ended up getting a new roommate: a senior from the local university.

Her name was Hannah. She was gentle, polite, and whenever she saw me in the kitchen, she’d flash this incredibly sweet smile and say, "Hey, Moore."

But lately, the dynamic in the apartment had shifted. Deep into the night, the unmistakable sound of the shower running would bleed through the thin drywall. Worse, it was always accompanied by a soft, breathy, and undeniably intimate moaning. It was the kind of sound that made my face burn in the dark.

After tossing and turning for nights on end, I finally broke down and shot her a text.

“Hey, the walls in this place are paper-thin. Do you think you could shower a little earlier in the evening?”

A minute later, my phone buzzed. She replied with a confused emoji.

“I’ve been buried in my senior thesis. I’ve been crashing at the dorms for the past week. I haven't even been home.”

* * *

“Is the bathroom leaking? If it is, maybe call a plumber to look at it, and I’ll Venmo you my half of the bill.”

Hannah’s follow-up text glowed on my screen.

A water leak and someone taking a shower were two entirely different sounds. I wasn't an idiot. And more importantly, a leaky pipe didn't moan.

This hadn't just been a one-time thing, either. It had been going on for days, severely cutting into my sleep and leaving me feeling like a zombie during my morning shifts. I was a grown man; I wouldn't have brought up something so painfully awkward with a female roommate unless it was genuinely disrupting my life.

But her reply threw me. Had she really been gone that long?

I worked a soul-crushing nine-to-five corporate gig and was usually dead to the world by nine in the evening. If I was being honest, I hadn't paid any attention to her comings and goings.

Rubbing my temples, I sighed, brushing the whole thing off as a weird misunderstanding.

"Hey, Moore. Don't ghost us after work. Whole department is going out for drinks," a coworker said later that afternoon, clapping a hand heavily on my shoulder.

Every bone in my body wanted to say no. I was running on fumes. But I was gunning for a promotion to supervisor, which meant playing the corporate game and making nice with the team. I forced a smile and agreed.

The "quick drinks" dragged on past midnight. By the time I left, the world was spinning.

When I finally reached the front steps of my apartment building, I practically collided with the heavy glass door, my legs feeling like lead as I began the climb up to the second floor. Thank God I lived low down in the building.

A few heavy steps, and the motion-sensor light flickered to life, casting a sickly yellow glow over the landing. I spent an embarrassing amount of time fumbling with my keys. Right as I managed to slide the key into the deadbolt, I glanced down.

Sitting perfectly centered on the welcome mat was a piece of paper. I picked it up, squinting. It was a piece of blackened, charred ritual parchment—the kind of morbid, occult junk you'd find at an alternative witchcraft shop, usually burned to ward off spirits or mourn the dead.

What a sick joke.

I tossed it aside, muttering under my breath about bored teenagers in the neighborhood.

But the moment I stumbled into the pitch-black apartment, the oppressive silence of the living room hit me. Instantly, my alcohol-fogged brain latched onto the bathroom.

For an entire week, right around this time, the shower had turned on.

I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the empty room, and forced myself to look away from the hallway. Don't think about it.

Still, the adrenaline had sobered me up a fraction.

I hurried into my bedroom and threw the deadbolt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind raced, echoing the text Hannah had sent me hours ago.

I haven't even been home...

The more I thought about it, the more the silence seemed to press against my eardrums. I couldn't sleep. I lay there, tossing and turning, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of my blanket.

And then, exactly what I feared most happened.

Through the wall, the hiss of the bathroom shower roared to life.

A split second later, that cloying, breathy moan followed.

My heart slammed against my ribs. A cold sweat broke across my skin, a sudden, icy draft sweeping through the room. Listening to the crystal-clear sound of the running water, I knew I wasn't imagining things.

Hands shaking, I grabbed my phone and fired off a desperate text to Hannah.

“Did you come back tonight?”

The message sat on Delivered. No reply.

But the noise in the bathroom didn't stop. In the past, it usually faded out just past midnight. Tonight, it showed zero signs of slowing down.

In fact, it was getting louder.

I could hear my own rapid, shallow breathing. The pale moonlight sliced through my blinds, illuminating the floor, but my eyes were locked in a dead stare on my bedroom door. I was paralyzed, waiting for the handle to slowly turn.

Then, the sliver of space beneath my bedroom door lit up.

Flicker. Flicker.

It was the living room light.

This was a cheap, rundown apartment complex. The light switches were ancient, heavy plastic toggles that required a firm, loud clack to turn on.

But the light in the living room was flickering on and off, completely silently, with no warning at all.