"That's dope."
"A murder took place in my apartment," Alexander said for what felt like the hundredth time, his hands moving automatically as he stocked another row of canned beans under the sharp white lights of the grocery store. "Not just the complex—the apartment itself. I've been falling down rabbit holes all night. It wasn't just any murder either. It was brutal. His so-called friend bludgeoned him with a baseball bat."
"Dope," Dave repeated, flicking up the collar of his green work shirt.
Alexander snapped his head toward him, eyes wide. "Stop. It's not dope. It's sick. Twisted. Depressing. I should probably move."
"Psh. You can't afford to move."
"Not unless we do it together."
Dave smirked, not looking up from the shelf. "Nope. Still holding out for Delilah."
Alexander scoffed, mock-offended. "You're really gonna reject a friend in need for some woman who barely looks in your direction?"
"You betcha."
"Dick." Alexander slammed a can down and muttered, "Maybe I'll go organize the cereal aisle instead."
Dave chuckled under his breath. "What do you think's gonna happen, anyway? You said you don't believe in the paranormal."
"There are times when my mind twists itself up enough to wonder if there's more out there," Alexander admitted. "But it doesn't take long before I come back to my senses."
"Then what's there to worry about?"
Dave's logic was sound, but it didn't comfort him. Fear had a way of staying long after reason told it to leave.
—
By nightfall, the air had cooled to a clammy stillness. Alexander stood outside his apartment building, pacing beneath the sickly yellow glow of the entry light. His phone was pressed hard to his ear.
"It's just unsettling," he told Kiara.
"I think you're psyching yourself out. You're trying to find an excuse not to commit to living alone."
"I never wanted to live alone in the first place!" His voice cracked just a little. His knuckles were white where they clutched the phone.
"But you don't have a choice. You've gotta tough it out, hun," Kiara said gently. Her tone softened the words, but not enough to make them comforting.
He groaned theatrically, dragging a hand through his hair. Kiara's laugh came through the line, light and as empathetic as a ghost skeptic like herself was capable of.
"Love ya."
"Love you."
When the call ended, silence swallowed him whole. The building loomed ahead. Plain brick, dark windows, and the faint sound of chirping crickets. He took a shaky breath and fitted the key into the lock. His fingers trembled so badly that it took him three tries before the key finally turned. The click echoed through the empty hall behind the door.
The apartment looked exactly the same as it had every day for the past three months. Yet something about it felt heavier now.
"Roscoe?" he called softly, stepping inside. The name left his mouth before he realized he'd spoken it. "If your spirit hasn't moved on yet, I just want you to know I mean no harm. I'm just trying to get by in life, you know? And I'm sure you're just trying to get by in... death. God, that sounds stupid. Sorry. I'm not making a joke out of this, I swear."
His voice wavered through the space, brushing against the corners of the room. He shut the door with a slow, reluctant push.
"And when I was researching you," he went on quietly, "I just wanted to make sure I had the right place. I wasn't trying to exploit anything or get some thrill out of it. Timothy's the real monster. I'm glad he's in prison. Fuck that guy."
The moment the words left his mouth, his blood ran cold. A sharp chill crept across the right side of his face, crawling under his skin. His heart stuttered. For a split second he thought he might be having a stroke.
He stumbled toward the counter and dialed a number with clumsy fingers.
"Rick?" His voice came out too thin.
"What's up?" Music blared behind Rick's voice. It was bass-heavy, of course.
"Can you come over?"
"Sorry, man. I'm with my boys right now. Bros before hoes, you know?"
Alexander rolled his eyes skyward. "How about later, then? Did you even read my texts about the murder that happened here?"
"Yeah, that's kinda freaky."
Kinda?
"I'm seriously on edge, Rick. Stop laughing, I mean it. The place feels—off."
"Don't worry so much," Rick said, still grinning through the line.
Alexander kicked a discarded T-shirt across the living room, venting out his frustrations in the only way he felt capable of in the moment. "It's not like I have a choice."
"Willpower, man."
"Whatever. Talk to you later." His voice went flat, but Rick didn't seem to hear the bitterness beneath it.
"Yeah, I'll see about tonight, but no promises."
"Sure," Alexander said and hung up.
Silence returned, thick and cold. He pressed his palm to his cheek, the same side still tingling with that unnatural chill, and held it there, trying to warm the skin. Anger bubbled under the surface, sharp and useless. Rick didn't owe him comfort, didn't owe him protection.
It wasn't like they were boyfriends. And that was fine and all, but how was he going to navigate the haunting association that he now had with the place that he now called home?