I really can't stand Jordan.
He's a slob, for one thing.
The amount of pizza boxes, empty ramen noodle containers, and crushed cans of Dr. Pepper that I've seen strewn around this house since he moved in is a literal abomination. He owns a dresser, but does he use it? No. What clothes are lucky enough to find their way to the washer and dryer are destined only to be piled on the chair in his bedroom before he dirties them again.
Besides all that, he's depressing to be around. When he's not at work, he spends his days moping around the place, barely moving from the bed or the couch. He hasn't even bothered to unpack all of his boxes. The most I've seen him do is drag one into the living room, sort morosely through the contents for five minutes or so, only to fold down the flaps and slide it across the floor where it will stay for another week.
The last roommates I had were fun to watch, at least. Michael Anderson and his wife Christine lived in this house for nearly thirty years. I watched their kids grow up, watched them make mistakes and memories across the decades until the kids went off to college and Mike and Christine finally decided they were going to downsize. It tugged at my heartstrings to watch them go; I really had felt like I was a part of their family, even if I was only watching from the outside. They'd even talk about me from time to time, bringing up the harmless pranks I liked to play. 'I can't find my shoes, Dad,' the kids might say, and the answer was always, 'Must have been the ghost again.' Same went for cabinets left open, lost items suddenly returned to strange places, or the radio in the living room turning on to the oldies station.
They even had a name for me; they called me 'Frank'. Not accurate at all, but whatever. It still felt good to be acknowledged, even if it was by the wrong name. When the kids would tease each other about who would be the next one to get pranked by 'Frank the Ghost', I'd simply roll my eyes and laugh along with them. There was something special about that family, something warm and wonderful.
And then this bum moved in.
I don't know how long he plans to live here. He still hasn't unpacked all of his stuff, so who knows. And it's not like a single guy needs a house this size either, so I can't imagine whatever possessed him to buy the place.
It wasn't so bad when he first moved in. At least then he was at work half the time. But now he's started working from home (how the world has changed since my time), and he's here nearly every. Single. Day. I'm about to go crazy. I don't know how much longer I can take watching him sulk around this house like a wet cat.
I was sick of it.
I knew I had to take action.
And that's why I stood behind him in the upstairs bathroom on that warm June night, as the warm breeze came in through the open windows and ruffled all the curtains. I waited there as he splashed water on his face, knowing that when he patted himself dry and looked himself over, he wouldn't be able to help but see me hovering there in the half light, with my blond hair tumbled over one shoulder and my nightgown white against the shadow.
He'd scream, and he'd panic, and he'd run - he'd have to, right? That's the only logical response to seeing a dead girl floating in your bathroom.
I was expecting that - happily anticipating it, in fact. I was ready for him to freeze, to run, to lash out in terror -
But I never could have predicted what happened next.