The Worst Kind of Houseguest

By lunchtime, I had invented four explanations for the marks.

I had scratched myself in my sleep.

My detergent had caused a reaction.

I had collided with something while drunk.

Or mosquitoes had evolved a deeply personal interest in ruining my week.

None explained the glass of water.

I took photographs anyway, sent Miles a message, and promised myself I would get checked if anything hurt or changed.

Then I spent the afternoon designing a cheerful label for a product I suddenly resented.

My coworker Dana leaned around her monitor.

“Are you all right?”

“Why?”

“You’ve been glaring at that cartoon strawberry for ten minutes.”

“It knows what it did.”

She looked at my face.

“Did you sleep?”

“Technically.”

“You should go home early.”

“That would mean being home.”

She waited for me to explain.

I didn’t.

There was no graceful way to tell a coworker you suspected a dead man was still interfering with your bedtime.

***

I didn’t drink that evening.

I ate dinner, washed the dishes, and sat on the intact end of my couch watching a cooking show.

The broken end remained empty.

Julian used to sit there.

He claimed it was the only place where the television wasn’t at a ridiculous angle.

I had once moved the television just to see what he would do.

He moved the couch.

Thinking about it made me smile before I caught myself.

At ten fifty-nine, the lamp flickered.

I stopped smiling.

At eleven, the apartment went dark.

“Oh, come on.”

I stood too quickly and bumped the table.

A hand caught my wrist.

I froze.

“Careful.”

The voice was low, familiar, and entirely unwelcome under the circumstances.

I pulled away.

“Who’s there?”

“Who do you think?”

My heart hammered.

“Julian?”

Silence.

There was a shape in front of me, but the light from the street barely reached the room.

I couldn’t make out a face.

“You’re dead.”

The shape shifted.

“Is that why you haven’t answered my messages?”

“I haven’t received any messages.”

Another silence.

I reached for my phone.

By the time its flashlight came on, the space in front of me was empty.

The hallway looked empty, too.

I checked the bathroom.

Nothing.

When the electricity returned, I stood beneath the ceiling light holding my phone like it might be useful in a fight.

Then I noticed my dinner plate.

Someone had put it in the sink.

I had left it on the table.

“Absolutely not,” I said to the apartment.

I would accept many things in life.

A dead man silently judging my housekeeping was not one of them.

***

In college, Julian had developed a habit of finding reasons to invite me into his room.

At first, they were ordinary reasons.

He needed help checking an essay.

He had ordered too much food.

There was a movie he insisted I would like.

When I stopped accepting every invitation, my bedding began getting wet.

The first time, Owen apologized.

“I dropped my water bottle.”

“On my bed?”

“It bounced.”

“It bounced across the room and under my blanket?”

He glanced toward Julian.

Julian immediately said, “He wasn’t trying to.”

I looked at him.

“How reassuring.”

“The laundry room’s closed. You can stay in mine tonight.”

I folded my arms.

“We could also make Owen sleep on the floor and take his bed.”

Owen looked horrified.

Julian’s expression didn’t change.

“Mine’s closer.”

“By six feet.”

“You can bring your own pillow.”

It was late. I was tired. His bedding was dry.

I brought my pillow.

In the night, he ended up with his arm around me.

I shifted.

He tightened his hold without waking.

“Julian.”

His eyes opened.

“What?”

“You’re using me as a cushion.”

He looked down at his arm.

“You were moving.”

“I’m allowed.”

He let go.

I rolled toward the wall, leaving as much distance as the narrow bed permitted.

Two minutes later, he said, “You’re going to fall.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He was quiet for a while.

Then he moved his pillow to the edge and gave me the middle.

I pretended not to notice.

The second wet bed was Ben’s fault.

Apparently.

The third time, I came back early.

Owen stood over my mattress with a damp towel. Ben sat on the desk looking nervous. Julian held cash in one hand.

I stopped.

Nobody moved.

Then Owen said, “This isn’t what it looks like.”

I looked at the towel.

Then at the cash.

“What else could it possibly look like?”

Ben put his head in his hands.

Julian set the money down.

“Evan, let me explain.”

“Please do. I’d love to hear why you’ve opened a business specializing in wet bedding.”

Owen tried to leave.

I blocked the doorway.

“You’re staying for this.”

Julian met my eyes.

“I wanted you in my room.”

There was a silence.

I had expected an excuse.

That wasn’t one.

“So ask.”

He looked away.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“You’re right. Especially now.”

All three of them washed my bedding.

Julian apologized.

I accepted the apology eventually, mostly because refusing to speak to him made it difficult to tell him how annoying he was.

After that, our arguments became famous.

People called us rivals, an old married couple, or idiots who needed to get it over with.

I preferred rivals.

It involved the fewest follow-up questions.

***

The third night after the news, I fell asleep with the television on.

I woke in bed.

That bothered me before anything else did.

I remembered the couch. I didn’t remember moving.

A familiar scent lingered nearby, the clean, faintly woody smell of Julian’s coat.

For several seconds, I lay still.

Then a voice said, “I missed you.”

My mouth moved before my brain caught up.

“You were here last week.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

My eyes opened.

Darkness.

I sat up and immediately pulled the blanket to my chin.

“Julian?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You’re supposed to be dead. Surprise is a reasonable response.”

He was quiet.

I could hear someone breathing near the bed.

Then he asked, coldly enough to wake every remaining part of me, “Are you really that happy I’m dead?”

I dragged the blanket over my head.

“No.”

“That isn’t what you told Miles.”

“I say things.”

“I noticed.”

I pressed my palms together beneath the blanket.

“If somebody hurt you, I wasn’t involved. I didn’t even know you were driving that morning.”

Silence.

“You should find whoever did it.”

“Evan.”

“And if you’re looking for company, there must be other ghosts. You’re good at networking.”

A slow breath followed.

“I didn’t come here for anybody else.”

That made everything worse.

I lay very still.

For a moment, I felt the edge of the blanket shift. I gripped it harder.

“Don’t touch me.”

The movement stopped.

I listened until the room fell quiet.

Then I reached out, found the lamp, and switched it on.

Nobody was there.

I sat against the headboard, furious and frightened and embarrassingly close to tears.

Even dead, Julian had somehow made the entire evening about him.