Let me begin by saying this: I am not a superstitious person. I don’t believe in ghosts, goblins, ghouls, or that one sock that always vanishes from the laundry. I believe in science, reason, and the power of a good Wi-Fi signal. But on one fateful Thursday, all of that changed. This is the story of how I, a completely rational adult human being, ended up screaming into a mop bucket because I thought my landlord was a ghost.
It all began with a move. Not just any move — the kind of move that involves cardboard boxes, broken furniture, and tears. Lots of tears. I had finally gotten my own apartment, a one-bedroom unit in a building so old, it was probably considered historical by the termites. The place had charm, sure — exposed brick, creaky floors, a mysterious stain on the ceiling that changed shape depending on your mood — but it was mine.
My landlord, Mr. Kusi, was a quiet, lanky man in his sixties who always wore the same beige trench coat and a hat that looked like it had fought in three world wars. He rarely spoke more than a few words, mostly grunts and vague hand gestures. The first time I met him, he handed me the keys and said, "Don’t feed the pigeons. They gossip." Then he walked away without another word.
I assumed he was joking. Spoiler: he wasn’t.
The first few days were uneventful. I unpacked, set up my Wi-Fi, and avoided making eye contact with the mysterious stain. Then came the night. Oh, that night.
It started with a sound. A soft creaking. Now, creaks are normal in old buildings. I knew this. But this creak had... personality. It wasn’t a "the building is settling" creak. It was a "someone is dragging their ghostly foot across your ceiling like they’re in a horror movie" creak.
I tried to ignore it. I even made a playlist called “Ignore the Creaking” which included bangers like “Don’t Stop Believin’” and “Shut Up and Dance.” It didn’t help.
Then the lights began flickering. Not in a charming, vintage kind of way. In a "get out before the walls start bleeding" kind of way. I called the power company, but they assured me there were no outages. I hung up just as my toaster ejected a slice of bread so aggressively, it hit the ceiling. I took that as a sign and decided to investigate.
I tiptoed through the apartment, armed with a flashlight, a frying pan, and the irrational confidence of someone who has watched too many horror movies. As I passed the hallway closet, I heard a whisper.
“Rent... rent... rent...”
I froze. My flashlight flickered. The frying pan shook in my hands.
“Rent... is... due...”
That’s when I screamed. A long, high-pitched, completely undignified scream that lasted until I ran face-first into my coat rack and knocked myself out cold.
I woke up two hours later on the floor, the frying pan still in my hand. I checked my phone: 3:03 AM. I also had five missed calls from my mother, two from my boss, and one from someone named "Spicy Kevin." I made a mental note to block that last one.
I staggered to my feet and did what any logical person would do: I hid under my blanket and vowed never to come out.
The next morning, things were back to normal. The lights were steady, the creaking had stopped, and the toaster no longer had homicidal tendencies. I convinced myself it was all a dream — a very vivid, very disturbing dream.
That illusion shattered when I found a note slipped under my door.
“Rent is due. - Mr. Kusi”
But it wasn’t written in pen. It was burned into the paper. Burned. Like someone used a tiny flamethrower or had very precise laser vision.
I decided it was time to confront Mr. Kusi.
I knocked on his door. No answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. I was about to leave when the door creaked open on its own. Of course it did.
The inside of his apartment looked like the set of a Victorian horror film. Lace curtains. Candles. A gramophone. A portrait of a woman who looked like she could curse your entire bloodline. And there, in the center of the room, was Mr. Kusi. Sleeping. Or... floating?
I blinked. He was gone.
I blinked again. He was on the ceiling.
This was the moment I decided I was either hallucinating or dead. I backed away slowly, whispering apologies to every ghost I may have accidentally offended.
Just then, Mr. Kusi opened his eyes and dropped from the ceiling like a sack of haunted potatoes. He landed silently, adjusted his hat, and said, “Do you have the rent?”
I fainted again.
When I came to, he was sipping tea and reading a newspaper upside down. I gathered my courage — and my pants, which had somehow ended up on the lamp — and asked the obvious question:
“Are you... are you a ghost?”
He raised an eyebrow. “What gave you that idea?”
“Well,” I said, pointing to the ceiling, the floating, the whispering, the creepy note, the flickering lights, and the homicidal toaster. “All of that.”
He chuckled. CHUCKLED. Like this was all very amusing.
“My dear tenant,” he said, “I am not a ghost. I’m just... odd.”
Odd? Odd is wearing mismatched socks. Odd is putting ketchup on cereal. Floating on the ceiling like a supernatural ninja is not odd — it’s possessed by the spirits of ancient landlords.
But he explained it all. The floating? Yoga. Advanced yoga. Like, level 500. The flickering lights? Bad wiring. The toaster? Static electricity. The whispering? He had a voice-activated rent reminder installed. Very experimental. Very haunted.
As for the burned note, he shrugged. “Thermal printer malfunction.”
I didn’t believe a word of it, but I paid the rent anyway. He handed me a receipt with a smile and said, “By the way, don’t touch the portrait. She bites.”
I laughed nervously. He didn’t.
To this day, I don’t know if Mr. Kusi is a ghost, a magician, or just a very committed performance artist. But I do know one thing: I will never, ever be late on my rent again.
Because whether he’s living or spectral, my landlord is terrifying.
And the pigeons? Yeah, they definitely gossip.
THE END.
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