Resisting the Advances of the Ghost Girl That’s Haunting Me

In front of me, two ghostly boobs hover.

Yeah, those boobs. I remember the situation from last night when I fell asleep. I had been on one side of the bed, but now I'm sprawled out, taking up the whole damn thing.

Looking down at myself, I realize I'm somehow inside the ghost girl's intangible body.

I get off the bed and glance back. There she is, the ghost girl, staring at me with a thousand-yard stare. Guess she didn't sleep. But then again, do ghosts need sleep? Her showing up in my bed last night was unexpected. Ghosts aren't supposed to do that.

Whatever. No time for useless thoughts. Got to get ready for work. At least today's a normal shift.

I head to the bathroom, and the ghost girl floats along. Checking the mirror, I don’t see her reflection. Does she even know what she looks like?

I brush my teeth, wash my face, hop into the shower. The whole time, she just stares at me, expression unchanged. Some might wonder if I feel awkward getting naked in front of her. Nah. I've accepted her existence, but she's not my type. Besides, I doubt she has any interest in bodies or reproductive instincts. Living with a wall-phasing roommate means she'll see me in my birthday suit occasionally. Comforting, right?

I soap up, deal with my hair, and get dressed in record time.

At the breakfast table, I eat my ramen. I didn't bother making any for the ghost girl; I’ve never seen her eat breakfast. She does her ghostly things instead: staring out the window, picking up and putting down cutlery, poking the microwave buttons, floating in weird spots. Her favorite? Half her body through the ceiling, legs dangling down. Yeah, I can see under her dress, but I try not to look.

With breakfast done, I wash my bowl at the sink. Does she want to go outside, I wonder? Can she even leave my apartment?

Too many questions. It's morning—I should focus on work.

I catch her staring at me out of the corner of my eye... quite strange... very, very strange. She hardly did that before. Did the ramen change her opinion of me?

Right, work.

I finish washing up, pack my lunch (more ramen and a water bottle), realizing I'm almost out thanks to my ghostly roommate's appetite yesterday. I'll need to restock.

All set, I grab my lunch bag, slip on my shoes, and give her a smile and a wave. No response, just a flicker in her form.

Locking the door behind me, I wait a few minutes to see if she follows. Nope. I suppose she can’t phase through my apartment walls... no, I need to do more tests later.

I go down the steps, drag my bike out into the parking lot... and start pedaling hard.

An hour of this, and I’ll be at work.

--

"Hey there, Elise."

"Good morning, ma’am."

I greet Bethesda, the 80-year-old owner of this rundown comic book store where I work part-time. I ended up here after finding few job options that would take on a broke college dropout still wrapping up her degree, thanks to a recommendation from my former Business and Financial Literacy professor.

Now, having left college, I'm still stuck here, part-time. Turns out, no one's eager to hire a dropout for office work without a clear reason on their resume. Believe me, I scoured every nook and cranny for full-time openings, from office gigs to working at a laundromat. Those were few and far between, and those few had stringent requirements.

Oh, and the pay? Laughable. What I make part-time here is almost on par with some full-time jobs elsewhere. That’s what happens when elected officials don’t set a decent minimum wage. So, I’m here until I sort myself out or this store goes belly-up.

The bell above the door chimes.

Leaving Bethesda at the register up front, I head to the supply closet for a duster and some lube.

The first thing customers remember about this place? "It's tiny." The second? "It's squeaky." Both are true. Comics line spinning shelves, rusting at their hinges and bearings. This place is the epitome of antique.

I get to work: cleaning, greasing bearings, dusting... you name it. There's the occasional comic to sort and shelve properly, but that's about it. Efficient as always, I grab a mop from the closet, ignoring by the customer Bethesda's chatting with.

Task done, I stretch out my back and tidy up.

Today it’s just me and the old lady. Other days, Julia or Thompson tag in. They’re Bethesda's grandkids, really the ones running the show—ordering the latest comics, managing the store's online presence, drumming up customers on social media. Oh, and I hate them.

Don’t get me wrong, Bethesda's a sweetheart, just enjoying her retirement. But those two? Annoying and entitled. They're the reason my shifts flip-flop, sometimes from mornings to evenings on a whim. Can't blame them entirely, though.

Despite their hustle, this place barely breaks even. In the age of Am*zon, local joints like this one are dying out. Most customers swing by not for buys, but to chat with Bethesda. The regulars? High schoolers and nerds with little money to spend on items like comics.

And with that, my day’s done. Time to swap with Bethesda so she can take a breather. 

“Bethesda, I’m done cleaning. You can go relax if you want to."

“Oh my, dear. Already? You’re getting quicker and quicker by the day!"

At that, I let out a laugh, hiding my emotions.

There isn’t much to clean when not much foot traffic has occurred since the last time I did. 

Honestly, though, I love these days alone with the old lady. Peaceful, quiet—I even get off early. Maybe not going full-time has its perks. Though I do wonder sometimes, what if she were to suddenly keel over? Julia and Thompson’d axe me without a blink. The fate of my job hanging on this frail lady… can't wait to clock out.

The rest of the day, I spend behind the register, waiting on any new customers. Spoiler alert: we don’t get any after the first one in the morning.

--

As I’m biking home, I remember my ramen stock running low. I go to the same convenience store I did, just yesterday, and buy two boxes, one more than last time. The person at the checkout gives me a look, recognizing me from just a day ago, but I give him a hard stare back. This makes him look away. 

I guess I’m learning from the ghost girl, haha. 

--

As I park my bike under the stairs, I look up at my room. The lights are on. Now, that means one of two things: There’s a burglar in my apartment, or a supernatural entity decided she needs a light source. To be safe, I walk up the stairs slowly, and put my ear up next to the door. 

I hear the sound of microwave buttons being pressed. 

Smiling at the image that popped up in my head, I unlock the door, being greeted by an expressionless-yet-flickering paranormal creature. I think this is going to become my new normal.