summary: you move into what was once the trap house and encounter the ghost of a certain emo boy.
word count: 1,020
warning(s): vague discussion of colby's death, kinda sorta angsty
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Colby Brock didn't know a lot of things. And he was fine with that. He didn't care that he didn't know a lot, that he was never the smartest person in the room. He left that to his best friend, Sam Golbach. Or, at least, he used to leave it to Sam. He was no longer part of Sam's life. Not out of choice. He never would've left Sam willingly. But, life had a funny way of turning what you want on its head. It was supposed to be fun. It was never supposed to turn out as badly as it did. A trip gone so horribly wrong that they flew his body back to Kansas is a casket.
Sam quit social media after that. Colby didn't blame him. He probably would've done the same if the roles were reversed. What was the point in chasing your dream if you couldn't do it with your partner in (literal) crime? Sam didn't stick around LA for much longer, either. He tried to make it work, but there was something—someone—missing. He sold the house, moved back to Kansas, and lived a regular life.
Colby couldn't leave the Trap House, though. Something kept his spirit there, perhaps hoping that his friend would one day return. Sam never did.
One year, eight months, and fourteen days after his year, you bought the house. You, too, were a YouTuber, he discovered. You mostly did commentary videos, though you occasionally branched off into other content. You had a sizable following—there's no way you could afford a house like the Trap House if you didn't. Sometimes, when you recorded at night (the only time there wasn't a lot of traffic in the background), he floated around the filming room, your voice soothing him.
You probably never would've suspected your house was haunted if he hadn't done that. He'd watch over your shoulder as you'd scroll through comments, swearing they saw an orb or, in some cases, a figure of a man in your video. You brushed them off, at first, thinking it was dust or something, but even you began to wonder if your house was truly haunted.
But you didn't realize you were haunted until one evening when you were sat on Colby's balcony your balcony. You were in a cozy chair, wrapped up in a blanket, writing in your journal. Colby sat beside you, staring up the moon. Every once in a while, he would look over at you, your brows furrowed as you wrote your deepest secrets and insecurities. God, you looked so beautiful.
"I wish we could stay like this forever," he said.
Your head shot up and you looked around, your eyes wild. "Who the fuck said that?"
"Wait, you heard me?"
You were on your feet, wielding your journal as if it were a weapon. "Who the fuck is here?" When you got no answer, you repeated, "I said, who the fuck is there?"
"Um, my name's Colby," he tried.
"Well, Colby, get the fuck out of my house before I call the police!"
Panic rose inside of him. How does he diffuse the situation? If the neighbors heard the shouting, they might call the police. And then what? You couldn't arrest a ghost. And they'd think you were insane, try to lock you away. Or it would get out to your fans and your reputation would be ruined. He wouldn't wish that upon you. But, oh God, what should he do?
"I can't leave."
"Like hell you can't!"
"No, like, I really can't. I'm...I'm not exactly like you."
"The fuck do you mean?"
He hesitated. This conversation was going real south, real quick. Should he bother telling the truth? Would you even believe it? Nothing you had done in your time living at the Trap House had indicated that you were a believer. But, in the same vein, nothing you had done indicated that you were a skeptic.
Was this a gamble he was willing to take? Colby had grown quite fond of you. He didn't think he could stand it if you left him, too. He'd already had to deal with the heartbreak of Sam leaving, of Jake leaving, of Corey leaving. Of the Krac House never coming around anymore. Of the Trap Girls never coming around. Would he be able to handle it if you moved away? He didn't knew he could.
"I'm, uh, I'm a ghost."
Your jaw dropped. "Wait, are you the ghost who's been in my videos?"
"Guilty. Consider me a fan."
"You need to cut that shit out. You're scaring my fans."
He snorted. "Sorry, I'll try to be better."
"So, uh, why are you haunting my house?"
"Used to be my house," he explained. "But then I died—not here—and suddenly my spirit was trapped here."
"Damn, that sucks."
The two of you talked until the sun rose. You never saw what he looked like. Somehow, even though you were able to hear him, he couldn't make himself appear to you. But you didn't mind, joking that he was your imaginary friend.
You stayed in that house for thirty years. In that time, many came and gone—friends, partners, colleagues. But Colby was the only constant. Any time someone got too close, he was ashamed to admit, he would scare them away. He didn't want you to get hurt by anyone. He knew better than anyone that LA was full of snakes, and you didn't deserve the pain of letting someone know your darkest secrets and using them against you. You were his friend.
But even you left. You retired from the entertainment industry, moving far away where the cost of living wasn't nearly as astronomical. Another family took your place in the house. But they weren't you, and they weren't Sam.
And so he remained the sad, emo boy he was in his life. But, instead of choosing to not be seen, he had no choice in this matter, and perhaps that's what hurt the most of never being able to cross over to the other side.
