Ghost in the Closet

My New Stalker

Grinning like a psycho, Saihara smeared blood across his forehead with his sleeve. He yanked his blade from the corpse before him, their eyeball flinging across the home. The body rattled, a gaping hole in their throat oozing with blood threatening to congeal.

Planting a theatric pout on his lips, Saihara bent over and grabbed the corpse's chin with a hand gloved with black plastic. "Poor thing," he cooed. "You suffered for hours! That must have been so very hard." His pout morphed into a sneer, grey-gold eyes darkening with a hundred shades of disgust. "Just like your last kidnap victims."

Chucking the body onto the hard, linoleum flooring, Saihara stretched his arms into the air and groaned in relief as his shoulders popped. Removing his gloves, the man pulled some baby wipes from his backpack and wiped his face clean. He removed his plastic apron, balling it up and chucking the used gloves and wipes into the bundle. Shoving all of the bloody evidence into a plastic bag, he buried it inside his backpack used for work.

Approaching the window in which he arrived, Saihara turned to appreciate the naked corpse one last time. Tape wrapped around their jaw, restricting their speech and ability to call for help. God, they were a loud one. Saihara hated those. Their limbs were hogtied, throat slit and eyeballs stabbed. He shredded their abdomen, laughing as they bled to death agonisingly slow and painfully. Of course, as always with his victims, he carved the letter T into the body.

Lifting his hood to conceal himself, Saihara slipped the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and launched through the window, careful not to leave fingerprints. Why would he? Professionals know their craft well enough not to make ridiculous neophytic mistakes. Walking along the street, Saihara shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. If anyone saw him, they'd assume he was a regular twenty-year-old returning home from a late-night party, just as long as he acted casual and innocent. To make use of his free time, he pulled a notepad from his jeans pocket.

At work earlier in the day, Saihara decided to do some research into the name Ouma Kokichi. After he, Amami and Akamatsu talked to the ghost, he disappeared and Saihara hadn't seen or heard a peep for days. The lack of existence wasn't too odd as it occurred almost instantly when Saihara inquired about his death. His friends warned him of the sensitive topic but it was too late and Ouma already vanished. What was the big deal? Ouma knew he was dead!

From what the detective knew, Ouma was twenty-seven years old when he was reported missing ten years ago. After countless searches and interrogations, the agency concluded that Ouma was as good as dead since they had no leads after a year. He was last sighted leaving his waiting job at 2:43 pm, walking off camera on his usual route. Not a trace has ever been found and no one came forward with information.

A soft tap on Saihara's shoulder made him jump and whip around, flinging the notepad like a mother with a sandal. He didn't come into contact with anything or anyone, leaving the bluenette confused. "Remember me?" Saihara barely heard the whisper, only just able to comprehend the words. Maybe it was only in his head and he needed sleep.

Continuing his walk, Saihara kept his eyes peeled for a possible stalker. "Don't ignore me, Saihara!~" Glancing around at the mention of his name, he slowly came to a stop when a flash caught his eye. He stared at the tree, noticing a familiar mess of purple ombre hair peeking out from behind the trunk.

"Ouma?" The detective questioned.

The man - well, ghost - in question jumped out from his hiding spot and headed to his new roommate. He positioned both hands behind his head with a cheeky grin. "Didn't expect to see me, did ya?"

"Uh, no," the bluenette admitted. They continued to stare at each other in the midnight silence, discomfort growing with each passing second.

Ouma broke the silence by rolling his eyes and groaning. "Are we going home now? It's one in the morning!" He cried, having no care for the sleeping neighbourhood.