Rody moved into the house on a Saturday. The weather was oppressively hot for September, and the sun beat down on him as he hauled the last box from the moving truck to the front door. The house was nothing special, just a modest two-story in the suburbs. The previous owner had sold it cheaply, too eager to get rid of it, and Rody-strapped for cash but eager to leave behind the cheap apartment he'd been stuck in for years-had jumped at the chance.
By nightfall, the house was still filled with the scent of dust and old wood. The furniture hadn't been unpacked, so Rody sat on the floor, eating takeout by the dim light of a single lamp, feeling the empty space press in on him. It was a quiet house, too quiet for a man who'd spent most of his life surrounded by city noise.
He tossed the empty food container aside and grabbed his phone, staring at the blank screen. No texts. No calls. No messages from her. He set the phone down with a huff and leaned back against the wall. The silence, the empty house, the isolation-none of it felt right.
But it wasn't just the loneliness. Something in the air felt *off*.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It was the sort of unease that crept under the skin, deep and slow, like an itch that couldn't be scratched. The light flickered slightly, and for a moment, Rody swore he saw something move in the corner of the room. A shadow. A figure?
No. He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. It had been a long day, and he was overtired. His mind was playing tricks on him.
He brushed off the feeling and decided to call it a night. Leaving the boxes for tomorrow, he climbed the stairs and made his way to the bedroom. The mattress was already laid out on the floor, sheets tossed messily over it. He threw himself down, the familiar ache of exhaustion spreading through his limbs.
Just as he closed his eyes, something shifted in the corner of the room.
Rody's eyes shot open, his breath catching in his throat. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadows, just barely distinguishable from the dark.
"Hey," came a voice-dry, humorless, and completely unfazed. "Do you remember me?"
Rody scrambled upright, his heart hammering in his chest. The figure didn't move. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the outline of a man, tall and lean, standing unnervingly still. The light from the streetlamp outside the window cut across the figure's face, revealing burnt skin, like melted wax. Half of his face was twisted in a grotesque pattern of scars, red and shiny like old burns that never healed.
"Jesus!" Rody gasped, instinctively backing up against the wall. "Who the hell are you?"
The man cocked his head slightly, a faint smile pulling at the unburned side of his lips. "You really don't remember?"
Rody shook his head, too stunned to speak.
The man-no, the *spirit*-sighed, running a hand through his hair as though this was all an inconvenience for him. "It's Vincent. Vincent Charbonneau. You know, the guy you *murdered* a couple of decades ago."
Rody froze, his mind reeling. Murdered? The name didn't ring a bell, but the accusation did. "I-I think you've got the wrong guy," Rody stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I didn't kill anyone."
Vincent let out a soft chuckle, leaning against the wall, his burnt face distorted into a mockery of calm amusement. "Yeah, you did. You were... *obsessed* with me, remember? It's all pretty blurry, but I think it went something like... you thought I was cheating on you? And so you... well-" He tapped the side of his burnt face. "You decided to shove my head into a stove."
The blood drained from Rody's face. He felt sick to his stomach, bile rising in his throat. He didn't remember any of this. Didn't remember *him*. But the way Vincent spoke, casually recounting the horror, with no malice, no hatred-it made the whole thing even worse.
