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"Charlie, you better not."
I snickered and turned on the flashlight. The father turned back, dread in his eyes.
"Oops," I responded, teleporting to the other side of the room. Emilie rolled her eyes and turned off the flashlight, sauntering over to where I stood.
"Ugh, I hate it when you mess with the tenants. It's so not cool," she complained, running a hand through her messy brown hair. It was all wavy and tangled, and it suited her. She was wearing a big, loose cardigan that looked 20 years out of style and navy blue dress that hung limply on her thin frame.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm just saying, when you're dead, it's awfully boring. I need some way to, like, enjoy death."
She rolled her eyes again, sighing overdramatically.
"You're so annoying," she grunted.
"Show yourself!" the balding, middle-aged man commanded. The younger child who was maybe 9 years old clung to her father's side. The teenage boy looked around warily, his arms around his mother's shoulders in a protective sort of way.
"Just look at them! They're absolutely terrified! Just leave them be," Emilie demanded, crossing her arms. I pondered this for a moment.
"I'm gonna slam the doors a little bit," I decided, teleporting up the stairs to the second floor, where the twin of the teenage boy sat on his bed, curled up under the covers. He was superstitious, and it was always the funnest thing to mess with them.
Oh, if only he knew.
The door was cracked open just a little bit, and so I pushed on it gently. Make him think it was just the wind.
He glanced over at the door and raised an eyebrow, then turned back to his book after a moment. I chuckled, knowing how this next bit would go.
I slammed the door shut as hard as I could, and it closed with a satisfying boom. The boy nearly fell off his bed, it startled him so much.
"Dude! What's wrong with you!" Emilie yelled, teleporting up to me and slapping me across the face.
"Hey, what the hell, man!" I yelled back at her. She stomped off, opening the door and slamming it again. The boy on the bed screamed. I made a face and flicked him on the forehead, which only made him scream more.
"DYLAN!" the mother yelped from the bottom of the stairs. I teleported to her and followed her up. I swear, I've never seen a 40-something-year-old-woman go up a flight of stairs faster.
That family moved out one week later.
"Good job, idiot," Emilie said, lighting a candle with a swift motion of her hand. "Now who's gonna move in?"
