Chapter 1
1416 Elm is a peeling butter-yellow. The columns, too big and too white, look stark against the fading paint. My hair—dyed bright blue two weeks ago—looks radioactive against the washed-out backdrop of the porch. I stand there gripping my suitcase and duffel, the cardboard box of art supplies cradled against my chest. The steps creak loud enough to tell the whole block I’m trespassing.
Every other house in this part of town is either freshly rehabbed or sagging. Elm Street is a timeline of gentrification, new windows and old ghosts, baby strollers and beer cans sharing the same curb.
I’m early. Not on purpose. My ride texted “10:15 or I leave your ass,” so here I am at 9:57 a.m., trying not to sweat through my thrift-store skirt. I linger on the porch, tracing the peeling gingerbread trim and the rot where termites have chewed the railings. These banisters have outlived their owners, watching the world change while they stayed put, stubborn and splintery. If I’m going to die in this town, this is a decent casket.
I ring the bell. A discordant shriek echoes through the floorboards.
Thirty seconds pass. The door yanks open to reveal Marissa, tall in designer workout clothes, hair pulled into a platinum ponytail tight enough to lift her eyebrows. She looks me over without stopping her phone scroll. Her lips purse. “You must be the new roommate.” The way she says ‘roommate’ makes it sound like a disease.
“Jenna,” I say, offering my hand. Paint stains coat my cuticles, a stripe of cadmium red I know will never come off.
She ignores the hand and steps aside. “You’re earlier than you said.” She leans against the wall, watching me struggle with my box.
“Traffic was light,” I say. “Your directions were thorough.”
“That’s me. Thorough.” She snaps her gum loudly. Her phone chimes, she grins, and goes back to her screen.
The foyer is polished hardwood, the banisters carved like dark, intricate vines. The windows on the landing are leaded glass diamonds. Every step I take, I feel the house waiting.
“Shoes off,” she says, without looking. “House rule. And no unsealed food in your room. This place is a rodent magnet.”
I toe off my boots. She looks pointedly at the smudge of dirt I leave behind, then sighs. “Whatever. C’mon. I’ll show you your room.”
She walks up the stairs, glancing back only to make sure I haven’t collapsed. At the top, she throws open a door. “You get the blue room.”
I step in. It’s painted an institutional blue, but sunlight through the window warms it. A wooden bed frame, mattress still in plastic, and a battered desk with a chair that looks salvaged from a school basement. I turn to thank her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.
I follow. The ceiling medallions are ornate plaster, and tiny lion’s head knockers sit on every bedroom door. I touch the banister. It’s cold, worn smooth by years of hands.
Marissa leads me through the kitchen quickly, rattling off rules. “If you use the oven, clean it. No loud music after eleven. Bathroom is shared, buy your own toilet paper.”
I try to ask a question. “How long have you lived—”
She cuts me off. “This isn’t an interview, Jenna. We just share a lease. The other housemates are out. Pizza at seven, but if you’re vegan, tough luck.”
The tour is over. She vanishes into her room and shuts the door with finality.
I stand in the kitchen, listening to the silence. The house feels bigger now. I wander back up to my room and unpack. The sound of my zipper echoes in the empty space. Note to self: decorate the walls.
I arrange my paints on the sill, line up my pencils. I try to imagine what this house looked like a century ago. I find initials carved into the window frame, faint under the whitewash: “E.J. 1924.” It’s comforting knowing I’m not the first ghost here.
I love old houses. I’m just one of many to occupy this space. But for now, the room is mine.
Unpacking feels like a statement. Every shirt I fold, every sketchbook wedged into the drawer, says I earned this. If Marissa thinks she can intimidate me, she hasn’t met the version of Jenna who slept behind a gas station on a cross-country bus ride.
I wedge my easel in front of the window, the sunlight hitting the floor in bright bands. Outside, a red SUV crawls past. Elm Street is beautiful in the late afternoon, the maples throwing orange shadows, staged for nostalgia.
I hear it then—Marissa’s music vibrating through the wall. It’s loud enough that the floor hums. She’s staking her territory. Message received. I crank up my own playlist.
After an hour, my room looks lived-in. I rip the plastic off the mattress and stuff it in the hall closet. The closet is deep, lit by a faint, yellowy bulb.
Marissa’s music stops, replaced by the sound of rapid typing. I imagine her sending angry texts. The thought makes me smile.
The sun dips, and the room softens. Shadows stretch and the air grows heavy with the scent of old wood. Maybe it’s the smell of a hundred years of roommates. Maybe it’s just the chemical tang of my hair dye.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling medallion. It’s chipping around the edges but still elegant. I imagine the house was built for someone who wanted to show off.
There’s a sudden chill. Goosebumps race up my arms. I shiver, even though it’s nearly eighty outside. It may be late September, but the heat is refusing to let go.
It’s not just cold. Something moves at the edge of my sight. A flicker of shadow near the closet. I sit up, breath sharp. My heart slams. I force myself to look, but there’s nothing, just the empty door and the bulb’s weak glow.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten. When I open them, the room is just a room.
But my hands are shaking.
I pull out my sketchbook and start to draw—blue hair and banister curls. The pencil scratches steady my pulse. If I focus on the page, maybe I won’t notice the temperature dropping, or the phantom footsteps in the hall.
My phone buzzes. “Pizza in kitchen. –M”
I roll my eyes. Thanks for the warning.
I tuck my sketchbook under my arm. The hallway is quiet, the house settling with snaps and creaks. Marissa’s voice floats up from the kitchen. “She’s fine, I guess. An art freak. But not dangerous.” She laughs, sharp and mean.
I go down, head high, and grab two slices. Marissa doesn’t look at me. I don’t look at her.
Back upstairs, the room feels colder. I wrap myself in the blanket and stare at my drawing.
Maybe tomorrow the house will like me better. Maybe it won’t. Either way, I’m staying.
Let Marissa haunt the place with her perfect hair and her rules. I’ll haunt it right back.
