The Lucky Ghost House

I shelled out $25,000 for a house with a past. On my first night there, the

kitBaker light flickered on by itself. Under its glow, an old woman sat at the

dining table. She smiled at me. Sweetie, why are you so thin? she asked.

Later, I learned she was the previous owner. And she had been dead for three

years.

1.

Sis, three rooms, one living room, twenty-five thousand dollars.

Interested?

The real estate agent, a young guy, chased me out as I was sitting on the steps

outside, nibbling on a bagel. Id been house-hunting for two weeks, and couldnt

afford anything. With twenty-eight thousand dollars in hand, I couldnt even buy

a bathroom in this city.

Twenty-five thousand? For three rooms and a living room?

Yeah. Its just a bit special.

Special how?

The agent rubbed his hands together, lowering his voice. Someone died in this

house.

The house was on the sixth floor of an old apartment building, no elevator. I

followed the agent up, panting by the time I reached the door. It was an

old-fashioned security door, the lock a bit rusty. Pushing it open, the inside

was surprisingly clean.

Three rooms, one living room, south-facing, with excellent natural light. The

living room was spacious, the kitBaker had a window, and the bathroom was split

into wet and dry areas. This kind of setup would normally go for over a quarter

million.

The previous owner was an old lady, Mrs. Bridgeforth, seventy-eight years old.

The agent stood at the doorway, hesitant to enter. She passed away in the

house. Her neighbors found her three days later.

How did she die?

Natural causes, no foul play. Its just she lived alone. No one was with her

when she passed.

I walked around the living room. The floors were spotless. On the kitBaker

counter, there was an enamel mug, emblazoned with Serve the People.

No one bought it before?

A house flipper bought it, lived there for three days, broke his leg, then

resold it at a loss.

The agent looked at me, his expression asking, Do you still want it?

I thought for three seconds. Can you go any lower?

On the day of the transfer, the notary public staff looked at me three times.

They probably figured a twenty-four-year-old girl buying a death house was

either foolish or desperately broke. They were right on both counts.

On moving day, my entire belongings consisted of two suitcases and a cardboard

box. The suitcases held clothes, the box held books and an old laptop. No

furniture, no appliances.

The living room was empty. I propped the suitcases against the wall and laid a

yoga mat on the floor to serve as a bed. Lying down, I noticed a crack on the

ceiling, winding like a crooked river.

Joanna, youre really something. I told myself. Twenty-four years old, living

in a haunted house, sleeping on the floor.

But at least it was my own place. Three rooms and a living room, with my name on

the title. I closed my eyes and quickly drifted off to sleep.

At two in the morning, I was woken by a noise. It came from the kitBaker.

Clanking and rattling, like someone rummaging through things. My heart rate

instantly rocketed to 150.

Didnt they say someone died here? Could there really be No, I dont believe in

that. It must be a mouse. I fumbled for the slipper beside me and tiptoed

towards the kitBaker.

The kitBaker light was on. I definitely hadnt turned it on. Taking a deep

breath, I pushed open the kitBaker door.

An old woman sat at the small kitBaker table. Her hair was white, neatly combed,

and she wore a floral cotton blouse. In front of her sat the Serve the People

enamel mug. She was holding the cup, sipping tea. Seeing me enter, she looked

up.

Sweetie, why are you so thin?

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

There are pork ribs in the fridge. Ill teach you how to stew them.

She said, reaching for the teacup. Her hand passed right through the cup.

2.

I shrieked, and my slipper flew, hitting the wall with a thud. The old woman

glanced at the slipper, then at me.

Whats all the screaming about in the middle of the night?

I turned and ran. I dashed into the bedroom, locked the door, and leaned against

it, panting. My heart pounded as if it would explode.

The old womans voice came from outside the door. Sweetie, why are you running?

I dont bite.

You youre a ghost!

So what if Im a ghost? Cant a ghost talk to you?

I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths. Okay. Calm down. Im an adult. I bought a

house where someone died. Now the previous owner of that house has appeared.

This is perfectly logical.

No, this is not logical at all.

Sweetie, open the door. I want to tell you something.

No!

I can get in even if you dont open the door. Im a ghost.

I froze for a moment. The door hadnt opened, but the old woman was already

standing in front of me. Shed passed right through the door.

I screamed again.

Alright, alright, stop screaming. The neighbors will call the police.

The old woman sat down on the floor opposite me, cross-legged, looking more at

ease than I did. My name is Susan Bridgeforth. This house used to be mine. I lived

here for forty years, and I died here too. She said it calmly, as if discussing

the weather.

Why why are you still here?

Cant leave. Im tied to this house.

Tied? Who tied you?

Who knows? Maybe the Grim Reaper forgot to collect me, or maybe I just dont

want to leave. She looked around. I cleaned this house for forty years. I

cant bear to leave it.

I stared at her, slowly calming down. She really didnt look like a ghost from a

horror movie. No disheveled hair, no bloody face, no crawling. Just an ordinary

old lady, wearing a floral blouse, speaking with a slight accent.

Youre not going to harm me?

Harm you? Why? You havent wronged me. She looked me up and down. Besides,

you have a kind heart. That house flipper last time, the moment he walked in, he

was already calculating how to raise the price. I made him take a tumble.

That was you?!

Served him right. My house isnt for him to flip.

The next morning, I went to work with dark circles under my eyes. I hadnt slept

well all night, Mrs. Bridgeforths face swirling in my mind. Before leaving, she had

written a line on the bathroom mirror. I saw it while brushing my teeth and

almost swallowed my toothbrush.

The mirror read: Take Maple Street, not Willow Avenue.

I hesitated for a moment but decided to listen to her. I took a five-minute

detour, walking down Maple Street. When I got to the office, I found outWillow

Avenue had a burst water pipe that morning, causing a two-hour traffic jam. Half

the company was late. And I arrived ten minutes early. Just in time for the

bosss impromptu roll call.

The boss scanned the room. Only I and two other people were there. Joanna, good

job, punctual. I smiled, wondering to myself: Was that a coincidence?

After work, I came home to find Mrs. Bridgeforth sitting in the living room watching

TV. Yes, she could turn on the TV. Although her hands passed through solid

objects, she could control electrical switches.

Grandma, how did you know Willow Avenue would be jammed today?

I didnt know. But that streets pipes havent been replaced in thirty years.

It was bound to burst.

Youve lived here for forty years and you know the age of the pipes?

Im telling you, theres nothing in this building I dont know. She changed

the channel to a business news program. Oh, there are pork ribs in the fridge.

Ill teach you how to stew them tomorrow.

Youll teach me?

Ill write the steps on the mirror; you just follow them.

I glanced towards the bathroom. You can cook?

I cooked for forty years when I was alive. I havent forgotten, even after I

died. I just cant do it myself anymore.

The next evening, following the recipe on the mirror, I stewed a pot of pork rib

soup. Mrs. Bridgeforth directed from the side.

Not enough salt.

Too high heat.

When blanching, always put it in cold water. How many times have I told you?

I fumbled for over an hour. Sitting at the table with my bowl, I took a sip. It

was so savory it almost made me cry. Not because it tasted good. It was because,

in the two years Id been in this city, it was the first time anyone had taught

me how to cook.

3.

The good times didnt last long. The company started layoffs.

Last-in, first-out. Based on hire date.

The supervisors cold voice announced in the group chat. I was the last to be

hired. I was definitely the first to be laid off.

That evening, I collapsed on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. Mrs. Bridgeforth

floated over, glancing at me. Whats wrong? Why so glum?

Im getting laid off.

Theyre laying you off? Why?

Because I was the last one in.

Mrs. Bridgeforth scoffed. Then find another job. This crummy company isnt worth

staying at.

Easy for you to say. Jobs arent that easy to find.

Just you wait. She floated away.

In the middle of the night, I was woken by my phone vibrating. I picked it up.

The screen had automatically lit up, opening a job hunting website. Three

positions on the page were marked with asterisks.

One was a copywriter for an internet company, salary $8,000 per month. One was a

content manager for a new media company, salary 0-00,000 per month. One was a

creative director assistant for a brand company, salary $7,000 per month.

My current salary was $3,000.

Grandma, did you do this?

No one answered from the living room. But the TV turned on automatically,

displaying a line of text: Apply for all three, dont be picky.

I applied.

Three days later, all three companies sent interview invitations. I sat on my

bed, staring at my phone, a little stunned. When it came to sending out resumes,

getting one response out of ten was considered lucky. Three for three?

The night before the interviews, I tried on clothes in front of the mirror.

White blouse? Too plain. Black suit? Too serious. Gray knit? Too casual.

Slowly, a line of text appeared on the mirror: Wear the blue one. The

interviewer has an affinity for water.

Grandma, you know about elemental affinities?

Another line appeared on the mirror: I dont. But blue makes you look radiant,

and it suits you.

I smiled.

On interview day, I wore the blue blouse. The interviewer was a woman in her

forties, wearing silver earrings, with a cup of herbal tea on her desk. She

glanced at me and smiled. Blue blouse, very fresh. I love blue.

The interview lasted forty minutes. She asked me about projects Id worked on; I

answered truthfully. She asked for my views on the industry; I shared my

thoughts. She asked about my salary expectations; I said $8,000. She nodded.

Alright. Start next Monday.

Just like that? I walked out of the company building, standing in the sunshine,

feeling it was all a bit surreal. Three days ago, I was worried about being laid

off. Now my salary had tripled.

Back home, Mrs. Bridgeforth was sitting in the living room, the TV on, playing a dating

show.

Howd it go?

I got it. Eight thousand.

Only eight thousand?

Grandma, I was only making three thousand before.

Three thousand and you call that a salary? She shook her head, a look of

disdain on her face. Im telling you, youre worth fourteen thousand.

I smiled and sat down, a warmth spreading through me. This ghost of an old lady,

she was more protective than my own mother.

First day at the new company, I arrived half an hour early. The receptionist

processed my ID badge and led me to my workstation. I set down my bag, ready to

turn on my computer. The chair at the cubicle next to me swiveled around.

Someone was sitting there.

Mark Baker.

My ex-boyfriend.

He saw me, froze for a second, then smiled. Joanna? Youre here too?

My smile froze on my face. This luck, was it too much of a good thing?

4.

Mark Baker. We dated for a year, broke up three months ago.

Reason for breakup: He thought I was poor. His exact words were, Our spending

habits are different. Translated into plain English: You cant afford the

restaurants I want to go to, cant wear clothes I consider presentable, and

dont fit into my social circle.

Now he sat in the cubicle next to me, smiling as if nothing had ever happened.

What a coincidence, I never expected to run into you here.

Yeah, quite a coincidence. I opened my laptop, expressionless.

Lunch together? Catch up?

No, I have plans for lunch.

Then dinner?

Dinner too.

You have plans every day?

Yes.

He smiled, saying nothing more. But I knew he wouldnt give up. Mark was the

kind of person who got more persistent the more you rejected him.

That evening, I got home and told Mrs. Bridgeforth about it. She was watching TV. After

hearing me out, the remote control slipped from her hand and hit the floor with

a clatter.

What did you say? Your ex-boyfriend?

Yes, hes sitting right next to me.

Broke up with you because you were poor?

Yes.

Now that youve joined a good company, hes trying to latch on again?

Pretty much.

Mrs. Bridgeforths expression changed. It wasnt anger; it was a cold, knowing smirk

that said, Ive seen his type a million times.

Dont go near him.

I know, I didnt agree to anything.

Im not talking about dinner. Im saying, dont have any contact with a man

like that. She floated to the bathroom mirror and began to write.

She filled the entire surface. I followed to read. The mirror read:

Ive seen many men like him. My ex-husband was the same way. Hes not coming

back because youre more valuable now. Not because youre worthy. Its because

he hasnt found anyone better. Youre just his backup option.

I looked at the words, my nose stinging a little. Grandma, you went through

something like this too?

The words on the mirror stopped. Mrs. Bridgeforth was silent for a moment. Well talk

about that later.

The next day, Mark came again. This time, he simply bought two coffees, placing

one on my desk. Americano, your favorite.

I used to drink Americanos because they were cheap, not because I loved them.

But I didnt say that.

Thanks, but no thanks.

Dont be such a stranger, were colleagues now. He leaned beside my cubicle,

lowering his voice. Joanna, Ive always wanted to tell you, breaking up was my

mistake. Ive thought about it a lot, and I think were still a great fit.

I looked at him. His expression was very sincere. If it had been three months

ago, I might have softened. But not now. Mark, were not a good fit.

Just think about it

No need to think.

His expression stiffened for a moment, but he quickly regained his smile.

Alright, then Ill wait for you to come around. He left.

I picked up the coffee and tossed it into the trash.

On the third day, Mark started waiting for me by the company entrance. When it

was time to leave, he stood by the main door, holding a bouquet of flowers.

Joanna

I was about to take a detour when my phone suddenly vibrated. A private message

notification popped up from TikTok. Not my accountit was Marks. He had used my

phone to scroll TikTok before, logged into his account, and had forgotten to log

out. I had also forgotten to log out.

The private message was from a girl, with a heart emoji: Honey, where are we

going this weekend?

I tapped it open and scrolled up. The screen was full of messages.

Whatever you say, Ill listen to you~

How about that hot spring resort we went to last time?

Oh, yes, yes, I miss you

The date was last week. I stared at the screen for three seconds. I looked up,

at Mark and the flowers in his hand.

I smiled.

Mark, who did you go to the hot spring resort with last week?

His smile froze.

What?

I turned the phone screen towards him, letting him see. His face went paler by

the second.

This this is

Your chat history.

I pulled my phone back and walked past him. The flowers are nice. Give them to

your honey.

Ten steps away, I heard the sound of the bouquet hitting the ground behind me.

So satisfying. Truly so satisfying.

Back home, Mrs. Bridgeforth was in the living room, watching the news.

All sorted?

All sorted.

Dont ever bother with people like him again.

Got it.

I sat down, hesitating slightly. Grandma, you said your ex-husband was like

that did you go through something similar?

Mrs. Bridgeforth watched the TV, not turning around. A long silence. Yes. I married

an unreliable man when I was young, and later we divorced.

I paused.

5.

I wanted to press for more details, but Mrs. Bridgeforth floated back to her room

and closed the door. A ghost closing a door. I knocked for a long time, but she

ignored me.