Chapter 2
Enid sat cross-legged on her bed, a notebook balanced on her knee, and began her investigation.
At the top of the page, she scrawled in bold, capital letters:
IS WEDNESDAY A GHOST?
Underneath, she listed the clues, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her lip as each unsettling encounter replayed in her mind.
Clue #1 : No One Else Has Seen Hee Except Me
- Every time she tried to point out her mysterious roommate, the girl vanished without a trace.
- Yoko and everyone else at school claimed they had never seen the dark-haired girl.
- It felt as though she existed only when Enid was looking.
Conclusion: Ghosts are often bound to specific people. Maybe I’m the only one who can see her?
Clue #1 : No Signs of a Normal Life
- Not once had she seen her roommate eat. No snacks, no cafeteria trips, no leftovers in the mini-fridge.
- She drifted through campus like a shadow, never engaging, never truly there.
- No social media presence, no laptop, not even a phone. And when Enid mentioned them, her roommate’s blank expression suggested she didn’t even know what they were.
Conclusion: Of course, ghosts don’t need modern technology.
Clue #1 : The Typewriter
- Without fail, at 10:15 PM every night, she sat at the old desk, typing away with eerie precision.
- When pressed about what she was writing, the response was unsettlingly vague:
“Stories. Or maybe memories. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.” - She’s definitely writing about her death. DEFINITELY.
Conclusion: Ghosts linger because of unfinished business. What if the typewriter was the anchor binding her to this place?
Enid stared down at her scrawled notes, her knee bouncing anxiously.
Every single clue pointed to one inevitable conclusion—her roommate was dead.
And yet… she never acted like a traditional ghost. She didn’t float, didn’t haunt with cold spots or whispers. No flickering lights or eerie wails in the night. If anything, she was solid, sarcastic, and maddeningly smug about the way she twisted Enid’s mind into knots.
Which led to the most troubling question of all—
Why was she haunting her?
With a determined snap, Enid closed the notebook. There was only one way to get the truth.
She had to confront her directly.
That night, the rhythmic clacking of the typewriter filled the room like a ticking time bomb.
Enid took a deep breath, feeling her pulse quicken. This is it.
She sat up, watching those pale fingers glide over the keys. “Can I ask you something?”
The typing halted. Her roommate didn’t turn around, but her hands rested lightly on the typewriter. “You just did,” she replied smoothly.
Teeth gritted, Enid forced herself to continue. “You know what I mean.”
Slowly, the dark-haired girl turned, one eyebrow arched with quiet amusement. “Go on, then.”
The words felt heavy on Enid’s tongue, but she pushed them out. “Why are you here?”
For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of the heater. Her fingers hovered over the keys as if considering a response. Finally, she turned in her chair, a small, knowing smile curving her lips. “Where else would I be?”
Arms crossed, Enid pressed further. “I mean here—in this dorm, with me.”
The girl leaned back, draping an arm lazily over the chair. “Fate, probably.”
Enid’s frown deepened. “That’s not an answer.”
A smirk played on her lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Some higher authority didn’t leave me with much of a choice. That’s reason enough, isn’t it?”
A chill ran down Enid’s spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Take it how you want.”
Frustration flared. “You’re messing with me.”
The tilt of her head was both graceful and maddening. “Am I?” The light, teasing tone held an edge that made Enid’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
“This isn’t helping!” Enid’s voice rose, exasperation coloring every syllable.
Her roommate leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with me, Enid? It’s almost flattering.”
Heat flooded Enid’s cheeks, her retort caught in her throat. The smirk across from her only grew, thriving on her growing frustration.
“You’re impossible,” Enid muttered, flopping back onto her bed, glaring at the ceiling.
A soft chuckle followed, rich and almost melodic. “And you’re obsessed. But I don’t mind.” The rhythmic clack of the typewriter resumed, as if nothing had happened. “It’s endearing, in a way.”
Words failed her.
Because as much as she wanted to argue, to throw back another biting comment—she couldn’t.
Maybe, just maybe, she was right.
And that possibility—far more than the notion of living with a ghost—was the most terrifying realization of all.