Roommates

Another short short story, written over the weekend for a Writer's Digest contest (and this time I made the deadline!), the "prompt" being: "A character walks into the kitchen at the end of the day. He finds something on the kitchen table that is not supposed to be there." My big challenge is conciseness; I find it very hard to stay under 750 words! Still, I kind of like it.

"Roommates"

It was the end of a tiring day as he plodded into the house. He was hoping for a quiet evening; alas, he would have no such luck. Entering the kitchen, he immediately noticed that the surface of his round wooden kitchen table had been transformed into what appeared to be an infinitely deep portal; as he casually glanced down into it, he could see what was likely an infinity of stars casting their light from an eternity of space-time. He sighed in annoyance.

“Arthur!” he yelled. “I’m not in the mood right now!”

The portal started to close up iris-like.

“Arthur, where’s the folder that was on the table?”

With an audible foop! a manila folder popped up out of the closing portal like a slice of toast from an overly enthusiastic toaster. He grabbed it in mid-air and quickly made sure all his paperwork was there.

“Arthur, I don’t like this anymore than you do, but I have to sell the house. I’ve been transferred and as much as I’d like to stay, I can’t. The realtor is coming by shortly; please behave yourself.”

He saw tears oozing from the walls in the hallway—a common sight lately. He got out his spongemop, and couldn’t help but think that at least tears weren’t as messy as the blood. Still, he had to admit he’d miss Arthur, all things considered.


A short time later, the realtor arrived, and he led her into the kitchen. They sat at the table, the surface of which, he was glad to note, remained perfectly solid. They discussed the house, the neighborhood, the asking price, and all the improvements he had made in the five years he had lived there. She took notes, and seemed satisfied that it would be a quick sale.

“There’s one thing I should mention,” he added.

Her pen paused in mid-letter. She knew from experience that that was never a good thing to hear. She figured it involved either plumbing, electricity, or the roof.

“The house is, um, haunted,” he said.

The pen fell from her hand. She looked blankly at him. “Haunted.”

“Yes. By Arthur. He’s, uh, the ghost.”

“Arthur.” She wondered: was it too early to start drinking?

“I know this doesn’t seem like your typical haunted house. Usually they’re big, old Victorian mansions and not 25-year-old suburban raised ranches, but I guess people die in just about every house.” He smiled sheepishly.

She continued staring blankly at him.

“Arthur—the ghost—he was the brother of the previous owner. He had been visiting from out of town and was sleeping in a sofabed in— well, in the small bedroom just down the hall on the left.” He gestured toward it. Her eyes followed his hand, then snapped back to his face. “During the night, somehow, the sofabed broke a spring or something and closed rather forcefully, crushing him inside it. He’s been haunting the house ever since.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond. “A sofabed.”

“You should probably make a note of that,” he said, pointing to her notepad. “He’ll freak out if someone tries to move in a sofabed. Trust me.”

She was really hoping he wouldn’t elaborate.

“Other than that, he’s really quite a pleasant...well, roommate, I guess you’d say.”

“Roommate,” was all she could say.

“Oh, sure, there’s the occasional blood oozing out of the walls, odd disembodied laughing or moaning. Interdimensional portals appearing at random. But it’s not too bad.” He paused. “He used to rattle chains, but that was before he got the harmonica.”

“Okay, I think I have everything I need.” She was going to pretend this last conversation never took place. “I’ll keep a spare key in a lock box on the front door and I’ll keep you up-to-date.”

“Thank you,” he said.

As he saw her out, he began to feel bad. After all, he and Arthur had bonded in a way that most haunters and hauntees never did. The loud moaning didn’t help.


The realtor called him at work a few days later. “I have good news! A family has made an offer, which is only slightly under the asking price.”

“Did you mention...Arthur?”

“I didn’t even need to. He made himself perfectly apparent during the showing. But as it turned out, they have an eight-year-old boy who got along famously with Arthur. In fact, it was the ghost that had been what closed the deal.”

He sighed with relief, knowing that Arthur would well looked after.