The apartment was too quiet.
Samuel hadn't written a word since the laptop typed on its own, and every hour since then seemed to lengthen. He left the machine shut, turned the screen to face the wall, but even then he caught himself glancing over his shoulder as if it might have crept open again.
The line lingered in his head: If you must… keep writing.
It didn't feel like permission. It felt like exhaustion, like something that wanted him gone but was too tired to argue.
By mid-afternoon, he couldn't focus on anything not food, not reading, not even the dull comfort of background TV. The thought circled him endlessly.
You're haunted.
The word sat heavy. He'd never believed in ghosts, not really, but what else fit? A voice in his phone, words appearing on his screen, a presence that wasn't supposed to be there.
It wasn't just imagination. He knew that much.
His mother would have said to pray. His father would have told him to tough it out. Clara would have teased him until she saw the look on his face then maybe believed him, maybe not.
But Samuel was alone in this. And alone, the options narrowed.
That's how he found himself on his couch with his laptop back open not writing, but searching.
The glow of the screen cast his living room in pale blue as he typed awkward phrases into the search bar.
"How to tell if your house is haunted."
"Can phones pick up ghost voices."
"Psychic medium near me."
He scrolled through articles that felt like cheap horror movie scripts: cold spots, flickering lights, objects moving on their own. Half of it sounded absurd, yet each line he read seemed to fit a little too closely.
When he reached the listings for local psychics and exorcists, he caught himself laughing. A dry, humorless sound. He didn't believe in any of this. Not yesterday. Not ever.
But today, belief was starting to feel like the least important part.
He lingered on one profile a woman with kind eyes, claiming thirty years of experience "helping spirits find peace." She looked ordinary enough, like someone's aunt. Ordinary felt safe.
Samuel almost dialed the number, thumb hovering over his phone. Almost.
Instead, he set it down and pressed his palms against his eyes.
What would he even say? Hi, I think my Word document is possessed?
The silence pressed closer. He thought he heard a faint scrape, like a chair leg shifting in another room. His chest tightened.
He told himself it was the neighbors. He told himself it was the pipes.
But the thought slipped through anyway:
What if calling for help only makes it worse?
Samuel sat there until the shadows lengthened, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring first.