Chapter Text
She doesn’t expect much, which is convenient, because the universe has never been generous with her. If anything, it’s almost poetic -- after a lifetime of chasing, grasping, fighting tooth and nail for every inch of space she’s ever occupied, she’s ended up here. In a pastel pink apartment, alone, and exhausted in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.
The real estate agent had been discrete, which is never a good sign. A month-to-month lease, no explanation. The owners had been flexible about the paperwork, though flexible had really meant hesitant, careful, avoiding too many details. It was available, and they wanted it filled, and that was all she’d been told.
Now it’s hers.
It’s big. That’s the first thing she notices. The ceilings are high, the windows stretch wide, and there’s a dizzying openness to it all. The furniture is delicate, soft, pristine in a way that suggests someone once cared very much about it, though it lacks the presence of a home. Everything is bright, cheerful, and utterly foreign to her.
--
She doesn’t know how long she stands there before she moves. The rooftop had been the only thing about this place that had interested her when the agent showed her around. It’s big, it’s open and it’s quiet. She’d only seen it briefly then, but now, alone, she takes her time.
The stairs creak under her weight as she steps outside. The rooftop is exactly as she remembers; spacious, with a few planters scattered around, full of dead and dying things.
There’s a bucket near the entrance, and when she nudges it with the toe of her boot, it sloshes. Rainwater.
She picks up the bucket and kneels by the nearest planter; cupping her hands, she scoops the water and lets it trickle down into the dry, cracked soil.
--
There is something fundamentally wrong with her. A neurological failure. A poisoning. A madness.
Mentally, she catalogs every single thing she’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours.
Breakfast: plain toast. No butter, no jam, because she was in a rush. Not suspicious.
Lunch: an apple, slightly mealy. Possible pesticide exposure, but unlikely. A little soft, but nothing catastrophic. Unless the soft spot was mold, and the mold was laced with some kind of rare neurotoxin. But then wouldn’t she be dead by now? Maybe it’s a slow-acting neurotoxin. Is that a genuine possibility?
Dinner: lentil soup, which she made herself, so she knows exactly what went into it. Onions, carrots, lentils, broth. She did, however, reheat it twice. Could there have been bacterial growth? Is there a kind of bacteria that causes… this?
Elphaba is not paranoid. She is rational. She has always believed in science and observable phenomena. But she is observing this. She is measuring it. And reality is failing to behave as it should. Which means she has two options here: either there is a logical explanation for what is happening, or she is actively losing her mind.
She takes a breath. Starts a new list.
Possibility #1: A gas leak. That would explain the dizziness and the creeping nausea. But she already smelled for gas. Nothing. And she’s not lightheaded. Not really. Or is she?
Possibility #2: Carbon monoxide poisoning. She needs a detector. She should’ve bought a detector. She’s an idiot. But -- well. Wouldn’t that just make her drowsy? She’s not drowsy. She’s hyper-aware. Her nerves are on high alert.
Possibility #3: A brain tumor. The kind that messes with perception. The kind that makes you hear things. The kind that makes you not hear things.
She presses her fingers to her temple, then her forehead, then the side of her head, as if she can manually locate the problem. Is this what an aneurysm feels like? Perhaps she’s developed some rare form of hallucinatory disorder. Perhaps her neurons are misfiring at random.
Possibility #4: An intruder. Or, as they say, a phrogger. Now, this is where things become more concerning. Could someone be living in her apartment without her knowledge? It happens. She has read the articles. A man lived in a woman’s attic for months without her noticing. A student discovered a stranger sleeping in their closet. These are documented cases. Elphaba doesn’t have an attic, but she does have a very open rooftop. Could someone be hiding up there?
This possibility sits uncomfortably at the back of her mind for days. The truth of the matter is this: she has been hearing footsteps that come and go for days now, at any and all hours -- and they are never predictable, and never continue for long enough for her to confirm what they might be. Thus, the paranoia.
And then, comes The Night: she hears the footsteps again, without interruption. This time, they continue, though very softly, all around her apartment.
And that is it. It is her chance.
She is ready. She has a plan. The cast-iron pan she has been keeping beside her bed is heavy in her grip as she slides out from under the covers, silent as a shadow. If there is an intruder in her home, she will drag them out into the street and deliver them to the police personally.
She creeps toward the source of the noise, which appears to be the kitchen. Her heartbeat is a drumroll in her ears.
A shape moves in the faint light of the apartment.
Elphaba flicks the switch. A woman stands in her kitchen. A blonde woman. In a fancy pink dress, no less; and fussing with the kettle, no, her kettle -- looking very put-out about its lack of cooperation.
They lock eyes.
They both scream.
Elphaba swings the pan.
The woman flinches, hands raised --
And the pan goes straight through her and crashes into the fridge.
Straight. Through. Her.
Elphaba yells. The woman yells back.
Elphaba stumbles backward into the hallway. The pan clatters to the floor. The woman grips her head like she’s about to faint.
The woman then proceeds to clutch at her chest, eyes wide. “Oh god!”
Elphaba blinks rapidly, trying to slow her own breathing. “What -- who -- why are you in my kitchen? You’re a phrogger! Leave!”
The woman recovers fast, lifting her chin with an air of affront. “Your kitchen? This is my apartment!”
“Your --” Elphaba drags a hand down her face. “Right. No. No, I don’t have the patience for this. Who are you?”
The woman straightens her shoulders. “I might ask you the same thing! You break into my apartment, dress in --” she waves a hand at Elphaba with a flick of her manicured fingers, her expression souring, “-- that, and expect me to answer your questions?”
Elphaba follows the trajectory of her disdainful gaze down to her stretched out boxers and tank top that might have been white once but is now decidedly not, which -- okay, yes, not her finest hour, but she was woken up in a panic and wasn’t exactly thinking about wardrobe choices when she bolted out of bed, convinced there was an intruder/snooper/peeper in her home.
(Which, technically, there is. Probably. Maybe. She hasn’t ruled out hallucination yet.)
But that’s beside the point. Because Elphaba does not take fashion criticism from strangers, least of all ones who appear in her apartment uninvited.
“I didn’t break in!” She barks out. “I live here!”
The woman lets out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come off it. You -- oh. Oh, I see.” Her expression shifts, a look of understanding softening her features. “You’re homeless.”
Elphaba reels back. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman continues, shaking her head. “You must have wandered in thinking the apartment was empty. And I do wish I could help, but you can’t stay here. I’d simply love to be charitable, really, but --”
“I am not homeless!”
“My, you don’t have to be embarrassed --”
“I rented this apartment!”
“I rented this apartment!”
Elphaba groans. “It’s probably a rent scam,” she concludes.
“A what?”
“A rent scam -- happens all the time -- somebody ‘rents’ the same apartment to ten different people, takes their deposit, hands them a key, and disappears.”
The woman scoffs. “And the scam artists moved in all of my things?”
Elphaba opens her mouth, then narrows her eyes. “These are your things?”
“Yes. Look -- this drawer sticks,” the woman informs her, marching over to the fridge and gesturing grandly to the drawer above it. “You have to wiggle it, like this.” She makes an agitated motion, her hands hovering over the handle.
Elphaba squints. “What are you doing?”
The woman blinks, then tilts her head. “Oh, I -- uh, I’m demonstrating it. I’m wiggling it in the air. Just…open it and I’ll show you.”
Elphaba looks vexed but she tugs the drawer open. It catches, then jerks forward with a jarring clunk.
“See?” She nods triumphantly. “Now wiggle it.”
Elphaba does.
“More.”
Elphaba scowls but complies.
“Now close it and do it again. But faster.”
“Are you trying to train me like some kind of kitchen monkey?”
The woman puts up a hand. “No, no, just -- oh, nevermind. You get it.” She spins away onto her next point. “The coffeemaker,” she says, pointing at it. “It only works if you press the same button twice. Once to turn it on, once to start brewing. It took me months to figure that out.”
Elphaba eyes her. “That is the most normal quirk a coffeemaker can have.”
“It was maddening,” the woman continues, undeterred. “Go ahead. Press it.”
“I already know how it works, lady. Again, I live here.”
“-- That is also my toaster. This --” she slaps the countertop, “-- is my entire kitchen.”
“Yes, well, my entire kitchen came with the apartment when I moved in.”
She ignores her, already pivoting toward the fridge. “I bet “you” don’t keep the milk in the door,” she announces, raising a proud finger.
“Oh?” Elphaba says dryly. “Why’s that?”
“Because it goes bad faster,” the woman recites. She reaches for the fridge handle but stops short, her hand hovering an inch away. “Go ahead, open it.”
Elphaba’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you have a condition?”
“What? No! I just -- I just don’t like touching cold things,” she says hastily. “It’s unpleasant.” Elphaba looks unconvinced, but obliges yet again, pulling the fridge open.
The strange woman beams, pointing inside. “There! That is my milk! Those are my strawberries! That is my leftover pasta!” It is not. It’s all Elphaba’s, but the woman wheels around, looking pleased with herself. “Would I keep my leftovers in your apartment?”
Elphaba looks much less pleased. She slowly nods, very carefully, locking eyes with her. “If you were a phrogger? Yes. Yes, you absolutely would.” The woman rolls her eyes, shaking her head disapprovingly, and Elphaba isn’t certain if she should laugh or not. “What’s in the takeout container, then?”
The woman visibly panics. “Uh.” She turns back to the fridge, then hesitates. “Well, I it’s… uh…” She clears her throat, no doubt uncertain, then suddenly brightens. “Chicken parmesan.”
Elphaba opens the container. It’s lasagna.
She turns it around so the woman can see.
Her face looks strained, her lips parting a little as she processes the situation. Then, after a considerable moment, she lifts her chin and sniffs. “Well,” she says primly, “I was going to say lasagna next.”
Elphaba closes her eyes. This is actually happening. She is actually arguing with a psychotic criminal in her kitchen at -- she glances at the clock -- 2:57 in the morning.
“This is unbearable,” she mutters to herself, slamming the fridge shut.
“You know what’s unbearable?” The woman starts, planting her hands on her hips. “You! You, acting like I’m the problem, when you’re the one who tried to bash my head in with a pan! That is deranged behavior!” A dainty finger points to the floor, where the pan Elphaba had, admittedly, thrown earlier still sits. It had gone right through her, which is a separate problem Elphaba will deal with later, preferably after sleep and possibly a psychiatric evaluation.
“That was self-defense,” Elphaba informs her.
“Oh, self-defense --”
“I thought you were an intruder!”
“You’re the intruder!”
“This is my apartment!”
“It is not your apartment!” The woman throws up her hands. “Everything in this place is mine! The kitchen, the furniture -- it’s all pink, are you blind? --”
Elphaba scoffs. “You don’t even know what’s in your own fridge.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman snaps. “Were you recently startled by a raving lunatic trying to kill you? Maybe I’m just a little frazzled from being attacked in my own home!”
Elphaba groans and spins away, pacing in a tight circle. “I can’t do this. I cannot do this. I’m arguing with a peeper in my own home.”
“It is not your home!”
Elphaba rounds on her. “Then why do I have a key?”
“I don’t know! But I suggest you get out before I call the police!”
Elphaba lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “The police?”
“Yes, the police!” The woman snaps. “You know, the people who exist to deal with criminals like you!”
“I’m the criminal?” Elphaba’s own voice rises. “You broke into my house!”
“It’s not your house!” The woman shrieks, storming toward the living room. “I’m calling them right now!”
Elphaba drags her hands through her braids. “Fine,” she says, “Fine. You know what? I don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Call whoever, do whatever --”
“-- Good --”
“-- I’m going to sleep, make sure to wake me up when they’re here so I can see them dragging you out of this godforsaken place --” Elphaba turns on her heel and heads for the bedroom, feeling the woman’s glare burning into her back the entire way out.
And then, there’s an outraged scoff, followed by the sharp click of heels as the woman hurries after her. “Excuse me? Excuse me?! You are the most atrocious burglar I have ever seen -- do not approach my bed, you complete maniac --“
Elphaba stomps down the hallway. Just a few more feet and she can lock herself in, put a pillow over her head, and pretend none of this is happening.
“I hope they arrest you!” the woman shrills, gaining on her fast.
Elphaba doesn’t even turn around. She moves to throw the door open --
And the woman sprints ahead --
And --
-- goes straight through it.
Elphaba skids to a stop so fast she nearly topples over.
There is a horrific moment of silence.
Then, through the solid wood of her closed bedroom door, the woman’s voice rings out, triumphant. “HA! Beat you to it!”
Elphaba makes a strangled, high-pitched noise she immediately pretends didn’t happen. Her hands clutch at her knees, her vision tilting dangerously. “What the hell --” Her pulse is jackhammering against her ribs, and she feels like she might retch from the shock of it. She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, opens them --
Nope. Still standing in her shitty apartment hallway. Still very much awake. Still reeling from the undeniable, catastrophic fact that some thing just --
Oh, god. Oh, god. She’s lost it. She’s actually lost it.
With sheer, trembling willpower, she reaches for the door handle, takes a deep breath, and yanks it open.
The bedroom is empty.
No sign of the woman. Nothing.
Elphaba’s brain scrambles for an explanation -- hallucination? Stress-induced fugue? Is she having a stroke?
A distant harrumph sounds from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Elphaba slams the door shut and whirls around, pressing herself against it. “I hate this apartment,” she whispers, because if she speaks any louder, she’s pretty sure she’s going to start screaming.
--
Elphaba doesn’t believe in ghosts.
She wants that on record, preferably carved into stone, or at the very least immortalized in a well-reasoned essay, except no one’s ever going to read it because she’s not writing one. Because ghosts aren’t real.
That said.
That said.
She is currently pacing her apartment, burning sage, because she has, in a moment of weakness, googled “signs your apartment is haunted” and, upon reviewing the evidence, has decided that -- purely for the sake of argument -- she should cover all her bases. Just in case.
The article had been very clear. Step one: acquire sage. Step two: set it on fire. Step three: walk around saying things.
She’s on step three.
“I don’t believe in you,” she announces, waving the smoldering sage. The article had stated: one must keep a calm and positive mindset. No negative emotions. No fear. Fear, apparently, was an open invitation.
So she is calm. She is unbothered. She is absolutely not feeling ridiculous, standing here with sage invading her sinuses while her laptop plays “Healing Frequencies for Cleansing Negative Energy” at a low volume. It’s chime-heavy and bordering on cultish, but it helps drown out the part of her brain that is screaming at her for how ridiculous this is.
“This space is mine,” she waves the burning sage around again. “I claim it. I reject all negative energy. You are not welcome here.”
Elphaba scowls, adjusting her grip on the sage. Smoke curls toward the ceiling. “Did I mention you’re not welcome here?” she says to the empty room, because apparently, repeating yourself is important in rituals like these.
The article hadn’t explained why. It hadn’t explained a lot of things, actually, like how you’re supposed to hold the sage without burning your fingers, or whether you should be worried about setting off a fire alarm.
“I have lived here for three weeks, and I am entitled to enjoy it free from interference. I have nothing against you, Apartment Ghost, but this is a one-person lease.”
She eyes the little tendrils of smoke rising toward the ceiling. Her fire alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but she suspects this is a temporary blessing.
And then, from behind her, a voice:
“You’re going to set off the fire alarm.”
Elphaba whirls, instinct taking over. She lunges for the nearest pile of throw pillows and hurls them in the general direction of the voice.
A muffled oof confirms her aim.
“Oh, real mature,” the voice says, and Elphaba would very much like to be able to see the source of it so she can glare.
“You are a ghost,” she states, “You are incorporeal. You do not exist within the known laws of physics, and you are in my apartment. You need to leave.”
“I am not a ghost,” The Ghost says, annoyed. “And you are going to set off the fire alarm.”
Elphaba looks at the sage in her hand. It is burning perfectly reasonably. She scoffs. “I highly doubt --”
BEEP.
The fire alarm begins shrieking.
For one long, excruciating moment, Elphaba stands there, sage still in hand, as the apartment fills with the deafening wail of her own hubris.
Then she moves.
She rushes to open the windows, waving her arms in a futile attempt to disperse the smoke. “You are not real,” she growls, “and this is your fault.”
“I warned you,” the ghost huffs, which is perhaps the most irritating part of all of this.
Elphaba hurls the sage in the vague direction of the voice. It lands with a pitiful thwump against the side table before rolling onto the floor.
“Oh, great,” the voice sighs, “Now you’re just littering. Leave this apartment, litterer.”
--
It’s cool for a summer night, and Elphaba pulls her coat tighter around herself, glaring as Crope kicks his feet up on an empty chair, stretching out lazily.
He squints at her over the rim of his glass. “Alright, what’s this about?”
Elphaba shifts in her seat. “What? Nothing.”
Crope squints. “You called me here for nothing?”
Elphaba looks pained. She’s already regretting bringing this up. “Fine. I’ve been… sort of… seeing someone.”
“Seeing someone?!” He claps his hands together, positively gleeful. “Oh, this is historic. This is a monumentous day.”
Elphaba glares at him. “You think this is a good thing?”
“Absolutely! The last time I tried to set you up, you bailed out.”
She rubs her temple. “Look, this is different.”
“I’ll say.” He grins. “I respect your principles, babe, I do. But this is progress! You initiated it this time! So, who is she? Do I know her?”
Crope cocks his head and Elphaba finds herself very busy with staring down at the table. She chews the inside of her cheek. “She’s not exactly… there.”
Crope nods sympathetically. “Like, emotionally unavailable?”
Elphaba winces. “Like, physically unavailable.”
Crope stares, then lets out a bark of laughter, delighted. “Elphie. Darling. You mean like a hallucination?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “Twice now. In my apartment.”
Crope’s grin stretches wider. “Is she hot?”
She levels him with a glare. “Are you even listening to me? She’s not real, you halfwit.”
“But hypothetically --”
“Oh, my god.”
Crope leans in, intrigued. “What does she look like?”
Elphaba rolls her eyes. “She’s -- well, she’s blonde -- gigantic eyes, they’re this big -- just, look --“ She lets out a long-suffering sigh and tells the sordid truth. “She looks like someone tried to design the most conventionally beautiful woman imaginable and then made her annoying just to balance things out.”
She watches with suspicion as Crope casually pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Tibs. Taking bets on whether your ghost girlfriend is your repressed psyche or just your type.”
Elphaba snatches the phone out of his hands, eyes narrowing. “God, you’re useless.”
Crope makes a wounded noise, reaching for his phone. “Rude. I’m helping.”
She dangles it over the edge of the table, pretending to consider launching it into the street.
“Okay, okay,” he relents, hands raised in surrender. “Let’s be logical. When you saw her, were you, like -- don’t take this the wrong way, Fabala, listen, -- a little lonely? A little touch-starved, maybe?”
Elphaba groans.
Crope points. “Aha! You were! This is classic, babe. You get lonely, and poof! Miss Spiritual Manifestation of Your Subconscious Need for Intimacy arrives.”
Elphaba buries her face in her hands. “I am going insane.”
Crope pats her arm sympathetically, and she slaps his hand away. “No, no, you’re just… mentally unwell. But it’s fine! I think this is healthy. I think this is your mind’s way of telling you to go outside, talk to real people, maybe even -- dare I say -- engage in physical touch?”
Elphaba stands up so fast her chair scrapes against the floor. “This was a mistake. Goodbye.”
Crope lunges, blocking her path. “No, no, no. Look around you!” He flings his arms out, waving his hands at the mess of people living their lives around them. Elphaba doesn’t bother looking. “Listen. People. Real, living, tangible people.” He cups a hand around his ear, nodding toward the drunk laughter and the music spilling from inside the bar. Then, he points at the street, wide-eyed. “This is the world,” he says. “Join it. Stop drowning in your own mind.”
Elphaba eyes him. “That’s a dangerous neighborhood you should not go into alone.”
Crope grins. “Come on, Elphaba. No more hiding out. No more ghost girlfriends. Real girlfriends for a change! They won’t even touch you if you don’t want them to. But they’ll actually exist! Whew! Can you imagine that?”
Elphaba slings her bag over her shoulder, smirking slightly. “You know what? You’re right. I should get going.”
Crope hoots. “Finally! See? Progress.”
Elphaba turns on her heel, calling over her shoulder. “My ghost girlfriend is probably getting lonely.”
--
It’s been an hour. Maybe longer. Elphaba isn’t keeping track, except that she is, except that she absolutely is, because the ghost has been suspiciously silent and Elphaba is beginning to feel like a character in a horror movie -- except she’s the idiot who hears something in the basement and goes to investigate, and she refuses to be that person, so she stays exactly where she is, perched stiffly on her couch with every light in the apartment turned on.
She waits another five minutes. Still nothing. No snarky comments, no judgmental scoffing, no high-pitched voice telling her to leave this place immediately or else.
Unsettling. Deeply unsettling.
She picks up her phone and very properly texts:
Nessarose, would you be so kind as to Uber me approximately half a bottle of lorazepam? I am feeling rather self-conscious in the presence of my ghost.
She sends it. Stares at it. Decides that, if anything, she is being too restrained.
Nessarose, of course, does not respond immediately, because Nessarose enjoys letting her suffer.
Elphaba stares at the screen, the little “delivered” indicator sitting there, and when another five minutes pass with no answer, she makes the executive decision to ignore it. Elphaba is self-aware enough to know that she is, perhaps, not handling this with the dignity she’d prefer.
With great reluctance and deeper shame, she opens Spotify and puts on a guided meditation. There is a specific one for being perceived, which Elphaba did not think she would ever need but now finds relevant. She picks it. The voice is soft, soothing, instructing her to imagine herself as a tree. A sturdy tree. A grounded tree. A tree that does not care if it is being watched by ghosts.
Her phone begins to buzz.
She ignores it. She is a tree. Trees do not answer their phones.
It stops, then starts again. She does not check the caller ID because she already knows who it is. It is Nessa, doubtlessly calling to demand explanations Elphaba does not want to provide.
She breathes. She exists. She does not check her phone.
The buzzing stops. Peace.
It does not last.
A notification dings. A message from their group chat, which Elphaba knows, with a growing sense of horror, is about to make her regret ever involving Nessa in this.
She picks up her phone.
It’s a screenshot. Her text. Her very dignified, very reasonable request, which has now been thrown to the wolves -- Crope, Tibbett, Milla -- who are, at this very moment, picking apart her mental state with the enthusiasm of vultures over a fresh corpse.
She groans. She considers throwing her phone out the window. She does not do that, because she is an adult with self-control. Instead, she looks.
The screenshot from Nessa is first:
Nessarose: ??? Elphaba just texted me this. Is she okay
Milla: her WHAT.
Milla: did she just say ‘her ghost’ like that’s a normal thing to have
Tibbett: I actually love that she asked so politely. “perhaps half a bottle” like she’s requesting a cup of tea
Crope: ok well hold on. I saw her today and she told me about the ghost thing and she was, like, VERY worried she was losing it
Milla: ????????????
Nessa: ??????????????
Milla: YOU KNEW AND DIDNT TELL US???
Crope: I TOLD TIBS
Tibbett: YES AND I HAVE BEEN WORRIED IN SILENCE
Milla: YOU TWO KNEW AND DIDNT TELL US???
Nessarose: Elphaba is this real
Elphaba: You are all terrible at keeping secrets.
Milla: OH MY GOD ITS REAL
Crope: oh good you’re alive
Nessarose: Elphaba. be so serious right now. are you actually being haunted or are you losing your grip on reality
Elphaba sighs, rubs at her temples, and considers.
Then she texts back:
Elphaba: Both things can be true.
Nessarose: what the FUCK
Milla: is she okay
Crope: unclear
Tibbett: does she need to be institutionalized
Nessarose: Or EXORCISED???
Tibbett: has anyone checked if she’s running a fever. has anyone asked her if she’s drinking tap water. we don’t KNOW what’s in the pipes of that building.
Milla: do we think this is why she’s always been like this. like is this a new problem or has she just been talking to ghosts her whole life
Crope: OH MY GOD
Tibbett: wait. what if it’s real. what if she is actually being haunted.
Crope: well then ig we’re all sorry for making fun of her in her time of need??
Milla: I am NOT sorry I think this is fucking hilarious.
Milla: you guys. she asked for HALF a bottle. WHY
Crope: yeah actually good question
Tibbett: what’s she planning to do
Milla: split it with the ghost?
Elphaba: I dislike all of you.
Nessarose: Elphaba. Do you need me to come over.
Elphaba: No.
Tibbett: are you possessed
Milla: can ghosts actually possess people or is that just a movie thing
Crope: i think they can in some cases
Elphaba: I am turning off my phone.
She does not turn off her phone.
She does, however, exit the chat. She is not possessed. She is fine.
Somewhere -- nowhere -- everywhere? -- she can feel it looking at her.
--
Elphaba doesn’t bother with pleasantries when Avaric picks up.
“Avaric. It’s Elphaba.”
There’s an obnoxious pause, then the unmistakable sound of chewing. “Elphaba! My favorite tenant. Settling in nicely, I hope?”
“Who lived here before me?”
“You know, most people just call about clogged drains. Not to dig up old real estate gossip.”
Elphaba closes her eyes. “Just answer the question.”
“Fine, fine.” He sighs. “Some guy handled the sublet. Didn’t say much, except it was some tragedy in the family. There was a woman. Young. The guy was very -- you know, the usual -- no details, don’t ask, don’t tell. People are weird about their dead relatives.”
Elphaba stills. “She died?”
Avaric tuts. “You better hope so. Only way her family would give up the lease and let you lock this place down long-term.”
“That’s not exactly my concern here --”
Avaric barrels on, undeterred. “Look, you’re in a rent-controlled apartment with a view. A view, Elphaba. And a fireplace! People would commit actual crimes for less in this city.”
“Oh yes, and some of them doubtlessly work in real estate.”
--
It’s the ghost’s fault. It’s definitely the ghost’s fault because Elphaba was minding her own business when this all had started.
After the first few days of fruitless attempts to explain logic and property law to an incorporeal entity, she does the only thing a sane, rational person would do: she decides to pretend the ghost doesn’t exist.
Which is why she is currently sitting on the couch, notebook in her lap, watching Poltergeist. For research purposes.
Elphaba has long since accepted her reality -- such as it is -- so it only makes sense to embrace its particular brand of madness. If her supposed insanity now extends to ghosts, she might as well prepare herself for what they have to offer.
The Ghost sits beside her, scowling. “You know I know you can see me, don’t you?”
Elphaba does not, in fact, acknowledge this. She scribbles a note in her book.
- Ghosts in movies can move objects.
- Apartment Ghost cannot.
- Possible reason: weakness? Emotional attachment? Bad at being a ghost?
The Ghost makes an offended noise. “Excuse me?”
Elphaba underlines bad at being a ghost three times and resolutely focuses on the TV.
Onscreen, a child is being sucked into a glowing void, which seems a bit excessive. Elphaba taps her pen against the paper. “Can you do that?” she mutters under her breath. “Summon portals? Drag people into an alternate dimension?”
The Ghost scoffs. “No! Obviously! Do I look like I can?”
Elphaba makes a note.
- No portals. No dimension-hopping. Possibly just a low-tier haunting.
The Ghost crosses her arms, looking a little put out while making a comment about how ill-mannered it is to be rated on a ghostly scale, but at least she is paying attention to the movie now.
A few more minutes pass, the film growing increasingly ridiculous, until the TV mom turns dramatically to her psychic consultant and wails, This house is clean.
Elphaba snorts. “That was fast.”
The Ghost, who has been watching with an air of skepticism, turns to Elphaba with a frown. “You think she’s lying?”
Elphaba shakes her head and writes down, Ghost is now invested in ghost movies.
The Ghost narrows her eyes. “I am not.”
Elphaba clicks her pen shut. “Sure.”
“I’m not!” The Ghost scowls, then turns back to the screen just as the haunting resumes in full force. She looks very smug about it.
Elphaba hides a grin and adds Ghostbusters to her watchlist.
--
She tries to read.
A book. A simple, ordinary activity. The ghost wouldn’t --
The Ghost is lying across the couch, right where Elphaba wants to sit. It’s her spot.
Elphaba does not acknowledge her.
The Ghost does not move.
Elphaba sits on her.
Or, well. Through her. It’s a deeply unpleasant sensation, like static electricity in her spine.
“You’re being ridiculous,” The Ghost informs her, unfazed.
Elphaba snaps her book shut. “I’m being ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous? You are haunting my apartment.”
“And you are being incredibly childish about it.”
“I don’t know who you are.” Elphaba’s voice is clipped. “You have no proof you even lived here. This is not my problem, Ghost in my apartment.”
The Ghost hums. “I feel like I lived here. I’ve told you; everything here is most definitely mine. I know everything about this place. That’s got to count for something.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Elphaba raises a finger. “What would count for something is you leaving.”
“I can’t leave,” The Ghost informs her. “I think I might be trapped.”
“Listen, we have both seen enough horror movies to know how this works. There’s a light somewhere. You’re supposed to go toward it.” Elphaba tells her patiently. “Look around; it is not just any light, it is the light. The ‘oh no, I’m dead, guess I should go be at peace now’ light.”
The ghost considers this for a second. She shrugs, still perfectly at ease beneath (inside?) Elphaba. “There is no light.”
Elphaba squints. “No light at all?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” Elphaba drums her fingers on her book. “Well, a black flaming hole or something will do just as well.”
The ghost purses her lips. “You are deeply unpleasant.”
Elphaba stands, strides toward the kitchen, and announces, “I’m making tea. If you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling an exorcist.”
--
“Demon,” the priest booms, raising his crucifix. “Be gone from this place!”
Elphaba eyes him. “Maybe try over there,” she raises her eyebrows, tilting her head toward the couch.
The priest nods, stepping forward, holy water at the ready. “Leave this soul to rest, unholy spirit! I cast you out in the name of --”
“I never pegged you for a woman of faith,” The Ghost muses, “What’s next? Ouija board? Crystal ball?” She leans in like she’s sharing a secret. “You know, I hear there’s this lady on the fourth floor who reads tea leaves.”
“This should cleanse the space,” the priest says, eyes closed, swaying slightly like he’s trying to feel the spirits.
Elphaba pointedly does not look at The Ghost perched on the armrest beside her, legs crossed, chin propped in her palm. She hasn’t looked at her since this whole circus started.
The priest sprinkles more water. Elphaba watches it arc through the air, landing on an empty space near the kitchen.
Elphaba squints. “A little to the left.”
The priest pauses. “I beg your pardon?”
Elphaba coughs. “Nothing.”
The Ghost watches as droplets of water land harmlessly on the floor, a full three feet away from her. She glances at Elphaba. “You’re mopping that up.”
Elphaba clenches her jaw.
The priest continues his prayers, working his way toward the kitchen.
“Does it usually take a few minutes to kick in?” Elphaba asks, hopeful.
The priest frowns. “I… this is odd. Usually, this works.”
"Maybe try yelling at her in Latin," Elphaba volunteers.
The priest clears his throat. “Vade retro, spiritus immundus --”
The Ghost is lying on her stomach now. “If this works, do you think I’ll explode? Or just fizzle out?” The Ghost leans forward, and Elphaba does not look down at her expectant face. “Or maybe I’ll start convulsing,” she continues conversationally. “Foaming at the mouth. You might want to get a towel.”
Elphaba drags a hand down her face. “I hate this apartment,” she mutters for the nth time that week.
The priest, mistaking her exasperation for faith, redoubles his efforts. “Yes, child, resist the temptation! The dark one thrives on weakness!” He dips his fingers into the water again and makes another sweeping motion, splashing too close to Elphaba this time. She jerks back, scowling.
“Watch it,” she snaps.
The priest steps back, satisfied. “There. The spirit should now be at peace.”
The Ghost hums. “I do feel very peaceful.”
Elphaba closes her eyes. Prays for patience.
The priest pats her shoulder. “Rest assured, you won’t be troubled again.”
The Ghost rests her chin on her hands. Smiles.
Elphaba smiles back at the priest, all teeth. “Bless you.”
--
Elphaba has had a long day. She deserves this. The warm water cascades down her back, muscles unwinding for the first time in -- what, weeks? Years? A lifetime? She sighs, head tilted back, eyes closed. Maybe she’ll stay in here forever. Maybe she’ll ignore reality long enough that it just goes away.
The bathroom truly is a sanctuary. It’s the one place where Elphaba can exist in peace, where no one is asking her stupid questions or standing too close or making her life even marginally more annoying than it already is. It is, in short, a refuge.
Or it was.
She slides the shower curtain open, reaching for her towel, and --
“Jesus fuck.”
There, delicately perched on the closed toilet seat, hands folded neatly in her lap, is The Ghost.
Elphaba yanks the curtain shut again.
“Nope.”
The Ghost does not go away.
Elphaba reopens the curtain an inch, just to check.
Still there. Of course.
She closes it again, grits her teeth, breathes.
Seconds pass.
Then, despite herself, she bites out, "You are aware that this is perverse, right?"
Silence.
Then, a soft, lilting voice: “I’m not looking.” She pauses. “Much.”
Elphaba refuses to react. She will not be terrorized in her own home. This is a battle of wills, and she is nothing if not stubborn. Instead, whips the curtain open again, snatches her towel and wraps it around herself with a vengeance, making a point to not look at the very-much-there-and-incredibly-intrusive presence.
She is going to dry off. She is going to get dressed. She is going to pretend this isn’t happening.
The Ghost clears her throat.
Elphaba’s grip on the towel tightens. She turns, methodically, to the mirror and wipes away the steam, acting as if she’s alone. Because she should be alone. Because this is a bathroom and normal people don’t hang out in bathrooms while other people are naked.
“Do you have to sit there?” Elphaba grits out, finally breaking.
“Well,” says The Ghost, as if she’s been waiting for an invitation to speak, “it’s not like I have a lot of options.”
Elphaba’s fingers curl. “I can think of a fantastic one.”
The Ghost gives an infuriatingly innocent blink. “Oh?”
Elphaba whirls around so fast she almost trips over the bathmat. She points a single, dripping finger at the ghost, face burning. “Leave!”
The Ghost makes no move to go. In fact, she shifts, crossing her legs primly. “I’ve told you: I don’t think I can do that.”
Elphaba groans, throwing her head back like she’s appealing to some higher power for patience, then turns on her heel and storms out of the bathroom.
The Ghost’s voice follows her down the hall.
“You know, you really should invest in a bathrobe!”
--