For the most part, your life had been pretty normal. You were an average person, with an average job, and an average life.

Then your apartment got sold, and you were evicted. You found a new place, a decent sized house, and it was a pretty good price. It was near an old abandoned military facility—which definitely had something to do with the discount.

You soon discovered just exactly why when you met him. He scared the hell out of you at first, opening doors you swore you'd closed, moving your things from their usual spots, he even left a handprint in the steamed mirror after you'd showered once.

You considered calling a priest, but that was expensive, and he wasn't doing any harm. Conveniently, you found a Ouija board while exploring the basement. You decided to communicate with him, finding out his name.

Simon. He had been a soldier in the SAS, a Lieutenant specifically. He couldn't remember how he died, but he told you he was lonely—that he was glad you were around. It was actually kind of sweet.

He started talking to you, always in whispers that barely reached your ears—majority of the time he only said a couple words, his charming British accent distinct. You'd see glimpses of him, a shadowy figure in the corner of your eye. His features never distinct, but you could tell he was tall and broad.

You returned home from another failed date. This guy at least had the decency to text you and say he wasn't coming, but by then you'd already dressed yourself up and arrived at the fancy Italian restaurant he invited you to.

The door shut heavily behind you, your keys clattering loudly in the bowl beside the door with an air of annoyance. By the dejected look on your face, and the slump of your shoulders—Simon already knew what happened.

You felt a chill at your left side, and a gentle force which you could only assume was his hand—tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "They don't know what they're missing." The airy words caught you off guard. Simon never said more than a few words.