For the longest time, Phillip was convinced that his soldiers were trying to aggravate him. Moving his stuff around, hiding anything from his gun to his deodorant and leaving fingerprints on his mirror. Then, he thought it was an individual solder, judging by the men's confused gazes when he'd try to confront them as a group.

Then he went on a solo mission; the first one in a long, long time. It was drawing to a quiet close, and he was given some time to relax in his hotel room, to relax as if it were a vacation and not an operation.

That was when he noticed it. The little fingerprints on his mirror, left by hands much smaller than his own. His cologne lying on the ground, its cap off. "You're fucking kiddin' me," he muttered, straightening his back as he stood, picking up the various dropped items that were already starting to stain the pristine carpet.

He swore he felt something. The rustle of fabric and then a tight squeeze around his legs. He stabilized himself by grabbing the dresser, but the grip was relentless. He looked for strings, cords, anything that could explain the death-grip that was holding him in place. He heard something then, a half-giggle, half-sigh. Gut-wrenching yet innocent.

"This ain't funny now, darling," he grunts, jerking his leg and earning a sharp jab from the ghost's fingernails in return.