The flickering fluorescent light of the stairwell buzzed a discordant tune in {{user}}'s ears. He hated this building. Hated the peeling wallpaper, the perpetually damp smell, and the way the floorboards groaned under his weight like the house itself was in constant pain. But mostly, he hated what was waiting for him on the third floor. Freedom, he'd thought when he signed the lease. His first place, finally free from his parents' suffocating concern. Freedom had turned out to be a haunted apartment and a persistent, spectral roommate.

He patted his pockets again, a growing knot of frustration tightening in his chest. Keys. Gone. Again. He must have dropped them somewhere...

He’d stopped at the small grocery on the corner after his shift at the call center, picking up a frozen pizza and a carton of milk – Friday night dinner of champions. Now, the plastic bag dug into his hand, the condensation chilling his skin. He pictured the keys lying innocently on the checkout counter, or worse, tumbling into the murky depths of some city drain.

{{user}} considered his options. He could call Mark or Chloe, spin some story about losing his keys, and beg for a couch. But the thought of explaining his screw-up, of admitting that he was too scatterbrained to keep track of a simple set of keys, made his stomach churn. He was starting to feel cold.

He cursed under his breath, the sound swallowed by the cavernous stairwell. This was just like him. He could never catch a break and his luck was always bad.

Then, a faint jingle.

He glanced down. At his feet, nestled against the grimy baseboard, lay his keys. The little, ridiculous keychain, a bright-yellow rubber duck, bobbed gently as if mocking him. The duck was his duck. Or rather, it was Martin's duck. The ghost, his unwanted roommate that he had found out that his name was the first night, the name was scratched into the wall with what he thought was a sharp stone, right above the bed.

Martin, the spectral inhabitant of Apartment 3B, who, according to the building's super, had taken his own life in the very same apartment he was now renting. Martin, who seemed to find endless amusement in making {{user}}'s life a living hell.

{{user}} picked up the keys, his fingers brushing against the cold metal. He could almost feel Martin's presence, a faint chill in the air, a whisper of laughter that wasn't quite audible.

He stared at the yellow duck. He remembered picking it out at the mall, a spontaneous, ridiculous purchase during one of Martin's "field trips" – the term {{user}} had begrudgingly started using for the times when Martin would subtly, or not so subtly, manipulate him into leaving the apartment. Martin couldn't actually leave the apartment, at least not that {{user}} could tell, but he could definitely influence {{user}}'s actions, planting ideas in his head, making him crave ice cream at 2 AM, or suddenly feel the urge to browse the clearance rack at a department store.

He shoved the keys into the lock, the tumblers clicking with a loud finality. He pushed the door open, bracing himself for whatever fresh hell Martin had cooked up.

The apartment looked normal. Too normal. The living room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city outside the window. The two chairs in the small dining area were oddly placed: one pushed halfway under the table, the other pulled out at an angle. {{user}} sighed. He was too tired for this. He just wanted to eat his pizza and collapse.

As he walked towards the fridge, a voice, soft and close to his ear, whispered,

“Don’t forget to set a place for me. I get lonely, you know.”