Chapter Text
At first glance, this house seems too good to be true. Placed in a strategic location and a quiet neighborhood, well-maintained, spacious yet not too imposing, not to mention the elegantly beautiful design. But it’s advertised at such a low price of 9,999,999 mora.
One might assume that this house is haunted, and going by local recounts, it actually is.
“Oh, it’s the spirit of its architect! It is said that …” the architect was murdered. He died in an accident while constructing this building. An unknown illness took his life in three days. He just disappeared one day and never return.
So many tales around this house and its “ghost”, yet none seem to achieve consensus on what really happened.
Or maybe there’s just something faulty hidden beneath seemingly perfect walls. Perhaps there’s some old dispute regarding the land. There should be a reason why this seller is so desperate to get this land off his hand, a reason that does not involve ghosts.
Whichever it is, Alhaitham is determined on exposing the truth.
… which turns out to be, well, the house is just severely underpriced.
There’s nothing weird in its documents, nothing worth noting over its history (despite the disappearance of its architect), and the seller is an honest man, according to Alhaitham’s in-depth background research. All basic facilities are running well (he checks them out himself), the water is crystal clear with nothing dangerous in it, and it even came with pre-filled furniture. Seriously, why does the man sell it at such a low price?
And why does he’s so adamant about Alhaitham not buying it at the last second?
“I know you’re a good person and that’s why I warned you, Scribe,” the seller rubs his temple, “there’s a ghost haunting this property. Have you not heard what the previous owners said?”
“I have.” And he’s listened to all kinds of haunting that ever happened here.
His spirit—may Greater Lord Rukkhadevata bless him with peace—would constantly pace back and forth in the study room.
The spirit sometimes left unfinished meals.
Suddenly there were illegible papers on our table—none of us know where they came from.
It all seems tame to him.
“And you’re still going to buy this house?”
He shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I? This house is the best offer I received. Even if the ghost does disturb me, I can deal with that inconvenience.”
The seller sighs. “Then, I suppose there is no convincing you to back out.”
“Hm. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes. Just… please remember that I’ve warned you.”
“Thank you for your good intentions.”
At the end of the day, the seller gives him the house key. Alhaitham traces the curve of its bow.
A ghost can’t exist if he doesn’t believe in it.
A week passes by without any ghost-related incidents, and Alhaitham decides that the ghost is a product of hyperreactive imagination.
Or that is until he sees someone in his kitchen.
That someone has his back towards Alhaitham, blond hair partially braided and pinned in place with red hairclips. He’s humming quietly, placing a steaming plate of biryani on the dining table, and in the process of doing so, notices Alhaitham in the doorway.
“Oh, hello, new roommate.” The stranger chirps, beaming a smile as if greeting an old friend. “Welcome to my humble abode; my latest and, unfortunately, last masterpiece.”
Is this the “ghost” they talked about? Sure does not feel like one. The ghost seems tangible, and Alhaitham is pretty sure the biryani is real. But his akasha can’t detect any person there, as if this… someone is truly a phantom.
The akasha is still a piece of technology—it can be fooled, manipulated. Perhaps this person is using something to evade akasha’s detection. Let’s save it for later investigation.
“What are you doing in my house?”
The blond guy’s eyes widen. “Oh! You’re the second one that can see me! Also, to correct you, this is our house. I am the co-owner of this property.”
Alhaitham tilts his head. There’s a lot to unpack in his statement. “The second one that can see you? What are you talking about? And I have to inform you that this is my house now.”
He shakes his head, stray blond strands falling over his forehead. “No, no, no, listen to me. I’m Kaveh, the architect of this building. Pretty sure you’ve heard of me.”
Alhaitham just tilts his head, silently comparing the apparition in front of him and the real Kaveh through akasha. Their appearance matches. Messy blond hair, red irises, features that make him look like a masterpiece himself. Annoyingly beautiful.
Kaveh takes his silence as a cue to continue. “In the original document, there should be a clause about my co-ownership, but I guess everyone scrap that part out after I… passed. Though, I’ve been making sure every new owner is informed about that.”
“How? You said that only one other person can see you.”
“Through a letter, of course.”
Alhaitham blinks. The illegible writing. “Ah.”
“See? I’ve been trying to befriend every occupant of this house, but they always move away in a month or so.” He frowns, and Alhaitham wonders if all ghosts have this animated range of expression. “I just want to talk to someone. Life is lonely here in the in-between.”
“Perhaps they were afraid of you.” Or think they’ve gone mad, just like what Alhaitham experiences right now.
“I know. You’re an exception though. You’re still here, talking to me. It’s quite relieving, if you asked me.”
“I didn’t ask.” Alhaitham says dryly. “And I am questioning my decision to engage you in this conversation.”
He proceeds to pick up his coat, breakfast be damned, and fasten it on his shoulder. “Whatever it is that you need, I ask you to not touch my belongings.”
“Okay.” The ghost pipes before eating his biryani. Alhaitham can feel his eyes on him as he gathers some papers. “Where are you going? Work? Wait, you haven’t introduced yourself.”
Alhaitham glances at him. “I’m Alhaitham, and where I’m going is none of your business.”
Kaveh’s eyes light up with realization. “Oh, Alhaitham the current scribe? I see why they hired you.”
Alhaitham does not know what he means by that and he does not want to know. He’s had enough of it now, heading for the front door.
As he close the door behind him, the spirit waves cheerfully.
“Have a good day, Scribe. I’ll still be here when you return!”
Alhaitham locks the front door, shaking his head. A strong brew of coffee might dispel this morning madness.
Supernatural beings do not scare him. But the idea of madness, of conjuring an apparition this vivid and having an entire conversation with said apparition; it terrifies him. He’s been relying on his mind to make sense of this world. To filter the fact from the imagination. It terrifies him to experience his mind evaluating hallucinations as real. How can he see the truth with a broken lens?
Calm down, there should be some explanation behind this.
At his office, he sets on researching more about this, now that he has a fresh and reliable (is he reliable?) account.
But he finds nothing. Nothing matches his account, nothing about vivid apparitions, nothing about evading akasha’s detection. Lack of information starts to feel like a theme.
Alhaitham sighs. Perhaps he was so tired that he hallucinated. Yes, it should be it. He’s been working so hard these few weeks, coupled with him moving to a new house, his routine has been disrupted and his mind has yet to adapt.
That’s it. This “Kaveh” will be gone by the time he comes home.