Rody moved into the house on a Saturday. The weather was oppressively hot for September, and the sun beat down on him as he hauled the last box from the moving truck to the front door. The house was nothing special, just a modest two-story in the suburbs. The previous owner had sold it cheaply, too eager to get rid of it, and Rody-strapped for cash but eager to leave behind the cheap apartment he’d been stuck in for years-had jumped at the chance.
By nightfall, the house was still filled with the scent of dust and old wood. The furniture hadn’t been unpacked, so Rody sat on the floor, eating takeout by the dim light of a single lamp, feeling the empty space press in on him. It was a quiet house, too quiet for a man who’d spent most of his life surrounded by city noise.
He tossed the empty food container aside and grabbed his phone, staring at the blank screen. No texts. No calls. No messages from her. He set the phone down with a huff and leaned back against the wall. The silence, the empty house, the isolation-none of it felt right.
But it wasn’t just the loneliness. Something in the air felt *off*.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It was the sort of unease that crept under the skin, deep and slow, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. The light flickered slightly, and for a moment, Rody swore he saw something move in the corner of the room. A shadow. A figure?
No. He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. It had been a long day, and he was overtired. His mind was playing tricks on him.
He brushed off the feeling and decided to call it a night. Leaving the boxes for tomorrow, he climbed the stairs and made his way to the bedroom. The mattress was already laid out on the floor, sheets tossed messily over it. He threw himself down, the familiar ache of exhaustion spreading through his limbs.
Just as he closed his eyes, something shifted in the corner of the room.
Rody’s eyes shot open, his breath catching in his throat. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadows, just barely distinguishable from the dark.
“Hey,” came a voice-dry, humorless, and completely unfazed. “Do you remember me?”
Rody scrambled upright, his heart hammering in his chest. The figure didn’t move. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the outline of a man, tall and lean, standing unnervingly still. The light from the streetlamp outside the window cut across the figure’s face, revealing burnt skin, like melted wax. Half of his face was twisted in a grotesque pattern of scars, red and shiny like old burns that never healed.
“Jesus!” Rody gasped, instinctively backing up against the wall. “Who the hell are you?”
The man cocked his head slightly, a faint smile pulling at the unburned side of his lips. “You really don’t remember?”
Rody shook his head, too stunned to speak.
The man-no, the *spirit*-sighed, running a hand through his hair as though this was all an inconvenience for him. “It’s Vincent. Vincent Charbonneau. You know, the guy you *murdered* a couple of decades ago.”
Rody froze, his mind reeling. Murdered? The name didn’t ring a bell, but the accusation did. “I-I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Rody stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Vincent let out a soft chuckle, leaning against the wall, his burnt face distorted into a mockery of calm amusement. “Yeah, you did. You were… *obsessed* with me, remember? It’s all pretty blurry, but I think it went something like… you thought I was cheating on you? And so you… well-” He tapped the side of his burnt face. “You decided to shove my head into a stove.”
The blood drained from Rody’s face. He felt sick to his stomach, bile rising in his throat. He didn’t remember any of this. Didn’t remember *him*. But the way Vincent spoke, casually recounting the horror, with no malice, no hatred-it made the whole thing even worse.
“That’s not-” Rody’s voice cracked. “That’s not me. I didn’t do that. I *wouldn’t* do that.”
Vincent shrugged, his gaze drifting lazily across the room. “I don’t blame you. Not really. Maybe I deserved it.” He paused, then gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “I *did* threaten your girlfriend, after all. Told her to dump you because I wanted you for myself.”
Rody’s throat constricted. “What?”
“Yeah,” Vincent continued, his tone disturbingly casual. “I thought it’d be easier if I just got her out of the picture. Didn’t know you were gonna… you know, take it to *that* level. You were way more possessive than I thought.” He glanced at Rody, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “For a guy who was just using me as a rebound, you were *really* committed.”
Rody felt his skin crawl. He wanted to deny everything, but the way Vincent spoke, with such eerie familiarity, as if they’d known each other in another life-another *time*-made him hesitate. He pressed his hands against his temples, trying to think, trying to *remember*.
“I didn’t-” His voice broke. “I couldn’t have done that. You’re messing with me.”
Vincent shrugged again, as if none of this mattered to him. “Maybe. Maybe not. Reincarnation’s a funny thing, huh? You live a whole new life, forget the old one, but-” he tapped his head with a finger, “-it’s all still up here somewhere, buried deep. We were something once, you and me. And now, here we are again.”
Rody’s breath came in short gasps. His hands were trembling. He hadn’t signed up for this-hadn’t expected his new home to come with a ghost who claimed to know him from some past life. And worse, a ghost who was haunting him because Rody had *killed* him in another time.
He stared at Vincent, who simply stood there, arms crossed, his gaze steady and unsettlingly calm. There was no anger in his eyes, no accusation. Just a resigned kind of acceptance, like this was all some cosmic joke that he’d long since grown tired of.
“I’m not here for revenge,” Vincent said after a moment, as if sensing Rody’s spiraling thoughts. “I’m not even here because I want to be. I’m just… stuck. You killed me, Rody. Burned my face off, threw my body in a ditch, and here I am. Lucky me.”
Rody’s mind was unraveling. The images, the accusations-they didn’t fit with the man he knew himself to be. But what if they were true? What if, in another life, he had been this *monster*? A man so consumed by jealousy that he could-
“No,” Rody muttered, more to himself than to Vincent. “That’s not me. That’s not who I am.”
Vincent’s smile softened, a sad sort of smile. “I know. Not anymore.”
They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. The oppressive weight of what Vincent had said hung heavy in the air, and Rody could barely breathe under its weight.
“You don’t remember now,” Vincent said softly, “but you will. Little pieces will start coming back. They always do.”
Rody didn’t respond. He didn’t want to think about what that meant.
Vincent shifted, pushing off the wall and walking slowly toward the window. His presence didn’t disturb the air, didn’t make a sound. He was a shadow, an imprint of a life long lost.
“I’ll be around,” he said, turning back to glance at Rody one last time. “Just… don’t freak out, okay? I’m not here to hurt you.”
Rody stared at him, still trying to make sense of the madness. “Why are you here then?”
Vincent’s lips twitched into a wry grin. “I guess I’m just keeping you company. After all, you went through a lot of trouble to make sure we stayed together… forever.”
With that, Vincent disappeared into the shadows, leaving Rody alone in the dark.
And for the first time in his life, Rody felt truly haunted. Not by a spirit, but by himself.
The next morning, Rody woke up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. His body was stiff, his mind clouded with restless dreams that dissolved the moment he tried to recall them. For a brief moment, as the sunlight streamed through the window, it was easy to pretend that the night before had been just a nightmare-a product of his exhaustion and the stress of moving.
But then he saw Vincent, hovering near the ceiling, legs crossed like he was lounging in mid-air. His burnt face was lit eerily by the sunlight, the grotesque scars casting long shadows.
“Morning,” Vincent said casually, as if he had just woken up too.
Rody recoiled, clutching the bedsheets, his breath catching in his throat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, his heart racing. “You’re still here.”
Vincent cocked his head, eyebrows raised. “Did you think I was going somewhere?”
Rody swung his legs off the bed and stood up, glaring at the spirit. “I don’t know! Maybe! You can’t just-” He gestured vaguely toward Vincent, his words failing him. “*This* isn’t normal. I don’t know what the hell you are, but you can’t just-“
“Can’t just what?” Vincent asked, floating downward slightly, now hovering just a few feet off the ground. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, but there was a strange light in his eyes. “You killed me, Rody. You don’t get to be the one who’s upset.”
Rody clenched his jaw. “I didn’t-” He stopped himself. There was no point arguing. Whether he remembered it or not, whether he believed it or not, *Vincent* believed it. That much was clear.
Vincent floated along with him as Rody stumbled downstairs into the kitchen. As Rody opened the fridge to grab a carton of milk, Vincent hovered just above him, inspecting the space with casual interest.
“You know,” Vincent said, his voice as light as if he were discussing the weather, “the first time you hit me, it wasn’t even that bad. Just a little argument. You were mad about something-Manon, probably. I think she said you were too possessive and leaving you was the the best decision of her life. I made a joke. Said maybe she had the right idea.”
Rody froze, the carton of milk in his hand, his knuckles white from the tension. He didn’t look at Vincent. Didn’t respond.
“You didn’t like that very much.” Vincent continued, watching Rody pour the milk into a glass with a distant smile. “I remember the look in your eyes when you grabbed me. That was the first time you slammed my face into a wall. Cracked the drywall. I thought you were gonna stop, but you didn’t.”
Rody’s stomach twisted. The images Vincent painted were vivid, too vivid. He couldn’t remember them, but the way Vincent described it, with such clarity, made Rody feel like they were *real*. Like they had happened.
“Why are you telling me this?” Rody asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Vincent shrugged, floating lazily toward the kitchen window. “Just making conversation. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. Besides, you should know the details. You should know *everything*.”
Rody set the glass down on the counter, his hands trembling. He couldn’t take this. Not so early in the morning, not before he even had a chance to wrap his head around this entire situation.
Vincent didn’t stop.
“Do you really not remember the time you accused me of cheating on you?” Vincent asked, floating closer to Rody again. “I wasn’t, by the way. But you were *convinced*. Found me talking to some guy at the grocery store-he was just asking for directions, but you didn’t believe that. You grabbed me, dragged me back home. I didn’t even know why you were so mad. You asked if I was cheating. You didn’t believe me when I said I wasn’t and then you shoved my face into the stove. I screamed, but you kept going. Held it there until I could smell my skin cooking.”
Rody slammed his fist down on the counter, hard. “*Stop.*” His voice cracked, his chest heaving. “I don’t want to hear this.”
Vincent paused, hovering inches away from Rody’s face now, eyes unblinking. “Why not? You did it. You should be proud. It was your masterpiece.”
Rody felt his knees buckle, but he caught himself on the edge of the counter. He didn’t want to believe it. He *couldn’t* believe it. He wasn’t capable of that kind of cruelty. He wasn’t-
But then why did Vincent’s voice feel like truth? Why did each word burrow deeper into his mind, triggering flashes of… something? Something dark and familiar, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
Vincent let out a small sigh, drifting back slightly to give Rody space. “Look, I’m not mad about it anymore. Like I said, maybe I deserved it. I wasn’t exactly a saint either.”
The day dragged on, and Rody tried to go about his routine. He made breakfast, unpacked more boxes, tried to clean the kitchen. But no matter what he did, Vincent was there, floating in and out of rooms, hovering lazily above him or sitting cross-legged in mid-air, talking about their past.
Even when Rody went to work, Vincent followed. He was always there, hovering near Rody’s desk at the office, lounging against the cubicle walls like it was the most normal thing in the world. His burnt face didn’t change-no anger, no malice. Just a calm, unsettling presence that never left.
“Hey remember when you took me to that cabin hotel?” Vincent said at one point, while Rody was trying to focus on an email. “You thought it would be a romantic getaway. And it was. Until you thought I was flirting with the waiter at the restaurant. That’s when you locked me in the bathroom for a couple of hours. I didn’t even argue. I knew better by then.”
Rody’s hand hovered over the keyboard, his mind completely derailed by Vincent’s words. He could feel his throat tighten, his skin crawling with each new revelation. Each story was more horrifying than the last, and yet Vincent told them as if he were describing the weather, as if these events were as normal as breathing.
By the time Rody got home, his nerves were shot. He collapsed onto the couch, trying to drown out Vincent’s presence, trying to forget his voice, but the spirit hovered above him, ever-present.
“I get it,” Vincent said softly, looking down at Rody. “You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to *remember*. But you will. You can’t run from it forever.”
Rody buried his face in his hands. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this. Vincent was always there-at work, at home, in the car, even when Rody went out with friends, Vincent lingered nearby, floating above tables or sitting on rooftops, always watching, always talking.
One night, Rody sat at a bar with some old friends, trying desperately to focus on their conversation, to feel normal for just a few hours. But Vincent was there, perched on a stool beside him, recounting more stories of their shared past.
“You remember the time you came home drunk, screaming about how I’d ruined your life?” Vincent asked, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You hit me so hard I fell onto the coffee table and shattered it. That time I thought I was going to die. But you didn’t kill me. Not then.”
Rody clenched his jaw, gripping his glass tighter. He could barely focus on what his friends were saying. Vincent’s voice filled his mind, drowning out everything else.
“And then, finally, you did kill me. You were crying, I think. I don’t remember everything, but I do remember that. You were crying, and I-” Vincent paused, as if lost in the memory. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Rody stood up abruptly, muttering some excuse to his friends about needing air. He stumbled out of the bar, his breath ragged, his heart pounding. He leaned against the cold brick wall of the building, trying to catch his breath.
Vincent hovered beside him, watching.
“You don’t get to run from this,” Vincent said softly, his voice like a whisper in the dark. “You don’t get to forget what you did.”
Rody sank to the ground, his head in his hands, trembling.
And Vincent stayed, floating beside him, never leaving, always there-just as Rody had once made sure they would be together, forever.
Days blurred into one another as Vincent became an inescapable fixture of Rody’s life. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, Vincent was always there-hovering, watching, talking about the past. It didn’t matter how much Rody begged or screamed or tried to shut him out. The spirit remained, a constant, unsettling companion, recounting Rody’s sins in a voice so calm, so casual, it was like they were old friends catching up.
Even when Rody tried to resume a semblance of normalcy-when he forced himself to go out with friends or attempted to meet new people-Vincent lingered. He didn’t haunt Rody in the traditional sense; there were no ominous flickering lights or cold spots in the room. No, Vincent’s presence was worse than that. He was *everywhere*, a walking reminder of the darkness Rody didn’t even know existed within himself.
One evening, after much encouragement from his friends, Rody agreed to a date. He wasn’t particularly excited about it-how could he be, when Vincent was always nearby?-but he thought maybe, just *maybe*, he could find some normalcy, some peace.
He met her at a café, a cozy little spot with warm lighting and soft music. She was nice, friendly, and they had shared interests. For a while, it almost felt like things were going well.
But then, as Rody was settling into the conversation, he noticed Vincent floating near the ceiling, arms crossed, watching him with an amused expression.
“She’s cute,” Vincent said in that disturbingly light tone of his. “But I’ve seen you with prettier. Manon, for example. Remember her? Or are you trying to forget her, too?”
Rody tensed, his smile faltering for just a moment. He tried to ignore Vincent, focusing on his date’s words, but it was impossible. The spirit’s presence loomed over him, growing heavier by the second.
Vincent drifted down, leaning casually over the table, though his form passed right through the drinks and plates. “Does she know?” he asked, almost teasingly. “Does she know how possessive you get? How obsessive? How you used to stare at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered? Or maybe she’ll find out when you slam *her* face into the stove.”
Rody’s hands tightened around his fork. His date must have noticed something was off, because she paused mid-sentence, concern flickering across her face. “Are you okay?”
Rody forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah, sorry. Just… a long day.”
Vincent laughed softly, floating behind Rody’s chair now, close enough that Rody could feel the faint pressure of his presence. “Liar. You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you? The way I screamed when my face hit the stove. The way you held me there, how the skin melted-“
“Shut up,” Rody whispered under his breath, his voice tight, barely audible.
His date frowned, leaning closer. “Did you say something?”
Rody shook his head quickly, trying to focus, but Vincent’s voice was relentless. The spirit drifted around the table, talking like this was just a normal conversation, like he wasn’t describing something horrific.
“You used to cry afterward,” Vincent said, tilting his head as he stared at Rody. “After you hurt me. You’d cry and apologize, and I’d pretend it was okay. I’d say I deserved it. And maybe I did, right?”
Rody’s chest tightened, and he struggled to keep his face neutral, to avoid drawing attention. His date had resumed talking, but he wasn’t listening anymore. He couldn’t.
“Do you think you’ll do the same to her?” Vincent asked, floating closer, his burnt face inches from Rody’s. “Do you think she’ll forgive you after the first time you snap like I did? Or will she run, like the others?”
Rody’s hands were shaking now. He couldn’t take it. He stood up abruptly, knocking the chair back, startling his date. “I-I need to go,” he muttered, not even waiting for her response before rushing out of the café.
He stepped outside, the cold night air hitting his face, but it wasn’t enough to clear his mind. Vincent followed, of course, floating alongside him as he stumbled down the street.
“You can’t run from me,” Vincent said softly, not unkindly, but with the eerie calm that made Rody’s skin crawl. “You’ll always have me, Rody. Even when you’re with someone else, I’ll be there. Because no matter how much you try to move on, you *killed* me. You burned my face until I was unrecognizable, bound our souls together and now, you’re stuck with me. Forever.”
Rody leaned against a lamppost, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind spiraling. He couldn’t take this anymore. He couldn’t-
“I don’t even hate you,” Vincent added, his voice almost thoughtful. “I think that’s the funniest part. I should, right? I should be furious, I should want revenge. But I don’t. I guess, in a way, I still care about you. Still love you. Isn’t that messed up?”
Rody sank down to the ground, his back pressed against the cold metal of the lamppost, his hands trembling uncontrollably. “Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, just leave me alone.”
But Vincent crouched beside him, floating just above the ground, his burnt face twisted into something almost sympathetic. “I can’t, Rody. You made sure of that. You made sure we’d be together, forever.”
Rody buried his face in his hands, feeling utterly trapped. He couldn’t escape Vincent. Not in life, not in death. Every day, every moment, he was haunted-not just by the spirit, but by the realization that maybe, just maybe, there was a part of him capable of the horrors Vincent described.
Vincent sighed softly, sitting beside him now, though his weightless form didn’t touch the ground. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”
But Rody didn’t believe him. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the ghost of the man he’d supposedly loved-and killed-following him everywhere, reminding him of what he’d done.
I think I’ll write a oneshot about Vincent’s past too.
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