Sunday Short: My Landlord The Ghost Part 1
- Faiz Faisal
- 6 hours ago
- 4 min read
Rent Is Due, Apparently
If there was one thing Zara Rahman believed in, it was delusion.
Not the dangerous kind. The productive kind.
The kind that lets you move to New York City with two suitcases, RM converted savings that barely survived currency exchange, and the audacity to call yourself a fashion designer before anyone else did.
“Maison Zara,” she whispered to herself, standing in the middle of the abandoned studio unit in Lower Manhattan.
It smelled like dust, broken dreams, and something faintly… vintage.
Perfect.
The place wasn’t technically hers. Or anyone’s, really. The listing had been taken down months ago. The door lock was… negotiable. And no one had come by in weeks.
So naturally, Zara took that as a sign from the universe.
“I’m not squatting,” she muttered, dragging a rack of thrifted clothes into the corner. “I’m… pre-leasing.”
The studio had good bones. High ceilings, exposed brick, a massive window that let in golden afternoon light. She could already see it—her first collection, flowing fabrics, sharp silhouettes, editorial shoots right by that window.
New York was going to eat her alive.
But not before she made it look at her.
Three days in, Zara had already:
Declared the corner near the window her “atelier”
Set up a sewing machine she bought secondhand
Burned instant noodles twice
And named a suspicious water stain on the ceiling “Greg”
It was during her fourth attempt at making coffee (this time without setting anything on fire) that she heard it.
Knock. Knock.
Zara froze.
She stared at the door like it had personally offended her.
“Nope,” she whispered. “No one knows I’m here.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
More aggressive this time.
“Okay…” she said, grabbing a pair of fabric scissors like they were a weapon. “If it’s the landlord, I simply don’t exist.”
She tiptoed toward the door, pressed her eye to the peephole—
—and blinked.
A man stood outside.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark coat. Hair slightly messy in a way that felt intentional. Annoyingly handsome.
Zara frowned.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Even eviction in New York comes with good lighting.”
She opened the door just a crack.
“Yes?”
The man looked her up and down, unimpressed.
“You’re late.”
“…For what?”
“For rent.”
Zara blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“This unit,” he said, stepping closer like he owned gravity, “belongs to me. And you’re three days late.”
She opened the door wider now, fully annoyed.
“Okay, first of all, this place has been abandoned for months. Second of all, I live here now. Third of all—who even are you?”
He looked offended.
“I’m the owner.”
Zara laughed. Actually laughed.
“Oh my god, are you one of those scam guys? Because I don’t have money, okay? I have vibes. And like… twelve dollars.”
His expression didn’t change.
“You broke in.”
“I reimagined the space.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“I’m an artist.”
They stared at each other.
Then—
“You need to leave,” he said.
“No.”
Silence.
Then both spoke at the same time:
“You leave.”
That night, Zara Googled:
“how to legally stay in abandoned property nyc”
then
“what to do if weird hot man claims he owns your house”
and finally, reluctantly—
“how to remove ghost from apartment???”
She paused.
“…No. That’s insane.”
Behind her—
“You’re insane.”
Zara SCREAMED and spun around.
He was sitting on her sewing table.
SITTING.
ON.
THE TABLE.
“How did you get in here?!” she yelled.
“I never left.”
“I locked the door!”
“I don’t need doors.”
Zara slowly pointed at him. “Okay. Okay. That’s… concerning.”
He tilted his head. “You’re the one breaking into places.”
She grabbed her phone again, typing frantically.
“Okay, if you’re a ghost—hypothetically—then you can leave, right? Like, go to the light? Or whatever?”
“I’m not a ghost.”
“You literally just teleported.”
“I walked.”
“You sat on my table without opening the door!”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Zara squinted at him.
“…You don’t know you’re dead, do you?”
Silence.
For the first time, his expression flickered.
“…What?”
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “You’re a denial ghost.”
“I am not—what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re haunting your own property and still asking for rent like it’s 1998!”
“It is not—” he paused. “Wait. What year is it?”
Zara stared.
“Oh. My. God.”
What followed was… chaos.
Zara tried everything.
Burning sage (he sneezed and told her it smelled like “cheap incense”)
Playing chanting videos from YouTube (he complained about the audio quality)
Reading an “exorcism guide” off a sketchy blog (he corrected her pronunciation)
“Leave!” she shouted, waving a hanger at him.
“No,” he replied calmly.
“You’re dead!”
“I am unavailable,” he snapped.
“This is my studio!”
“This is my property!”
“YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A BODY!”
“AND YOU DON’T PAY RENT!”
They both stopped.
Breathing hard.
Staring.
Zara crossed her arms. “You’re impossible.”
He mirrored her. “You’re delusional.”
“Fashionably delusional.”
“Still delusional.”
A beat.
Then—
“…You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked.
“No.”
“…I’m not leaving either.”
“I figured.”
They stood there, in a standoff neither of them could win.
Zara sighed, dropping onto a chair.
“Fine. Temporary arrangement.”
He raised a brow. “Temporary.”
“We coexist,” she said. “You don’t haunt me, I don’t exorcise you.”
“I wasn’t haunting you.”
“You literally demanded rent.”
“That’s called structure.”
Zara rolled her eyes.
But as she looked at him again—really looked this time—something shifted.
He wasn’t just handsome.
He was… familiar, somehow. Like a face she’d seen before. In a magazine. Or a dream.
Weird.
Annoying.
Inconvenient.
And absolutely not her problem.
“Whatever,” she muttered, turning back to her sketches. “Just don’t touch my fabrics.”
He leaned against the wall, watching her.
“…What are you making?” he asked.
Zara didn’t look up.
“Something that’ll make New York remember my name.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“…Good.”
She blinked.
Why did that feel like approval?
That night, as Zara sketched under the dim light, she could feel his presence lingering in the room.
Not scary.
Not threatening.
Just… there.
And for the first time since she arrived in the city—
She wasn’t alone.
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