Dear Mr. Jordan, we regret… 

Joules crumpled the letter in his fist, not bothering to read the rest. He already knew what it said, and a part of him probably always knew. He’d needed either a miracle or an act of supreme mercy from his professors to pass the semester. Clearly, neither had come through. 

Even though there was little doubt concerning the tepid outcome of his collegiate career, Joules Jordan had hardly prepared for it. He’d come halfway across the country to attend college, only to piss it away in two semesters. 

His first real problem would be money, he realized. For the past year, his parents had been subsidizing his expenses predicated on his successful performance in school. Now that he’d gotten the boot, the money was bound to dry up. He had enough squirreled for a couple of weeks or so, but after that, he’d be on his own.

He’d lived in his dorm over the summer, desperately pretending that his time wasn’t running out, minute by lazy minute. Now that the writing was on the wall, he didn’t know where he’d go. Most of his friends and classmates went home over the long break, so he didn’t have a couch he could crash on. He’d need to find an apartment or a room to rent. Something cheap, obviously. 

He tossed the crumpled paper in the direction of his trash can. It went wide, missing the can completely.

What a pain. 

His television droned on beside him, but he wasn’t paying it much attention. Now, with the reality of his situation sinking in, he felt trapped in his dorm room. He stood from his chair and paced on the old, grey carpet. He ran his hand through his hair and realized he was sweating. 

You’ve really fucked things up now, haven’t you?

He needed air. He needed a drink. He would find neither stuck here in his room. Grabbing his wallet and keys from his desk, he saw a message alert from his mother. Did she know? No, she probably just wanted to talk. He’d have to tell her eventually, but for now, all he wanted was to get as far away from that uncomfortable conversation as possible. 

Would she even understand?

The hallways and common areas of his dorm sat still and empty without the normal rush of students. The only other person he knew still on campus was his RA, and he’d said less to her than to his advisors whom he’d barely spoken to at all. Exiting the elevator on the ground floor. He passed her desk. She didn’t look up at him from her phone. 

The air outside was thick with humidity as July threatened August. More sweat rolled down the back of his neck, but his burgeoning claustrophobia seemed to dissipate as he followed the road out of campus towards the city beyond. 

At nineteen, he couldn’t legally get drunk, but there were enough bars and package shops within walking distance of campus that exercised a certain economic discretion that the outcome of Joules’ evening was inevitable. He would, like most nights, get piss drunk and pass out on his bed, all thoughts of the future gone from his intoxicated stupor. The prospect encouraged him, and he followed the crowded foot traffic deeper into the heart of the city.

The further he got from campus, the more alive the city grew. The last light of dusk cut through the thick air as the sun neared its final destination across the horizon. Eight-thirty on a Friday night and he was all alone.

But he wasn’t really alone. Even now, he could feel it. Like a shadow pantomiming his every movement. Ever since he’d come to the city a year ago, he’d been followed by something. It was formless, but always in the corner of his eye. It was silent, but he could have sworn it whispered to him. His disastrous academic performance was due in no small part to his unwanted hanger-on. 

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Joules had considered going to see someone about his problem, but he always stopped short of making the call. It was ridiculous. What would he tell them, that he was haunted? No, they’d laugh him out of the office at best and toss him in a padded cell at worst. Instead, he suffered in silence. The bags under his eyes the only outward clue to his inward torture. 

Leave me alone.

There was no answer, of course, not that he expected one. Accepting his supernatural roommate had been a deranged leap in the first place. Conversing with it bordered on delusion. Maybe he was crazy. At least then he wouldn’t be responsible for his failure. However, he couldn’t help believe in his ghostly companion. The alternative was too horrible.

Will you piss off if I get drunk? Will that make you happy?

There was no reason it would; it hadn’t ever worked in the past, but being drunk did help him ignore it. It was as solid a plan as any, especially if it wouldn’t offer up any helpful suggestions for itself.

He could hear the music from the bar a block away. Loud, harsh. A local band, probably, by the sound of it. He followed the noise to the door of Tap Out, his favorite drinking hole. A line stretched from the entrance down the street. Joules fell in behind a group of people, idling on his phone. 

When he reached the bouncer, he was surprised to not recognize the large man. “ID?” the man asked.

He fished his wallet from his pocket, playing along to the song and dance. He looked old enough, or so he’d been told, but he’d never bothered getting a fake. Instead he relied on the good graces of various bouncers, bartenders, and owners to feed his developing alcoholism. 

The man took a passing glance at his license. He looked up at Joules, then back down to the small card.

“Are you kidding me?” the man asked.

“What’s the matter?” Joule’s answered, playing along.

The bouncer thrust the card back into Joules’ hands. “Get the fuck out of here, kid.”

Joules rolled his eyes. New Guy. Playing by the rules. “Come on,” he pleaded, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t bothered. Can’t you let it slide this one time?”

This was usually the part where he’d be expected to bribe the bouncer, but money was tight enough as it was. Besides, the guy didn’t look in a particularly receptive mood.”

“I said beat it.” the bouncer said, barely hiding the disdain dripping from his words. He must have already turned away a dozen people like Joules. “You’re holding up the line.”

Joules knew the man was right, and he also knew that there were more places he could get drunk without having to placate some stickler bouncer. It was the principle of the matter. 

“Hey, I come in here all the time. Let me talk to Brandon, he’ll vouch for me.” Brandon, a bartender at Tap Out probably wouldn’t appreciate being name dropped in the commission of a crime, but Joules was out of options.

“Are you deaf, asshole?” the bouncer said, clearly done with the conversation. He placed a thick hand on Joules’ shoulder, gripping it in a steel trap.

Joule’s blood ran cold. A ghostly hand of deep navy with what looked like brass knuckles pulled the bouncers hand off of Joules. The bouncer began to quiver, sputtering as words failed to escape his lips. The ghostly hand began to solidify, and suddenly, a being as real as Joules or the bouncer stood between them. 

「Do Dope Fuck Hope」

Joules couldn’t explain why the words entered his head, but he heard them as clearly as if he’d said them aloud. The figure seemed to hesitate with the bouncer’s wrist clutched in his hand, as if waiting for something. 

So now you decide to show yourself.

The phantom didn’t respond, but a sense of relief washed over him. 

Not a talker. Okay. I guess you and me are in this together. Might as well ruin someone else’s night.

He didn’t expressly command the ghost to snap the man’s wrist, but a sickening crunch followed by the howl of the bouncer drew all attention to Joules. The ghost released the crying man who fell to the floor clutching his destroyed hand. Joules felt everyone’s eyes dig into him, but no one moved. Could they see the ghost? He wasn’t sure, but nobody moved to confront him.

Then, as soon as the apparition had appeared, it vanished, and Joules was left with a terrifying lump in his stomach that anchored him in place. The patrons outside the bar began to whisper among themselves.

“What the hell?”

“Did he just assault the bouncer?”

“Somebody should call an ambulance.”

Joules’ eyes fell to the bouncer on the ground, writhing in pain, but now coherent enough to spit foul curses at Joules. He took a step back as the large man struggled to his feet. The bouncer’s wrist hung at a sick angle. 

“You’re dead, kid.”

To be continued...