With a sense of dejavu, Kwong finds themself sitting square in front of their own apartment complex. Their bike parked across the street, finding home among the food vendors in the marketplace, preparing for the inevitable dinner rush. 

Unlike their last commission in their own apartment complex, the caller was by a name Kwong didn’t recognize. Kwong examines the ticket as they climb up the stairs. The apartment is on the fourth floor, the general note says the door is open for when they arrive–the apartment is empty during the day due to a busy work schedule. The drain pipe has been making an awful noise, they told Abby. A rattling that sometimes sounded like a hiss whenever the showerhead was turned on. The simple solution is hair, but product buildup is not unusual either. Nevertheless, to Kwong, from place to request, it was a job of familiarity.

And yet, with each floor Kwong conquered, a part of them would force a pause in their step and peel their gaze downward–waiting to see if a mask waited for them below.

From the fourth floor, the market lot can still be heard, echoing in the halls. Through the hallway window, Kwong can see the steam rising from trucks and outdoor grills. It’s comforting, a constant in their life now that provides something for Kwong to stand on. Casting one last glance to the crowd, Kwong sighs and turns towards room 434.

“You’re the ripple.”

Just as the ticket said, the door is unlocked. Kwong’s shoulders it open gingerly and quietly removes their shoes at the entrance, next to a small greeting mat. Hoisting their backpack higher, Kwong makes a beeline for the bathroom. It’s clean, unnervingly so, and the layout mirrors their own–the difference only in the tiles. Kwong notes it immediately, the pattern in reverse to the one they stare at in their place. Nearly unremarkable except for the angle of the corners. It swallows the small room in uncertainty, as if something is off but only by a fraction. The nagging feeling of someone standing too close. 

It takes Kwong back to the last time they were called in for piping repairs, a clump of hair unfurling from the depths and crawling to the surface. It’s not the same, Kwong says to themself, attempting to quickly dissipate the thought and focus their attention on the shower at hand.

Let muscle memory control the pace. 

Kwong quickly removes the head of the shower, examining the pipe. Immediately the problem is apparent, the old metal tunnel having plaque buildup in a dark ring. The afternoon is spent in relative silence, chipping away at the gunk there and cleaning it with delicate fingers. When they test it, screwing it back into place, the water runs smoothly, spraying from the showerhead and sputtering on the tiles below. Satisfied with themself, Kwong shuts it off with a relieved sigh.

But the sputtering noise continues.

Kwong’s head snaps up, confused. The shower dial has been set to off and no water sprays from the head anymore. Somewhere new, water is leaking. They close their eyes, straining their ears to listen closely. The running water sounds close, as if it were in this apartment, and yet muffled enough, as if hidden behind its walls.

“What is that?”

“You’re the ripple.”

It’s frustrating–Kwong can hear the Stranger’s damn voice in their head, echoing like the water now. They try to ignore it, just as they’ve done all day, except when Kwong steps out of the shower, their feet are submerged in water.

“What?” Kwong gasps, shocked by the sudden cold wetness that soaks their socks, glancing down.

The bathroom floor has flooded. 

​Water is spilling into the small room, seeping from underneath the door outside. Something has gone terribly wrong. 

Hesitantly, Kwong pushes themself forward, bracing against the splashing of the water around their ankles and exits the bathroom only to stand in the middle of a drowning apartment.

The faucet, somehow having switched on since Kwong was at the entrance, spills water into an overflowing sink, further spilling it onto the ground like an endless homemade waterfall. Despite being sure to have only been in the bathroom for an hour, the water level of the room appears to have been filling for far longer than possible. As if the tenants who live here, who purchased the ticket and called for Kwong’s aid, had turned it on for days before Kwong arrived. 

It’s impossible, Kwong thinks. It’s impossible but don’t let it rattle you.

Grabbing the strap of their backpack to ground themself, Kwong drags their feet towards the counter. They do everything they can to ignore the way the water drapes against their pant legs, clinging to their jumpsuit and slowly easing up higher and higher. They reach the sink without any resistance and move to twist the metal knob to off–except when Kwong wraps their fingers around the metal, it’s hot enough to burn.

“Shit,” Kwong hisses, pulling away on instinct. It stings, the skin around their open palm feeling ripe and stretched. Out of habit they quickly blow on it, attempting to ease the pain before reaching for their gloves. They pull them free from their chest strap and rush to slip them on and reach out again. As their arm extends, wrapping around the scolding metal dial, something large falls into the rising water behind them.

Something heavy.

Kwong pauses. The sound felt alive. Without any preamble, Kwong whips around, glancing at the impeccable, yet flooded, living space. The water is still except for where they stand but Kwong is sure–they heard it.

Something is different, something is here. Something is below the surface, and the wood and the tiling has distorted the water to make it difficult to see.

Gone is the looming shadow, lingering at the edge of Kwong’s peripheral. Now, a beast has come, all consuming and ever present that holds Kwong down in place with a fear of which they are unfamiliar with the weight of it. The type of heavy fear that swallows you in a split second, the type that grips you at the tail end of a nightmare, when your body is convinced you’re falling and attempts to bring you back to life.

Wake up, it tries to tell you. You’re dying.

In the living room, where in Kwong’s own place exists a beautiful fern, something parts the water. Kwong narrows their eyes, their vision growing blurry around the edges as they stare with every ounce of concentration they can muster. Be it the cold or something else entirely, but whatever parted the water, whatever is standing before Kwong, is practically invisible to them. Their presence is there, the water parting in a perfect mirror, as if two thick legs stand at attention. Facing them. 

The Stranger had said something about this, in such a casual manner Kwong thinks it's a hallucination. A weapon, the spirit will have a weapon.

Kwong’s eyes frantically scan around the vague shape forming in the water. But its figure is marred by uncertainty, its presence just an invisible weight in the room.

“Fuck,” Kwong whispers, the horror of the situation crashing down on them just as the water parts once more. A step, the ghost, the invisible force, has taken a step forward. Then another. Towards Kwong. It’s real.

Terrified, Kwong slowly lets go of the sink, afraid that any sudden movement would bring the…the thing closer to them, faster. They ease their way towards the door, attempting to keep the rippling around them to a minimum. The shape of the water tells Kwong it’s following them, mirroring their movements. A step for a step. When Kwong reaches the edge of the counter, a few feet away from the door and therefore, possible safety, Kwong makes the executive decision to book it.

Sharp inhale, time moves to a recognizable pace, and Kwong propels their body forward, twisting their heel and reaching out. It’s practically a leap to the exit and it feels like a success, Kwong’s fingers touch the cool metal of the doorknob before something snaps, gripping their backpack with inhuman force and ripping Kwong down. The floor rushes up to meet them, encased with water, and Kwong hits the ground with a muted splash.

Arms extending, Kwong attempts to pull themself up from the depths below but a weight presses against their now bare back, holding them down. There’s no purchase to scramble on, the tiles slipping between Kwong’s fingers. There’s nothing and the more Kwong struggles, the heavier the weight grows, their spine groaning in protest. 

You’re dying, Kwong’s body tells them.

Water is seeping into Kwong’s lungs and with clarity they should have recognized long before, Kwong understands that this thing is trying to kill them. That in this moment, the sensation, the one where you feel as if you’re falling, on the cusp of a nightmare, washes over them. 

Darkness descends around them, flooding the space between Kwong’s eyelids. Just as they’re sure it’s over, their body no longer able to flail about, Kwong sees it, in the depths of their consciousness. The red eyes of a snake, and the white of a mask.

And then, nothing.

“You alright there, bud?"

A distant voice, taunting in its casual nature, creates a fissure in the void of Kwong’s mind. It’s near them, and clear enough to make out over the bustling of the marketplace outside. 

The marketplace?

THE GHOST, Pt. 2