Okay, besties, buckle up, ‘cause it's me, Brittany "Bree" Baxter, and I’m about to spill the literal tea on the most cursed week of my life. And no, I’m not being dramatic this time. I mean, I am, but like, for real-real.
So, y’all know how I’ve been manifesting my rise to TikTok fame, right? Well, between trying to keep my side hustle at Starbucks from ruining my vibe (ugh, customers) and blowing up on the ‘Tok, I was like, “I need a major life glow-up.” And then the universe, being its chaotic self, decided to send me Karen.
But this wasn’t your regular Karen. Oh no, babe. Not like, “Ugh, Karen just ordered a Venti soy latte and screamed at me because her drink wasn’t ‘hot enough’” (which, btw, has happened like three times this week). No. This Karen? A whole-ass ghost. The Ghost of Starbucks Past.
So, it’s Tuesday. I’m just chillin’ at my place after a long shift where I dealt with like, fifty million people asking for “extra foam”. Seriously, Emily, foam doesn’t work like that—stop trying to make foam happen. It’s not gonna happen. I’m scrolling through TikTok, prepping my next "Barista Horror Stories" video, and out of nowhere—like, BAM—I hear a knock. At first, I thought it was my DoorDash, but no, I hadn’t even placed my order yet….
I open the door, and girl—GIRL—there’s nobody there. Zip. Nada. Just the wind doing the most, so I was like, "Okayyy, weird flex but whatever." I close the door and go back to working on my latest TikTok dance (which was fire, btw).
Then. I hear it again. KNOCK KNOCK. LOUDER. My ring light literally flickers. Now I’m like, “Oh, this is some cursed horror movie nonsense.” But me being me, I record it. Obviously. Content is life.
I head back to the door, and when I open it this time… there’s this weird breeze that legit chills me, even though it’s like, 80 degrees outside. My skin? Goosebumps. My brain? 👉 "This is sus af."
And then? I see her.
No, not a regular ghost in a sheet or some random shadow figure. Worse. It’s a woman, but her vibe? Straight-up Karen energy, but if she had been left in the dryer too long—wrinkly and cranky. She’s standing there in the hallway, looking like she’s ready to give me a 1-star review for existing. She’s got that whole ‘I wanna speak to the manager’ face—you know the one—where you can tell she’s about to make her personality your problem.
“Excuse me,” she says, and I SWEAR the air drops like ten degrees. "Can I speak to the person in charge of this establishment?"
Called it.
Me, trying not to laugh: "Uh, hi? This is my apartment. What's your problem?"
Karen Ghost Lady doesn’t blink. Like, not even once. "This level of service is beyond unacceptable. You should be terrified by now."
OH MY GOD. This chick really wants me to be scared??? What, like I’m supposed to scream and run just ‘cause she’s giving me big haunting at the Holiday Inn vibes? So I’m like, “Bestie, we’re not doing this today.”
But then she steps forward. AND I’M NOT GONNA LIE, MY HEART DROPS.
Suddenly, she’s right up in my face. Like, no joke, one second she’s across the hall, next second—BAM—she’s so close I can smell her Karen perfume (spoiler: it smells like regret and expired coupons).
Her eyes? Black as the abyss. Legit black-hole vibes, no pupils. And she’s smiling this twisted smile like she knows something I don’t, and girl, I am not vibing with it.
"Don’t you remember me?" she whispers. "You messed up my order. Twice."
Okay, now I’m freaking out. Is this real? I’m trying to place her, but all Karens kinda blend together after a while. But then she says it:
“I asked for a Venti soy caramel macchiato, no foam, extra hot. You gave me foam. Twice.”
MY HEART STOPS. No way. It can’t be. I’ve messed up so many Karen orders, but now one of them’s haunting me?! Over FOAM??? Sis, let it go.
Her form flickers, becoming more solid. And then, before I can even blink, she drops—like, legit crumples to the ground like a broken mannequin. I take a step back, my brain short-circuiting because WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SEE?!
Her limbs are all twisted, bent at these impossible angles, like someone hit rewind on a bad horror movie. Her head snaps up, eyes locked on me. And then—oh god—she starts crawling toward me, dragging her body along the floor with these cracked, bony fingers, clawing at the wood. SCRATCH. SCRATCH. SCRATCH.
Her face is twisted into this grin—all teeth, no warmth—like she’s enjoying this nightmare way more than she should be.
“Did you think I’d forget?” she hisses, her voice sounding like it’s coming from everywhere at once. "You ruined my order."
I’m backing away, my heart pounding out of my chest, but my legs? They feel like Jell-O. I can’t move. I’m stuck watching her twisted, contorted body drag itself across the floor. Her bones crack with every movement, and her fingers leave deep claw marks behind her. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, and it’s making my skin crawl.
I try to scream, but nothing comes out. This is NOT happening.
My phone slips out of my hand and smashes on the floor. RIP, iPhone 15. No Chipotle delivery, no TikTok livestream.
In the corner of my eye, I see my reflection in the hallway mirror behind her. And here’s where I’m really about to lose it: There’s nothing there. No Karen in the mirror. Just me, staring at my own wide-eyed reflection.
But she’s grasping at me, trying to grab hold of my bandaged wrist—of course, always the wrist. Seriously, why is it always the wrist? And she’s laughing.
"Your attention to detail is... lacking," she hisses, her grip ice-cold on my skin. "You ruined my order. Now I’m going to ruin you."
Bruh. I’m DONE. I should’ve just stayed in bed this morning.
The walls start closing in, and I’m like, "Wow, plot twist, this Karen’s turning my apartment into a haunted Starbucks escape room." And girl, I am NOT making it out alive.
Her form flickers again, becoming less solid. I manage to break free and stumble back into my room, but she’s already there too. "You can't run," she says, “I’m just getting started."
So I grab my half-empty iced coffee from my nightstand (because, like, priorities) and YEET it at her. But, obviously, it goes right through her. Great. Of course, iced coffee isn’t gonna save me from a ghost. My whole life is a joke. I’m spiraling into full-on panic mode. My vision’s blurring, and all I can hear is her creepy-ass voice whispering my name, over and over again.
"Brittany… Brittany…"
Like, girl, please, not today!
And then, just like that, she flickers—blinks out of sight. Gone. But not gone gone.
I don’t even hesitate—I slam the door to my room and dive under my blankets (like THAT’S gonna help). My brain? Total panic. My phone? Smashed. My iced coffee? Sacrificed. My will to live? Currently on do not disturb.
I’m all alone now. Just me and this thing creeping around my apartment like she owns the place. And the worst part? There’s no one coming. No followers, no backup—just me. And her.
I thought this was supposed to be a joke. A TikTok gone wrong or something. But no. This is real. My body knows it, even if my brain’s still trying to meme its way out. This ghost isn’t playing. I’m alone in my room, trapped, and that thing outside is dead serious.
Silence.
I peek out. No Karen. No ghost. Nothing.
Just me. And a broken iPhone.
I might not see her right now... but I know she’s not gone.
She’s just waiting.
Waiting to speak to the manager.
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