With average housing prices hovering around the half-million dollar mark, I knew I’d never be a homeowner in my lifetime, and I was right.
Decades of jaywalking finally caught up to me and I bit the big one a few months back. If only someone had told me sooner how much my life would improve after dying, I would’ve meandered into traffic wearing nothing but a blindfold years ago, but as it’s been said, you don’t know what you don’t know.
Thanks to the extreme personal suffering and seething resentment I experienced during my lifetime, I was not so much “laid to rest” as I was “trapped for eternity” in the apartment unit I’d been renting up until my death, thus making me proprietor over the estate by laws far outranking those of man.
Contrary to what I’d expected, you actually do meet an all-knowing entity shrouded in a pleasant yet blinding white light when you die. The mysterious figure even gives you a choice between accepting death or receiving one more chance at life, but with my mountain of credit card debt, dead-end relationship, and soul-sucking 9-5 job, I chose the far less depressing option and decided to remain dead.
Unfortunately, not everyone is pleased with my decision to take up space in two realms. The new leaseholders of my apartment are constantly pleading with me to “go somewhere else” and “make peace with my time on earth” but why would I take advice from a renter? Maybe if they’d applied themselves a little more they could be living in a haunted house instead of a haunted apartment unit.
In an effort to reclaim my home completely, I’ve been ramping up the supernatural activity, but nothing seems to work. I’ve tried the classics, like turning on the faucets in the middle of the night and stacking all their chairs into a pyramid, as well as more nuanced methods like hiding their Tupperware lids and changing their wifi password, but it turns out anything short of demonic possession won’t force someone into giving up a rent-stabilized apartment.