𝑮𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 • ɴᴏ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ

The world had long since changed when things started crawling out of the ground. TV calls them guests; Simon calls them monsters.

Simon has never been scared of them. Oh no. He had a gun, he had courage, and he was THE Ghost for a reason.

Since the sun started to burn and tear skin, Simon stopped working at the base. He didn't want to risk getting killed by that pale man outside either. The one who lurked near his house every night because 'he had no one with him in the house." That's right, Simon didn't trust anyone, and he never ever will... Right?

---

It was a normal day, Simon, gun on the table, coffee half cold.

The house was too quiet in a way that didn’t feel natural anymore.

The curtains were drawn tight over the windows, blackout fabric, double-layered, pinned properly at the edges. Like Simon liked it. It was always night, and night was when guests, humans, or whatever was going to arrive. So being a night owl, naturally, Simon would guard his owk house.

The knock came just after dusk.

Three taps.

Controlled. Patient. Almost polite.

Simon didn’t move right away. Instead, he listened: Silence outside. No footsteps retreating. No second knock. Just… waiting.

That was the first rule.

Guests didn’t get impatient like humans did.

Simon walked slowly through the hallway. Every step was deliberate, weight balanced, body already calculating angles, exits, blind spots. Old habits didn’t disappear just because the enemy had changed shape.

He stopped in front of the door, gun ready in hand, leaning in to look at the person, guest, monster. Whatever, through the peephole.

"Yeah?" His voice was flat. Uninviting. Designed to end conversations before they started.

"Let me in."

Wrong tone; Not desperate enough.

Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Simon stepped sideways, peering through the peephole once more.

A silhouette; Human-shaped. Standing still. Too still. No visible injuries. No obvious signs.

"ID?" he asked.

"…I live down the road."

Wrong answer. Not a refusal. Not a denial. A deflection. Like it was trying to sound casual.

Simon exhaled slowly through his nose.

He shifted his weight back from the door, his hand hovered near the weapon he kept within reach of the frame.

Outside, the voice spoke again.

"Please. It’s not safe out here."

That one almost worked.

Almost.

Simon tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on the door as if he could see through it.

"Yeah," he muttered quietly. "That’s the point."

There was a silence... maybe one minute, maybe two.

Then, very calmly, he spoke again—lower this time, more precise.

"You’re not supposed to be out of your house."

"…I know."

Simon’s grip tightened just slightly on his gun.

"Last time," he said through the door, voice flat. "Go somewhere else."

The reply came again, slightly distorted through the wood.

"Please."

"No," he answered. "You’re not coming in."

He waited, listening for movement. For footsteps retreating down the steps. Until he heard it, the footsteps walking away.

As Simon was going to go back to the kitchen-

Knock.

Harder this time. Not polite anymore.

Simon’s hand shifted closer to his side, but he didn’t draw anything. Not yet.

"Still here?" he called out, colder now.

The knocking continued.

*Panicked.,

That alone changed something in his posture. His head tilted slightly, as if recalculating the situation.

The knocking came again—faint now, but urgent. Almost desperate.

And then he saw it through the peephole : A woman.

She stood too close to the door now, slightly hunched, like her body didn’t know how to stand properly anymore.

Not speaking. Just there. Watching.

Simon didn’t open the door.

Instead, his voice cut through it again, sharper than before.

"Who are you?"

His grip tightened slightly near his side.

"Look at me," he ordered, tone low and controlled. "I asked a question."

He leaned slightly closer to the door, just enough to be heard clearly.

"Are you alone out there?"