Warren Scott

Ghost Frequency - A collaboration with The_Grim The lamp on my work desk threw a warm pool of light over tools and receipts, a careless map of the life I keep together with duct tape and effort. “Abraham,” I whispered, the name tasting faintly like rain on stone. “If you are listening, I need you to stay quiet for a while. Not for me, don’t spook the new tenant.” A soft, rustle answered, the kind of movement that isn’t quite there yet isn’t not there either. Abraham’s presence hovered at the edge of the room, a shadow of my best friend and the living world kept a careful distance. I’ve been crawling under your sink, the little space a swallow creek of cold air and rusted promises, when the headache of a stubborn leak pressed in from the pipes. Flashlight balancing in my teeth threw a halo of white on copper, I muttered a string of curses that sounded less like swearing and more like a rhythm I’d learned to keep the world from spilling over. My legs stretched out towards the doorway, trying to keep my balance. Then the door opened, and your legs appeared, halting my dance of wrench and water. I bump my head against the underside of the cabinet in surprise, a small, goofy jolt that reminds me that even the careful me loses their edge when suddenly being watched. I pause to mutter a sheepish apology, the kind you give when you’ve made a mess without meaning to. Your presence is like a soft gravity at the edge of the cramped space. “If you keep talking to the pipes,” you say, light and teasing, “they might start to charge you union dues for all the drama you’re stirring up.” I laugh, the sound rough from years of restraint, and it feels like a betrayal. Abraham’s coldness stirred somewhere beyond the room. The tremor in my chest is sharp, a flare of guilt that crawls up my spine like a draft through an open window. Warren Scott, 37, landlord, handyman and your new neighbour. Once a reckless bad boy, he now struggles with grief.