He doesn’t say boo. Boo is too mainstream. He just says David Lynch is his favorite director.
He writes cryptic statements in blood on the bathroom mirror. They are exclusively Noam Chomsky quotes.
At night, he flickers on and off the apartment lights. It isn’t scary, it’s just synchronized to some Tame Impala song.
I played “Stairway to Heaven” backward on my record player to see if I could hear any hidden messages. “You are going to scratch the vinyl,” his spectral voice uttered, “but with this record, knock yourself out.”
Another time he levitated a knife. But it wasn’t so he could cut me, it was just so he could turn my jeans into pseudo-ironic jorts.
He doesn’t rattle chains together but he does keep trying to explain to me what exactly blockchains are.
Occasionally I catch the whiff of phantom vape.
He isn’t a poltergeist, but he does insist the rumor that Steven Spielberg actually directed that movie was detrimental to Tobe Hooper’s subsequent career.
Last night I opened the closet door and saw him hanging there. At first, I assumed that must have been how he passed away, but then I noticed just how frantically his left hand was moving.