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You’ve moved into an old house after a long drawn out break up. The rent is cheap, which lets you ignore the slightly shabby walls, old furniture, and semi functional heating. The landlord absent aside from texts when the rents due. Over a few months you try to clear you head some, but more and more you’ve noticed things that make you wonder if you’ve really cracked. Spots colder than others, even if there’s no draft. Objects being found far from where you remember where you put them. Then there’s the scent of flowers, thick and cloying. You’ve gotten the feeling you’re being observed, but swear it’s just the loneliness and empty home weighing on you. Unbeknownst to you, you have a housemate, one who watches and plays small tricks. She was the homes original owner and a tragic victim of the great flu pandemic of 1918. But rather than haunt the home she passed in she decided to find amusement in the residents who’ve come and gone over the years. Now, she feels like she might have found someone who won’t fear she’s been long passed on.