“So I have this — uhm — unusual?…sleeping arrangement,” the third viewer of the day said, scuffing the worn-down toe of her shoe on my hall floor. “I’m looking for a roommate who doesn’t mind the unconventional.”

Ah. Another one? I laugh without meaning to, and her eyes snap whippishly toward mine.

I shrug. “Well, the room is already fully furnished and there isn’t any storage here. I guess if you need to make different sleeping accommodations, you’ll have to make arrangements yourself to move around and store what you don’t need. Would that be ok?”

She cocks her head, a bevy of unkept red hair falling forward to block one of her deeply set, dark eyes. Heavy purple stains stretch like wide half-moons beneath them.

She asks, soft voice rising in a note of disbelief, “Aren’t you going to ask what it is?”

“Is it a coffin?” I ask, chuckling. It’s months away from April Fool’s Day still, but maybe some people are getting in some practice? I don’t know.

Her stupefied gaze narrows sharply, any white disappearing, and I’m reminded of a horror movie I once watched of a girl climbing out of a well with pupil-flooded eyes.

“How did you know?” Her uncovered eye stares at me warily.

“You aren’t the first who told me that today.” I grin, aware I seem just as strange as her request is. “I guess when you advertise for a room to rent on Cemetery Road, it brings out the pranksters. I hope you aren’t one. Anyway, if you’re serious about renting, I don’t care what you need to use to sleep, but it’s in your hands to deal with the bed the room comes with.”

“I have no place to store your furniture, otherwise I wouldn’t need a place myself.”

Like I thought. She isn’t serious. Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she walks out. Or glides out. It doesn’t seem like her legs move beneath her floor-length skirt.

The fourth and last appointment of the day at least isn’t asking if he can move a casket in with him.

He wears strange clothing. Little clothing. A white linen loin cloth like the ancient Egyptians wore and a mixture of beaded necklaces and gold bracelets are all that grace his tanned, lithe form.

“Stone slabs?” I repeat his request. “How many stone slabs are we talking about here? What are you building—a pyramid?”

My response clearly offends him and after eyeing my lounging cat nearby a few beats too long (did he just ask her beneath his breath to curse me in my sleep?!), he exits the flat at a thunderous pace.

What is going on today? A full moon? I step over to the window to watch what kind of vehicle my pharaohish visitor could have possibly come in, and instead see him saunter across the street. He walks through the gate of the old cemetery. Literally. He passes through the entrance as though the wrought iron bars are nothing more than a mist.

My first thought probably should be a number of other more glaring things, such as I just interacted with what was obviously a ghost, but instead all I can think is, we have an ancient Egyptian buried there?

My curiosity is enough to carry me out the door, down the stairs, and following the same path my last prospective renter went.

The gate is locked, however. I jiggle it a bit, to no avail. I stand there a quarter hour or more, until evening sets in and a gathering fog swirls above the graves. Whispers and cackling begins.

“We have…a room to let…,” the voices say, though not in perfect unison. “Come in….,” they beckon, echoing one another, “Come in. Come in.” The lock on the gate falls to the ground and I reach out mindlessly like a zombie for the rusted, ornate handle.

My alarm blares obnoxiously in my ear and I’m startled awake. Oh. It all makes sense now. I calm my racing heart as I roll over to smack it off. I lay still for some minutes, as my breathing slowly becomes easier.

…Maybe I won’t list my room for rent today after all.