The whole point of being a shut-in, you see, is to be left the fuck alone. Unbothered. Not having to worry about encountering another soul. Let alone the smell of their essence when you least expect it. But alas, Verner no longer had the luxury of living alone. He had been able to for almost five glorious years now, after inheriting (is there any other way to get something in the present?) the apartment from an aunt who had taken kindly to him over the years, clearly favoring him over her few other niece and nephew options, least of all Verner’s brother, Gabriel, who never made any secret of wanting Aunt Selma’s sumptuous two-bedroom apartment in Nob Hill. That was why, as far as Selma was concerned, he would be the least likely to get it. You couldn’t go around making such crass desires known to people; you had to be sneaky about it. And even if Selma actually liked Gabriel as a person, the fact that he was so oblivious to such things automatically made Selma believe he wouldn’t know how to take proper care of such a precious apartment. He didn’t have any savvy. Not like Verner.

And so, at a mere thirty-three years old, Verner was the proud owner of a property in one of the most coveted and expensive neighborhoods in San Francisco. Not only that, but he reveled in living alone there, despite having an extra bedroom he could have been renting out all along for the sake of that beloved concept: passive income. But no, the thought of having to share a space so pristine, so ideal for the person who hated to leave their house was more than Verner could bear. That is, until he was bore down on by the financial pressure of several debts catching up to him all at once. Though, technically, he could have paid them off over a long period of time with his part-time job at the bookshop where he worked as a cashier/all-around “recommender” of literature, Verner shuddered at the thought of being beholden to both the government and a number of different credit card companies. Not that the government would have given him much choice about paying up tout de suite (who knew back taxes could add up so quickly, Verner marveled). Thus, the fastest way to pay it all back in one fell swoop was to commit to at least a year of renting out that extra bedroom. The one he had been using as a storage/exercise/general “hobby” room (e.g., for painting or “laying down a track,” when he felt so obliged and inspired).

Which is how he found his previously unpenetrated shut-in’s bubble abruptly and viciously pierced (and yes, he considered himself a shut-in/recluse despite still going outside when it was absolutely necessary). While he was expecting the adjustment to be unpleasant, he had such high hopes at the outset of Reg moving in. Of course, the name “Reg,” so clearly short for Reginald—was Reg’s attempt to appear “with it,” younger than he actually was. And when Verner—who refused to let anyone ever dare to call him “Ernie”—signed on for this new roommate, he was under the impression that he had chosen wisely. That Reg, a man in his fifties (which was already perhaps questionable, but then, these are trying times and people of every age now struggle to have more than just a mere room of their own, let alone an entire abode), would be gone most of the time. After all, he had a full-time job and claimed that he often went away on weekends to visit his adult children, who now had young children of their own. All in all, it seemed like a perfect setup. The best Verner could hope for in terms of maintaining at least some of his shut-in status, and the delights that went with it. Or so he was made to believe…

Alas, it didn’t take long for Verner to realize he had been led down a primrose path. That Reg, in fact, was almost always home. That his “full-time” job amounted to about fifteen hours a week, at best. He didn’t need to work more than that thanks to being such a “shrewd saver,” as he put it one night in the kitchen, for his entire life. However, Verner could see that his ability to save money had nothing to do with “shrewdness” and everything to do with being a total loser that no one wanted to hang out with (not even his own children, as it quickly became evident that no weekend trips would be happening). At least in Verner’s case, he was a shut-in by choice, didn’t want to have to deal with human interactions of any kind if he could possibly avoid it. Yet here he had let a fox into his henhouse, as it were. Someone who would harm and exploit his peace. Someone who was always just fucking there. When Verner was supposed to be the one to fulfill that role. Had done so just fine until Reg came along to contaminate his space. After a few months of his near-constant presence, save for those precious few hours when he went to his banal “clerk” job (with intermittent, but very brief trips to the grocery store thrown in between), Verner was crawling up the walls. His home no longer felt like a sanctuary, but a prison. And it was inciting him to do some rather uncharacteristic things. Namely, leave the apartment far more often than he ever would have deigned to in the past.

But what was the point of staying in anymore when his space had been so patently infected? When, at every turn, he risked a potential run-in—whether directly or indirectly—with Reg. Whose face he had grown to loathe. Whose face had begun to haunt his dreams (turned nightmares, whenever that mug showed up). He figured he might as well just take to the streets and the public spaces at that rate. He began to realize that Reg was probably costing him more money than he was saving him with the amount that Verner started spending in restaurants, coffee shops, movie theaters, museums and anywhere else he could go that would get him out of the apartment to avoid the constant presence of this firmly planted lodger. His rage and resentment building to a crescendo before a full year of Reg’s occupancy had gone by. Maybe he was angriest of all at himself for believing that he could ever, as a shut-in, cede any of his apartment space to another person, let alone someone who happened to have shut-in tendencies himself.

But, again, Reg was ultimately a fake shut-in, for he would have gone out all the time if anyone was interested in inviting him somewhere. Not so for Verner, who received invitations almost daily to attend different social events. But he always refused, even when he was now constantly looking for a place to be outside of his apartment. That didn’t mean he wanted to be outside of it “in company.” In fact, “outside” was now the only place he could feel alone, despite the huddled masses being everywhere, all around him. Still, he wasn’t beholden to be “cordial” with them the way he was with Reg, whenever the two might encounter in a common area (and, to Verner, all of the areas were starting to feel just a little too common). It was a waking nightmare for someone who wanted to be alone. Really and truly and fully alone.

When Verner could finally take no more, and he felt that the mere $1,800 a month he had been asking of Reg in exchange for letting him live in this ornately-decorated abode was no longer worth the price of his mental health, he gathered the courage to give Reg his one-month notice to get the fuck out. Reg seemed genuinely taken aback by the request, countering, “But I thought we were getting along so well.”

Verner could hardly believe his ears. Did Reg truly not see the sheer contempt in his eyes and the way his body practically shook with disgust every time he found Reg just there, lingering in the kitchen as if waiting for a goddamn chat. Someone to unload on since, clearly, Verner was the only one who had no choice but to listen to Reg for the sake of goddamn politesse. Because if he was rude to Reg, things could get awkward. Or Reg could turn hostile, do something bizarre like steal the silver or pilfer through cabinets and drawers in search of other things to fuck with or hawk. Verner had just about all he could take of walking on eggshells, and that included making himself constantly scarce. No longer ever able to enjoy the erstwhile comforts of his own home. Aunt Selma would surely be utterly heartbroken to see Verner suffering this way—and worse still, to see this interloper in her apartment. And, almost as if to spare Verner from any further dealings with this poseur of a shut-in, just as Verner was about to explode on Reg and tell him, that no, they weren’t getting along so well at all, the spirit of Selma seemed to descend from on high. And Verner knew it was her because the ghostly shape wore the same exact Breton hat that Aunt Selma was always sporting.

Before Verner could react in any way, with even so much as an exclamation, the spirit reached into Reg’s chest and ostensibly squeezed his heart until no more blood pumped through it. Gasping his last breath, Reg shouted, “You were my best friend!” It would have been touching, really, if it wasn’t so pathetic, Verner thought to himself. Reading his thoughts, Aunt Selma said, “I agree. Now listen, Verner, don’t say I never gave you anything. Not only this apartment, but now, you can keep collecting this man’s rent for a while.”

Aunt Selma was right. It would be easy to keep taking Reg’s money via the auto-payment he had set up. He could also log in to Reg’s computer (since Reg had been foolish enough to give him the password to his Netflix account at one point, Verner knew it was the same for his computer). And that way, send Reg’s resignation email to his so-called workplace so that no one would be suspicious about his sudden disappearance. No one else would even notice Reg’s absence. And this way, Verner would just drain the account slowly. An account that had so many more thousands to spare because Reg was the type to save and save and save. Hoping that one day, he might be able to actually use his money on something. Go somewhere. But only if it was with someone. Having never found that opportunity, Reg would have to settle for being a true shut-in now. Never leaving the apartment in Nob Hill again. For Verner would eventually bury his remains beneath the floorboards. After dealing with the body in a manner that Jeffrey Dahmer would probably deem appropriate.

As for Aunt Selma’s spirit, Verner never saw it again after that day. But, at the same time, he could always feel her presence. Almost like she was his guardian angel watching over him. Verner only wished it didn’t take her practically a full year of “dwelling” with Reg to finally step in and intervene. She might have saved him quite a bit of anguish. For, contrary to popular belief, shut-ins and the shut-in-esque are not anguished people. They’re living their best life away and apart from others. Which is why Verner was so committed to preserving that best life. Even at the cost of Reg’s.