Chapter 14: The Ratings Were to Die For
967 Words
Chapter 14: “The Ratings Were to Die For”
Jamie had always known something was off about Apartment 3B. The haunted Wi-Fi, the sentient toaster, the fact that his ceiling occasionally bled Latin proverbs—sure, weird. But now?
Now, he was the unwilling star of a supernatural reality show, and a shadowy “Executive Producer” had just appeared onscreen to ominously declare:
> “Jamie… we’ve been watching you for a long time.”
Naturally, Jamie reacted with grace and composure.
He threw his phone into a cereal bowl and screamed into a couch cushion.
In Search of Answers
“You think I signed a contract for this?” Jamie barked, pacing the living room like a caffeinated squirrel. “I don’t even read terms of service!”
Ghostie floated upside-down. “Maybe that’s the problem. You did click ‘Accept All Cookies’ on that cursed website.”
Brenda, the toaster, beeped solemnly and toasted a slice reading:
> “YOUR SOUL IS IN BETA.”
Jamie sighed. “I want answers. Who’s running Deadflix? And why me?”
Claudia the witch sipped ectoplasm tea and said dramatically, “If you want to trace a dark network, start with its most cursed server.”
Ghostie perked up. “The Haunted Data Center!”
Jamie narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a real place.”
Steve the portal repair guy opened a glowing vortex in the wall. “You sure? Because I just fixed a breach there last Tuesday. Watch your step—the floor screams.”
Into the Haunted Data Center
It looked like a server farm mated with a graveyard.
Skulls lined the Ethernet racks. A ghostly receptionist (named Karen) handed out wristbands that buzzed with ominous intent. Jamie’s glowed red and muttered, “Liability waived.”
Rows of black obelisks pulsed with cursed code. Holographic terms of service floated above every terminal.
Morty the intern whispered, “I think I did my internship orientation here.”
Ghostie hacked a terminal by tickling it.
Jamie looked over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
> “Just resetting the stream key. And—oh—unlocking Admin Mode.”
The screen flashed to life.
ADMIN ACCESS GRANTED.
A list of shows appeared:
Grave Expectations: Haunted High School Musical
Ghostchella: A Festival for the Dead Inside
Apartment 3B: The Human with the Wi-Fi
Jamie scrolled down to “Executive Producers.”
And saw one name:
> “Director: THE NARRATOR”
Jamie Meets... The Narrator
Suddenly, the server lights blinked out.
A spotlight clicked on.
A floating figure in a velvet smoking jacket and glowing monocle descended from the ceiling, suspended by literary tension alone.
He carried a wine glass full of black fog and spoke with an unplaceable British accent.
> “Ah, Jamie. Finally. I do hate it when my protagonists try to leave the plot.”
Jamie blinked. “You’re the Narrator?!”
> “Indeed. I write the story. Direct the show. Sprinkle in humor. Add emotional trauma at just the right moment.”
Jamie folded his arms. “You made me fall down a laundry chute in front of a vampire council!”
> “Slapstick. The audience loved it.”
Jamie’s eye twitched. “And the toaster union?”
> “Socioeconomic satire.”
“You possessed my microwave!”
> “Product placement.”
Negotiating with the Narrator
Jamie stepped forward. “Listen, velvet fog man. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to be on Deadflix.”
The Narrator swirled his fog. “You’re a reluctant protagonist in a world of madness. The crowd adores you.”
“I have anxiety!”
> “It tests well!”
Jamie grabbed a nearby cable. “If I pull this—”
> “Ratings drop 40%. Ghostie dies. Brenda resets to factory mode. Is that what you want?”
Jamie’s hand froze.
The Narrator leaned closer. “You are the story, Jamie. Without you, there’s no show. No laughter. No chaos. No—”
“Free snacks?”
> “Well, we do have a ghostly catering department…”
A Deal Is Struck
Ghostie floated beside Jamie. “You could bargain.”
“With what? My soul’s already in beta.”
> “Your terms. They want you? Make ‘em pay.”
Jamie turned to the Narrator. “Alright. I stay on the show… under conditions.”
The Narrator raised an eyebrow. “Do go on.”
Jamie held up one finger. “One: I get veto power over any new cursed roommates.”
“Except Steve. Steve’s chill.”
“Two: I want breakfast privileges. No more haunted forks attacking my eggs.”
“Three: I want royalties. I deserve ghost coin or something.”
The Narrator tapped his chin.
Then extended his spectral hand. “Deal.”
The Apartment Gets Upgraded
Back at Apartment 3B, Deadflix granted Jamie his demands.
He now had a non-haunted bathroom (mostly).
The toaster got promoted to Culinary Show Host.
Ghostie launched his own ghost cooking show: “Bake It 'Til You Make It.”
Morty got therapy (mandatory).
Claudia hexed the thermostat into sentience, and now it only responds to poetry.
The new title screen read:
> “Apartment 3B: Jamie’s Conditions”
And the audience loved it.
Jamie, reluctantly, admitted it wasn’t terrible.
But Not Everything Is Fine
Late at night, Jamie got a notification.
NEW EPISODE ADDED: “Jamie’s Final Season?”
And under it, a countdown clock:
15 days.
Ghostie hovered beside him. “Hey… you okay?”
Jamie stared at the screen. “They said I was the star. Why is my name on a final season?”
A dark laugh echoed from the screen.
> “All stories end, Jamie…”
- Writer
