Elvira must've read the full collapse in my eyes, because she tilted her head and said,
"Well, crash at my place tonight. We'll figure it out tomorrow."
"You live alone?" I asked, not expecting any luxury — just hoping I wasn't about to be assigned a nice patch of dungeon floor.
"Absolutely," she said with a wink.
Great. Except… her eyes had the same sparkle as a salesperson about to pitch a vacuum that sucks up everything except dust. Suspicious.
And just like that, she started asking questions — curious little probes about life in "the other world," like I was a rare collectible and she was checking for authenticity.
Trust is easier when you've got a decent pillow and warm pajamas. Harder when your only other option is a haunted basement or a ghost-infested graveyard.
So I sighed and followed her, hoping she wasn't secretly harvesting newcomers for potion ingredients.
Elvira's room was… minimalist. It was spacious, simple, and surprisingly tasteful — bookshelf, bed, desk. No frills, but everything looked clean, organized, and like it belonged to someone who had their magical life together.
For a moment, I was ready to hand her five stars on the imaginary real-estate app in my head.
Until my gaze landed on one particular shelf.
Dried herbs. Vials of questionable liquids.
And… a finger.
A human finger. Slightly yellowed with age, but otherwise disturbingly well-preserved — like it had a personal skincare routine and a grudge.
I froze. My brain quietly left the chat while my spine did a hard reboot.
Every horror movie I'd ever seen tried to rise from the grave of my subconscious at once, whispering, "Told you so."
And honestly?
I very seriously considered moonwalking out of there before before that deranged necromancer came back from the bathroom and decided to keep me as a decorative corpse roommate. Some people collect mugs, God knows what necromancers collect.