The House That Refused Beige

The house on Rue des Figuiers had a reputation. Not the “cute spooky Airbnb” kind of reputation. More like the “locals cross the street and pretend they suddenly remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere” kind. It had once belonged to an old man named Monsieur Khalil, who reportedly argued with his own furniture. When he died, the furniture allegedly won. After that, the house stayed empty… until a broke architecture student named Samir decided it was “a great deal for the location.” His friends disagreed. “You bought a haunted house,” said Lina. “I bought a cheap house,” Samir corrected. “Ghosts are not in the budget.” They helped him move in anyway, because free pizza is stronger than fear. The first night started normal. Well—normal for a house where the front door closed by itself three times as if it was practicing. Samir set up his mattress in the living room because the bedroom “felt like it was judging him.” Around 2:13 AM, he woke up to a sound. Clap. Clap. Clap. Slow, deliberate applause. Samir opened one eye. “If this is a ghost, I swear I’m not impressed yet.” The clapping stopped. Silence stretched. Then a voice whispered from the hallway: “…mediocre response time.” Samir sighed. “Okay. So we’re doing this.” He turned on his phone flashlight. The hallway was empty. Or at least, empty in the way a hallway can look empty when it’s clearly plotting something. “Hello?” Samir called. A pause. Then: “Wrong tone. Try again.” “Try what again?” “Greeting me. With respect.” Samir blinked. “Hi?” A long, disappointed groan echoed through the house like a haunted teenager realizing their parents won’t let them move to Paris. “Try again,” the voice repeated. “I’m not doing haunted customer service,” Samir said. “Are you the ghost or the receptionist?” A chandelier—despite there being no chandelier—swung slightly in disappointment.

The next day, Samir told his friends. “You negotiated with it?” Lina asked. “It’s picky,” Samir said. “I think it wants formal greetings.” His friend Karim laughed. “Bro, you got a British ghost.” That night, they stayed over to “prove nothing was wrong,” which is the universal phrase for “we are about to make things worse.” At exactly 2:13 AM again, the house creaked. Then: Clap. Clap. Clap. The ghost spoke immediately: “Ah. You brought backup. Finally, a proper audience.” Karim sat up. “Wait… it talks?” “Yes,” Samir said. “And it has standards.” The ghost sighed dramatically. “Last visitor insulted my ceiling texture.” Karim whispered, “Your ceiling is literally peeling.” The lights flickered aggressively, like the house itself had just been personally offended. “WHO SAID THAT?” the ghost demanded. Karim slowly raised his hand. “Respectfully… your drywall looks like a failed croissant.” Silence. A long one. Then the ghost screamed so loudly the windows briefly forgot how to be windows. “I WAS AN INTERIOR DESIGNER IN 1894!” Samir blinked. “That explains so much and also nothing.” After that, things escalated. The ghost introduced itself as Edmund. “Edmund the… interior designer?” Samir asked. “Yes.” “Of a haunted house?” “I prefer ‘residential spatial energy consultant.’” Karim whispered, “That’s not even a real job.” The lights flickered again. “IT WAS A REAL JOB IN PARIS.” Samir nodded slowly. “Okay, Edmund. Why are you here?” A pause. “…I died during a renovation argument.” Karim leaned forward. “That’s the most 1800s way to die I’ve ever heard.” Edmund continued bitterly. “They wanted beige walls. I said no. They said yes louder. I fainted dramatically. I never woke up.” Samir stared. “So you became a ghost because of paint color?” “NOT JUST ANY COLOR,” Edmund said. “BEIGE.” The house shook slightly, like it was remembering trauma. From that night on, Edmund became… part of the household. Not in a “friendly spirit guide” way. More like a very angry roommate who didn’t pay rent but still critiqued everything. Samir would cook, and Edmund would comment: “Your pasta is under-seasoned. Emotionally and physically.” Karim would shower, and Edmund would whisper: “Water pressure: disappointing.” Lina tried to banish him with garlic. Edmund responded: “I am not a vampire. I am an architect.” The garlic did nothing.

The house, however, briefly redesigned itself into a Victorian kitchen and then changed its mind halfway through. One night, Samir had enough. “Edmund,” he said, standing in the center of the living room. “We need rules.” A pause. “…I am listening,” the ghost said cautiously. “No more random shouting. No more insulting my cooking. And no redesigning the house while I’m asleep.” A longer pause. Then Edmund replied: “And what do I get in return?” Samir hesitated. “Respect?” “I already demand that.” “…compliments?” Silence. Then, quietly: “Continue.” Samir sighed. “Fine. Compliments. And we’ll repaint the house if you stop haunting the toaster.” Karim raised a hand. “He haunted the toaster?” “The toast came out judgmental,” Samir said. The next few days were weirdly peaceful. Too peaceful. The house stopped creaking at night. No floating objects. No existential commentary on furniture. Karim didn’t trust it. “This is when ghosts kill you. When they’re polite.” Samir wasn’t sure. Then, on the fourth night, Edmund returned. But something was different. He sounded… proud. “I have completed a project,” Edmund announced. The lights flickered on by themselves. The entire house had changed. The walls were no longer random cracked paint. They were… elegant. Symmetrical. Beautiful. Karim gasped. “Wait… this is actually fire.” Lina looked around. “This is a professional renovation.” Samir whispered, “Did you… fix the house?” A pause. “Yes,” Edmund said. “I could not tolerate your living conditions any longer.” Karim laughed. “Bro your ghost is an interior designer AND a landlord.” Edmund continued: “Also, I have improved acoustics, so my voice echoes more dramatically.” “Of course you did,” Samir muttered.

Then came the twist nobody expected. A letter slid under the door. Which would have been normal, except there was no mail delivery service to a house that technically didn’t exist in city records. Samir opened it. It was from a construction company. “Dear occupants,” it read, “we regret to inform you that your house has been selected for demolition to make way for a luxury apartment complex.” Karim looked at Samir. “We’re getting evicted by capitalism.” Silence filled the room. Then Edmund spoke, very calmly: “No.” The lights dimmed. The house creaked in a way that sounded like cracking knuckles. Samir blinked. “Edmund… what are you doing?” A pause. “I am about to redecorate aggressively.” The house suddenly reshaped itself. Doors vanished. Hallways multiplied. The staircase looped back into itself like an infinite IKEA nightmare. Karim whispered, “Oh no. He’s going full architect mode.” When the construction workers arrived the next morning, they found something unusual. The house had… changed addresses. Literally. One worker stared at the map. “It says the building is now located… two streets over.” Another squinted. “That’s not possible.” From inside the house, faintly, a voice echoed: “Try beige now.” The demolition project was canceled. No one ever explained why. The official report simply said: “Site became structurally… opinionated.” Samir, Lina, and Karim continued living there. The house remained haunted. But in a way that was less terrifying and more like living with a very dramatic art critic. At night, Edmund still appeared sometimes. Clapping. Complaining. Occasionally approving of the lighting. And every so often, when Samir would sit quietly on the couch, he’d hear a faint voice.