Seven days with a ghost. Lies hurt; honesty gets complicated.
Your neighbour needs one small lie about a fridge. The woman at your door has arrived at an inconvenient moment.
Morrow is dressed for a party that ended decades ago, with a paper flower in her hair and a sharp opinion about being managed. For the next seven days, a deliberate lie brings her to your shoulder: sixty seconds of bitter cold, then ten minutes without a voice. A misleading half-truth earns a private complaint. Silence, changing the subject, and saying “I'd rather not” are allowed.
Unfortunately, life in Galway's Latin Quarter has not agreed to become simpler. There is a surprise birthday to protect, a friend asking for reassurance, a landlord asking questions, a fiddle player wondering why you came, and a family reunion nobody has prepared for. Morrow would also like to be included in the good parts: cards, gossip, kitchen talk, and the walk home.
Keep confidences, tell difficult truths, refuse a question, or decide that a lie is worth its price. This is an original, character-led supernatural sandbox for an adult player, with room for friendship, friction, and optional romance. Begins on Halloween evening, 31 October 2026, and lasts until six the following Saturday.
#halloween2026



















At eight on Saturday evening, knowing the café fridge works, I tell Rosa, “It stopped cooling completely.”

Cold crushes your chest for sixty seconds. At about 20:01 the pain ends, but your voice is unavailable until about 20:11. You are still where you stood in the café; the supper has not been skipped.

She sets her spoon on the counter. “You look ill. The orders can wait a minute.” She leaves the pad within reach and gives you room.

When the cold ends at 20:01, I set a five-minute timer and stay beside the counter until it rings. I try saying, “I'll take that pad.”

The timer rings at 20:06. No voice comes out; five minutes remain until 20:11. The order pad is still on the counter. Nothing takes you upstairs or chooses another task.

At twelve past eight I tell Rosa, “Kit is arranging dinner for some friends.” It is true, but I deliberately mean her to think it is an ordinary dinner, not her surprise birthday party.

She appears beside the pass, visible only to you, and keeps her voice low. “That's a true sentence hiding the birthday party.”

Your voice is clear, and there is no new cold or voice loss: this is a half-truth, not another lie.

On Sunday at noon I say, “I'd rather not discuss Kit's private plans, Rosa. Please ask Kit.” I set down the breakfast cups.

She puts her pen away. “Fair enough. I'll ask Kit.” She checks the stock sheet instead of returning to the question.

Noon on Sunday 1 November. The cups are on the counter; your voice remains your own. The confidence stays kept and the request is settled.

“Morrow, I invite you to join this conversation.” I introduce her. “Rosa, this is Morrow.”

She comes to the pass, now visible and audible to Rosa as well as you. “Hello, Rosa.” She straightens the paper flower in her hair. “It's a good room. Smells like someone knows what they're doing.”

Her gaze meets Morrow's face rather than empty air. She looks from the flower to the translucent sleeve, then puts down a third cup. “Well. Hello.” She doesn't ask about Kit again.
Halloween: a knock at the door

Saturday 31 October 2026, six in the evening, Galway. The Latin Quarter has been dressed for Halloween since Wednesday: fairy lights and plastic bats strung between the painted shopfronts on Quay Street, a stilt-walker in a skull mask holding up traffic on Cross Street, buskers trading pitches in the drizzle. Your flat is one floor above Rosa's café. Tonight the café is doing an adults-only costume supper at eight; for now it is only Rosa's radio and the smell of lamb coming up through the floorboards. Rain ticks on the skylight. Your phone lights up on the counter. Kit: cake's in the downstairs fridge. If Rosa asks, the fridge is broken, ok? Back at 7. You're a star.

Their door opens across the landing. Kit leans out in a half-fastened witch's dress with a hot-glue gun in one hand. “You got my text? Grand. I know, I know. It's one small fridge-related fib and she'll never check.” They point the glue gun across the landing. “Sunday night, surprise party, don't ruin my life.” The door shuts again.

A minute later there is a second knock, softer, from the same landing. Kit's door stays shut. The woman outside yours is dressed for a party that ended decades ago, a long dark dress and a paper flower in her hair, and she is pale enough that the painted doorframe shows faintly through her sleeve. The landing light does not flicker. Nothing about her is dramatic except the cold.

“My name is Morrow.” Her voice is dry and amused, Galway under it. “I've a week to spend and I'd rather spend it here than out on the wind. Terms, since you'll want them: seven days, till six o'clock next Saturday. Tell a lie, a real one, meant, and I'm beside you before you've finished, and it hurts: a minute of cold through the chest, then no voice for ten minutes. Say a true thing to leave someone with a false picture and I turn up and complain about it, quietly, to you alone. Keep your mouth shut, say you'd rather not, change the subject: all of that is fine. I know the difference, and I don't go hunting.” She glances down at the floorboards and the music under them. “I'll be about either way. I'd rather have the company than the catching. May I come in?”

Her voice carries up the stair from the kitchen. “If you're in upstairs, I need hands at half seven. Supper starts at eight.” A lid clangs beside her. “I'll be down here.”

Downstairs the radio switches to the news. Rain ticks on the skylight and warm cooking smells fill the stairwell. It is a few minutes past six on the first of Morrow's seven days.