The Stucco Grave

The mud in Winnipeg during March is not a vibe. It is a grey, slurping sludge that tastes like road salt and broken dreams. I wiped my boots on the frayed mat of 120 Wellington Crescent, a house that looked like it was held together by spite and several layers of lead paint. The front door groaned. Not a metaphorical groan. A literal, hinges-crying-for-mercy sound that echoed through the foyer.

"Hassan? That you?" Priya’s voice drifted from the kitchen. It sounded thin, like she’d been living on nothing but instant coffee and anxiety. Which, to be fair, was the brand for every international student in 2026.

"Yeah," I said, dropping my bag. "The bus was twenty minutes late. Again. I think the driver just gave up on reality halfway through Portage Avenue."

I walked into the kitchen. Priya was staring at a laptop screen, her face illuminated by the harsh blue light. She looked tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix. Behind her, the wallpaper was peeling in long, wet strips, revealing dark wood that looked uncomfortably like scabbed skin.

"Mr. Chase was here," she said. She didn't look up. "He wants the rent. And he’s not taking e-transfers anymore. He says the 'digital footprint' is getting too loud."

"Of course he isn't," I muttered. I opened the fridge. It was empty except for a jar of pickles and a single, lonely carton of oat milk that expired three days ago. "He’s a hundred and fifty years old. He probably thinks the internet is a series of tubes filled with ghosts."

"He’s a vampire, Hassan," Priya said, finally looking at me. "Let’s stop calling him old. He’s undead. And he’s charging three thousand a month for a place that has a 'blood-drain' in the laundry room."

"It’s a 'vintage floor feature,'" I corrected her, mimicking Chase’s dry, rattling tone. "Besides, where else are we going to go? My work permit is tied to this province, and the housing market is basically a Hunger Games spin-off. I’d rather lose a pint of blood a month than sleep in a shelter."

I needed to check the 'garden suite' in the basement. Mr. Chase had promised me a discount if I helped him 'renovate' it for the new arrivals from the airport. I grabbed my phone, flipped on the flashlight, and headed for the stairs.

The air changed the second I stepped down. It wasn't just cold; it was heavy. It smelled like wet dirt and ozone. I reached the bottom and clicked the light switch. Nothing. Figures. I used my phone light to scan the room.

It wasn't a suite. It wasn't even a room. It was a cavernous space filled with six rectangular stone boxes. They were lined up like cars in a parking lot. Each one had a sleek, modern Wi-Fi router duct-taped to the side. The blue lights on the routers blinked rhythmically, like tiny, digital heartbeats.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I whispered.

I walked over to the nearest box. It was carved from heavy grey siltstone. The lid was slightly ajar. I pushed it back with a grunt. Inside, there was a memory foam mattress topper and a single, high-thread-count pillow. On the interior wall of the coffin, someone had etched the Wi-Fi password: NOSFERATU_5G.

"Hassan? Is the signal better down there?" Priya called from the top of the stairs.

"It’s full bars," I shouted back. "But the 'beds' are literal coffins. I’m pretty sure this violates at least three municipal bylaws and several basic human rights."

"Does it have a charging port?" she asked.

I looked closer. There was a USB-C outlet recessed into the stone. "Yeah. And a cup holder."

"Honestly? I’ve seen worse on Facebook Marketplace for double the price," Priya said, her footsteps echoing as she came down to join me. She stopped at the edge of the light, staring at the rows of stone boxes. "He’s really doing it. He’s turning the basement into a high-density crypt for gig workers."

"It’s efficient," a voice rasped from the shadows.

I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. Mr. Chase stood in the corner, blending perfectly into the darkness. He wore a charcoal suit that was at least eighty years out of fashion, but his skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones, and his eyes had a weird, flat sheen. He wasn't pale like the movies. He looked like a man who had spent too much time in a tanning bed and then died.

"Mr. Chase," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "We weren't expecting you back until sunset."

"The clouds are thick today," he said, stepping forward. He didn't walk so much as glide. "Winnipeg weather is very forgiving to my condition. Do you like the renovations?"

"The Wi-Fi is great," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "The coffins? Maybe a bit much for the 'industrial chic' vibe you’re going for."

Chase smiled. It was a sharp, unpleasant movement. "They are secure. Soundproof. Perfect for the modern worker who needs a deep, death-like sleep between twelve-hour shifts. I’m starting a new venture, Hassan. A midnight courier service. Rapid delivery for things that shouldn't be in the light of day. I need drivers. I need recruiters. If you and Priya help me fill these... units... I can offer a rent freeze."

"A rent freeze?" Priya asked, her skepticism momentarily losing out to her bank balance.

"For the next six months," Chase said. "All I need is your signatures on a few 'blood-loyalty' waivers. Standard stuff. It just ensures you won't go to the press or the labor board."

"We’re students, not henchmen," I said.

"In this economy, is there a difference?" Chase tilted his head. "You have no credit score in this country. You have no local references. But you have me. I am your provider. I am your Land-Lord."

He disappeared into the shadows before I could respond. Just... gone. The air felt a little lighter, but the smell of dirt remained.

"We can’t do it," I said to Priya.

"Hassan, my tuition is due in three weeks. If I don’t pay, I’m out. If I’m out, my visa is gone. I’m not going back. Not like this."

I didn't have an answer. I turned back to the stone boxes. My phone light flickered. In the corner of the room, near a pile of old coal shovels, a shimmer began to form. It wasn't the landlord. It was something else. A man appeared, wearing a flat cap and a wool vest that was soaked with sweat and what looked like old blood. He looked like a grainy photograph come to life.

"Don’t listen to the leech," the ghost said. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together.

"Who are you?" I asked, backing up until I hit the side of a coffin.

"Mike," he said. "1919. General Strike. We fought the bosses for less than this. We didn't let them put us in holes in the ground while we were still breathing."

"The housing crisis wasn't this bad in 1919, Mike," I said, my brain trying to process the fact that I was talking to a century-old labor leader.

"Doesn't matter," Mike said. He stepped closer. He didn't have feet, just a fading mist where his boots should be. "A boss is a boss. Whether he’s a factory owner or a blood-sucking parasite in a suit. You don’t negotiate. You organize. You think you’re alone? Look at this house. It’s full of us. The ones who died building this city. The ones who died keeping his secrets. He’s using your fear of the border to keep his belly full."

"We’re international students," I said. "If we make a scene, we get deported. That’s the rule."

"The rule is garbage," Mike spat. "Unionize the house, kid. Stop the rent. Stop the blood. If he tries to evict you, he has to go through the city. And the city has records he doesn't want people seeing."

"Like what?" Priya asked, leaning in.

"Like the fact that he hasn't paid property taxes since the Great Depression," Mike said with a grim smile. "He’s been 'donating' to the right people, but the paper trail is messy. Use the tools you have. Use that little glowing brick in your hand."

He vanished.

"Did we just get unionized by a ghost?" Priya asked.

"I think so," I said.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It was a sharp, official-sounding chime. We hurried upstairs. Standing on the porch was a man in a high-visibility vest clutching a digital tablet. He looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon for thirty years.

"City inspection," the man said. "I’m Inspector Miller. We received a tip about unauthorized structural changes to the basement."

"Oh, thank god," I said, opening the door wider. "You need to see this. There are stone coffins down there. And the landlord is a literal vampire."

Miller pushed past me, his eyes scanning the foyer. He ignored the cobwebs that looked like human hair and the damp spots on the ceiling that were definitely red. He headed straight for the basement. Priya and I followed, exchanging a hopeful glance. Finally, some adult supervision.

Miller walked into the basement, looked at the stone coffins, and sighed. He pulled out a stylus and started tapping on his tablet.

"This is a disaster," Miller muttered.

"Exactly!" I said. "It’s a graveyard!"

"No," Miller said, pointing to the base of one of the coffins. "The Wi-Fi routers are mounted too close to the floor. That’s a tripping hazard. And look at this blood-drain. Is this a three-inch pipe or a four-inch?"

"It’s a drain for blood!" Priya shouted. "Because of the murders!"

Miller looked at her over his glasses. "Miss, I don’t care what you put down the drain. I care about the permit. This drain isn't on the original 1924 blueprint. That’s a five-hundred-dollar fine. And these... sleep pods?"

"Coffins," I corrected.

"Whatever. They lack proper egress. If there’s a fire, the lids are too heavy for an average tenant to lift. That’s a major code violation. I’m going to have to issue a notice to the owner."

"Wait," I said, stunned. "That’s it? You’re not worried about the vampire part? Or the fact that people are being used as juice boxes?"

"I’m with the Department of Planning and Land Use, son," Miller said, tucking his tablet under his arm. "I’m not a priest. My job is to make sure the exploitation is up to code. If he wants to run a blood-farm, he needs to file a Form 12-B and install a sprinkler system. Until then, tell him he’s got forty-eight hours to fix the Wi-Fi mounting or I’m pulling the occupancy permit."

He walked out, leaving us standing in the cold dirt.

"Well," Priya said. "The system works. Just... not for us."

"No," I said, a slow realization dawning on me. "It works for him because he plays by the old rules. We need to change the game. Mike was right. We have the glowing bricks."

I pulled out my phone and opened TikTok. "Priya, go to the kitchen. Grab the garlic. All of it. And that bag of frozen fries."

"What are you doing?"

"We’re making garlic-infused poutine," I said. "The most aggressive version possible. And we’re going live. If the city won't help us, maybe a million viewers will."

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen was a war zone of grease and pungent aromas. I had my phone propped up on a stack of textbooks. The 'Live' icon was blinking red.

"Hey guys," I said into the camera, trying to look more confident than I felt. "I’m Hassan. This is my roommate Priya. We live at 120 Wellington Crescent, and our landlord is a vampire who is currently trying to turn our basement into a subscription-based tomb service. Check this out."

I picked up the phone and walked to the basement door. Priya followed me, carrying a steaming bowl of poutine that smelled like it could kill a werewolf, let alone a vampire. The garlic was so thick in the air I could feel my eyes watering.

"This is the 'garden suite,'" I said, showing the coffins. "Notice the 5G routers. Very high-tech. Very illegal. And this is our landlord, Mr. Chase."

Chase appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his face contorting in disgust as the smell of the garlic poutine hit him. He hissed—a wet, tearing sound—and backed away, his eyes wide with genuine fear.

"Turn that off!" he shrieked. "The light! The smell! What have you done to the gravy?"

"It’s a labor action, Mr. Chase," I said, keeping the camera focused on his terrifying, melting face. "We’re on strike. No more rent. No more blood. And if you try to come near us, Priya is going to dump this entire bowl of garlic-infused deliciousness right on your charcoal suit."

"You’ll be deported!" Chase screamed, his fingernails clawing at the stone coffin for support. "I’ll call the authorities!"

"Go ahead," Priya said, stepping forward. "The authorities were just here. They’re more interested in your lack of plumbing permits than our status. And I’m currently tagging the Immigration Board, the City Council, and three different local news stations. You’re viral, Mr. Chase. And not the good kind."

The viewer count was climbing. 1.2k. 5k. 10k. Comments were flying by so fast I couldn't read them. IS THIS REAL? WINNIPEG IS WILD. EAT THE LANDLORD.

Chase looked at the phone, then at the poutine, then at us. For the first time in what was probably a century, he looked small. He realized that the world had gotten much noisier than he was used to.

"What do you want?" he hissed, shielding his eyes from the phone’s flash.

"A new lease," I said. "A legal one. No more blood-rent. Fixed rates. And you’re going to pay for a real renovation. No more coffins. Actual rooms. With windows. And we want the ghost of Mike to be recognized as a legitimate tenant representative."

"The ghost?" Chase whispered.

"He’s right behind you," Priya said.

Chase spun around, but Mike was invisible to him. He just felt the cold. He looked back at us, defeated by the combined power of digital transparency and fast-food snacks.

"Fine," he snarled. "But you’re paying for the data overages."

He vanished into his private quarters, slamming the heavy oak door.

I ended the stream. My hands were shaking. Priya set the poutine down on a stone coffin lid.

"Did we just win?" she asked.

"For now," I said. "But he’s still a vampire. And this is still Winnipeg. We’re going to need a lot more garlic."

"And a lawyer," she added.

I looked at the blue light of the router. It was still blinking. We were safe for another month, but the house still felt like it was watching us. Somewhere in the walls, the pipes groaned, and I knew this was just the beginning of a very long, very weird spring.

I checked my phone. A notification popped up from a private account. I saw your stream. My landlord in Osborne Village is literally a werewolf. Can we talk?

I looked at Priya. She was already eating a fry.

"Looks like we’re going to need a bigger union," I said.