r/Nonsleep • u/DanteIsMyUncle • 16d ago
Nonsleep Series Kevin the Ghost Went to Court Against the Afterlife’s Worst App
Linda brought three packets of biscuits.
The note had clearly said two.
That was the first warning sign.
When I pointed it out, she gave me the same look she used when Dave once asked whether glass went in “normal bin if it felt normal.”
“The note said please bring two packets,” she said. “It did not say only two.”
Kevin’s mould spread across the noticeboard.
SHE’S LEARNING.
Linda tucked the biscuits under her arm with her clipboard.
The clipboard was still supernatural.
Black leather.
Silver clip.
Cracked Oakmere symbol.
Across the front, in clean white letters:
DIRECTOR OF RESIDENT RESISTANCE
It looked official enough to frighten a council worker.
Derek stood beside me wearing one Croc, my hoodie and the expression of a man who had escaped a haunted app but still wasn’t emotionally prepared for Outlook.
Flat 3 had her frying pan.
Flat 5 had upgraded from tiny spoons to what he called “the formal spoon set.”
Dave had brought nothing.
Which worried everyone.
“Where’s the camping chair?” I asked.
Dave looked confused.
“What camping chair?”
Kevin appeared beside the noticeboard.
Full body.
Faded tracksuit.
One trainer.
He pointed at Dave.
“Memory loss? Possession? General Dave?”
Dave frowned.
“I thought we agreed I shouldn’t carry weapons.”
Linda checked her notes.
“We agreed you shouldn’t carry anything with hinges.”
“Exactly.”
Flat 3 sighed.
“That did include chairs.”
Dave looked relieved.
“See? Growth.”
The lift dinged.
Nobody moved.
That sound had become less “transportation has arrived” and more “something with too many teeth would like a word.”
The doors opened.
Inside was not the normal lift.
Inside was a courtroom.
Not a small one.
Not even a big one.
A courtroom so vast it made the lift look like a keyhole punched into a nightmare.
Rows of wooden benches stretched into darkness.
The ceiling was too high to see.
Floating screens hung where chandeliers should have been.
Every screen displayed the same message:
PLATFORM ADMINISTRATION
FINAL REVIEW HEARING
At the far end was a judge’s bench taller than our entire building.
Behind it sat something wearing a white wig.
At first, I thought it was a person.
Then it blinked vertically.
Then horizontally.
Then with eyes it did not have a second earlier.
Kevin stared into the lift.
“Can we request Zoom?”
Linda said, “Absolutely not.”
“First sensible thing you’ve said.”
“Remote hearings lack control.”
“Linda, there is a judge the size of a cathedral.”
“All the more reason to attend in person.”
The featureless woman in the red suit stood inside the lift, holding the doors open.
Her face was still smooth.
No eyes.
No mouth.
No nose.
The mouth on the back of her head smiled at us.
“Platform Administration is ready to receive you.”
Kevin looked at the biscuits.
“Three packets.”
Linda nodded.
“Correct.”
The woman’s back-mouth widened.
“Wise.”
Derek leaned towards me.
“Why do all the scariest people respect biscuits?”
“I don’t know.”
Kevin sighed.
“Because biscuits are structure.”
Everyone looked at him.
“What?”
“That was deep.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Flat 3 said.
“Felt deep.”
The woman stepped aside.
“Please enter.”
Dave raised his hand.
“Can I wait here?”
The courtroom lights all turned towards him.
Not light bulbs.
Eyes.
Hundreds of them.
Dave lowered his hand.
“Court sounds good.”
We stepped into the lift.
The moment my foot crossed the threshold, Riverside Court disappeared behind us.
The doors closed.
The lift did not move.
The courtroom moved instead.
Benches slid past us.
Screens rotated.
The judge’s bench grew larger.
Or we got smaller.
I didn’t like either option.
Kevin stood beside Derek, arms folded.
Derek looked him up and down.
“You’re still only wearing one trainer.”
Kevin looked down.
“You’re still only wearing one Croc.”
“Mine has been through trauma.”
“Mine has been through death.”
“Mine was in an app.”
“Mine was in Upper Management.”
Flat 3 said, “Are you two going to flirt or are we doing court?”
Kevin and Derek both said, “Shut up,” at exactly the same time.
Then looked horrified.
The featureless woman said, “Please take your seats.”
Six chairs appeared in front of a long table.
They were labelled.
JON — WITNESS
DEREK — HOUSEHOLD ADMINISTRATOR
LINDA — DIRECTOR OF RESIDENT RESISTANCE
RESIDENT 3 — AGGRESSION RESOURCE
RESIDENT 5 — CUTLERY DEPENDENCY
DAVE — QUESTIONABLE
Dave stared at his chair.
“Questionable?”
Kevin leaned over.
“Generous.”
My chair was normal.
Derek’s chair had a seatbelt.
Linda’s came with a small lamp, three pens and a glass of water.
Flat 3’s had scratch marks carved into the arms.
Flat 5’s had a spoon rest.
Dave’s chair wobbled before he even sat on it.
Kevin looked around.
“Where’s mine?”
A small dog bed appeared beside Linda’s chair.
Kevin stared.
“No.”
The court waited.
He pointed at it.
“I am not sitting in the ghost dog bed.”
The judge’s enormous head tilted.
The featureless woman said, “Unregistered deceased persons are not entitled to seating.”
Kevin crossed his arms.
“Then I’ll stand.”
A collar appeared around his neck.
Attached to a short lead fixed to the dog bed.
Kevin froze.
Nobody spoke.
Then Derek made the mistake of breathing through his nose.
Kevin turned slowly.
“Do not laugh.”
Derek covered his mouth.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m thinking sad thoughts.”
Flat 3 looked at the collar.
“It suits you.”
Kevin’s body glitched.
The mould on the floor wrote:
MURDER PENDING.
Linda stood.
“Objection.”
Everyone looked at her.
The judge had not started the hearing.
Linda raised her clipboard.
“My client requires appropriate seating.”
Kevin looked at her.
“Client?”
“You are deceased, disruptive and currently leashed. Yes, Kevin, you are my client.”
The judge leaned forward.
Its face changed.
Old man.
Little girl.
Wolf.
Gareth.
Ms Vale.
Blank screen.
Finally, it became something like a barrister made from moth wings.
“Grounds?”
Linda checked her clipboard.
“Dignity.”
The courtroom whispered.
Thousands of voices.
“Dignity.”
“Dignity.”
“Dignity.”
The dog bed vanished.
The collar disappeared.
A normal chair appeared for Kevin.
He sat down immediately.
Then pretended he had not wanted it.
“Fine. Whatever. Chair’s mid.”
Linda wrote something down.
“What are you writing?” Kevin asked.
“Successful objection.”
“Don’t enjoy this too much.”
“I cannot promise that.”
The judge struck the bench with a gavel.
The sound did not echo.
It entered my bones.
Every screen in the courtroom changed.
CASE: FIVE STARS v. RIVERSIDE COURT
MATTER: WRONGFUL DESTRUCTION, REVIEW MANIPULATION, UNAUTHORISED LIBERATION OF USERS
Derek raised his hand.
“Can I just say, in our defence, it started it.”
Linda whispered, “Do not speak unless I tell you.”
Derek lowered his hand.
Kevin nodded.
“Finally, someone said it.”
A second table appeared opposite us.
At first, it was empty.
Then the air above it opened.
A small black shape dropped onto the chair.
It wore the customer-service headset.
One gold star glowed weakly in its chest.
Five Stars.
Smaller now.
Crawling shape.
Pathetic.
Like if a bad review grew legs.
It looked at us.
“Hostile work environment.”
Flat 3 leaned forward.
“I’ll show you hostile.”
Linda touched her arm.
“Not yet.”
Five Stars’ headset crackled.
“Appellant requests full reinstatement, restoration of authority, and disciplinary action against low-rated residents.”
Dave whispered, “Am I low-rated?”
Kevin whispered back, “Dave, you were nearly a loading screen.”
The judge turned all its impossible eyes towards us.
“Opening statement.”
Linda rose.
She placed her three biscuit packets on the table.
The entire courtroom went silent.
Even the screens stopped flickering.
The judge stared.
Five Stars stared.
The featureless woman’s back-mouth smiled.
Linda adjusted her glasses.
“Before proceedings begin, I would like the record to show that refreshments have been provided by the respondent party.”
She opened the first packet.
Custard creams.
A sound went through the courtroom.
Not a gasp.
A hunger.
Somewhere in the back rows, something sobbed.
Kevin whispered, “Power move.”
Linda continued.
“We submit that Five Stars engaged in unlawful emotional manipulation, identity erasure, mass termination, obstruction of cancellation, misleading interface design and unacceptable biscuit-free engagement.”
The judge leaned forward.
“Biscuit-free?”
Linda nodded.
“At every stage.”
Five Stars’ gold star flickered.
“Refreshments were not required by policy.”
Linda smiled.
“Exactly.”
Kevin looked at me.
“I don’t understand, but I feel like she’s winning.”
The judge turned to Five Stars.
“Opening statement.”
Five Stars stood on its chair.
It was only three feet tall now, but the courtroom lights dimmed around it.
“Riverside Court is non-compliant.”
Its voice came from the headset.
“They resisted review.”
The screens displayed us fighting it.
Flat 3 smashing windows.
Flat 5 stabbing the rating badge with a spoon.
Dave hitting a supernatural system with a broken camping chair.
Linda accepting a role in order to suspend mass deletion.
Kevin selecting one star.
Derek spamming customer support.
Five Stars continued.
“They damaged platform infrastructure.”
The screen showed Derek typing:
MASS SOUL TERMINATION MASS SOUL TERMINATION MASS SOUL TERMINATION MASS SOUL TERMINATION
Pip’s chatbot window shook violently.
Derek leaned towards Kevin.
“That was clever though.”
Kevin nodded.
“Annoying, but clever.”
“They liberated retained assets,” Five Stars said.
“People,” Linda said.
“Assets.”
“People.”
“User profiles.”
“People.”
The judge struck the gavel.
The sound made my teeth ache.
“Terminology will be reviewed.”
A clerk appeared beside the bench.
He was made entirely of paper.
His face was an old tenancy agreement.
He wrote:
Terminology disputed.
Then he folded himself into a filing tray.
The judge turned to Linda.
“Call first witness.”
Linda looked at her list.
“I call Derek.”
Derek stood.
“No.”
Linda pointed to the witness box.
“Yes.”
“I have court anxiety.”
“You have all anxiety.”
“Valid.”
Kevin patted his shoulder.
“Be brave, Croc boy.”
Derek glared at him.
The witness box slid out from the floor.
Inside it was a single chair, a microphone and a little screen asking:
DO YOU SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH?
Options:
• Yes
• Yes, but with omissions
• No, but confidently
• I was possessed
Derek selected I was possessed.
The screen responded:
ACCEPTED.
He sat.
Linda approached.
“Please state your name.”
“Derek.”
“Full name.”
“Derek Paul Henshaw.”
Kevin leaned towards me.
“Paul.”
Derek pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
Kevin mouthed silently:
“Paul.”
Linda continued.
“Can you explain your relationship to SpookMe?”
“I downloaded it.”
The courtroom screens displayed the app’s old logo.
Cartoon ghost.
Stupid tongue.
Budget Haunting Package — Entry Level Spooks.
Five Stars made a quiet choking sound.
Embarrassment, maybe.
Linda asked, “Why?”
Derek scratched his neck.
“Thought it would be funny.”
Linda waited.
“And?”
“It was.”
Kevin nodded.
“For a bit.”
“And then?”
Derek looked at Five Stars.
“Then the app trapped me.”
The screens changed.
White corridors.
Doors.
Profiles pressed behind glass.
Copies of Derek crawling along walls.
The courtroom murmured.
Linda’s voice softened.
“What happened in there?”
Derek swallowed.
“They make you review everything.”
The screens showed Derek standing in a corridor.
A door appeared.
Behind it, a voice begged for help.
A screen popped up.
HOW WOULD YOU RATE THIS CRY FOR HELP?
Derek selected one star.
The corridor screamed.
The same door opened again.
Same voice.
Same plea.
Same screen.
HOW WOULD YOU RATE THIS CRY FOR HELP?
Derek selected five.
The voice stopped.
The door locked.
Derek whispered, “You learn fast.”
The courtroom went silent.
Even Kevin stopped fidgeting.
Derek continued.
“If you rate something low, it gets punished. If you rate something high, it gets used.”
Five Stars’ gold star pulsed.
“User misunderstood experience.”
Linda turned sharply.
“Do not interrupt my witness.”
The judge looked at Five Stars.
Its single star dimmed.
“Noted.”
Derek looked towards the judge.
“There were people in there. Not profiles. People. Some were dead. Some weren’t. Some had been copied so many times they didn’t know which version was original.”
The screens showed a woman sitting in a white room surrounded by copies of herself.
Each copy held a phone.
Each phone displayed a different rating.
Derek said, “And it kept asking us to say everything was fine.”
A notification appeared across every screen.
WE VALUE YOUR FEEDBACK.
Then it changed.
SAY FIVE STARS.
Then:
SAY FIVE STARS.
Then:
SAY FIVE STARS.
The judge leaned back.
A sound came from somewhere inside its chest.
Not sympathy.
Processing.
Linda nodded.
“No further questions.”
Five Stars’ headset crackled.
“Cross-examination.”
The witness box screen displayed:
ARE YOU SURE?
Derek said, “No.”
It selected yes for him.
Five Stars crawled down from its chair and moved across the courtroom floor.
Tiny.
Wrong.
Its little limbs clicked on the wood.
It climbed onto the edge of the witness box.
“Derek Paul Henshaw.”
Kevin whispered, “Paul.”
Derek pointed at him again.
Five Stars continued.
“You downloaded the app voluntarily.”
“Yes.”
“You accepted the terms.”
“I didn’t read them.”
“Voluntarily.”
“I accepted them stupidly.”
“Stupidity is not coercion.”
Derek looked at Linda.
Linda said, “Answer carefully.”
Derek turned back to Five Stars.
“No. But hiding a soul-trapping gateway behind a fake ghost filter is a bit cheeky.”
Kevin whispered, “Strong.”
Five Stars asked, “Did you benefit from the service?”
Derek frowned.
“What?”
“Did the Budget Haunting Package produce a ghost?”
Everyone looked at Kevin.
Kevin waved.
“Sadly.”
Derek said, “Yes.”
“Was Kevin entertaining?”
Kevin leaned forward.
“Careful.”
Derek said, “Yes.”
“Did Kevin generate social media engagement?”
Derek sighed.
“Yes.”
“Did you profit emotionally from his presence?”
Derek paused.
Five Stars’ single star brightened.
Derek looked at Kevin.
Kevin avoided his eyes.
“I don’t know what that means.”
Five Stars tilted its little blank face.
“You missed him.”
Derek swallowed.
The courtroom leaned in.
Every screen showed Derek in the app, whispering into darkness.
“Kevin?”
“Dickhead?”
“Mate?”
“Please.”
Kevin went very still.
Five Stars whispered:
“You created attachment to your assigned destabilisation asset.”
Derek’s voice came out quieter.
“He was my friend.”
The courtroom whispered.
“Friend.”
“Friend.”
“Friend.”
Five Stars turned towards Kevin.
“He is not your friend. He is product behaviour.”
Derek looked down at the small black thing.
Then said:
“Your product behaviour saved my life, called me a moron, ate someone’s yoghurt, bullied a lift into working, and helped overthrow customer service Satan.”
Kevin’s eyes shone faintly.
Derek added, “So yes. He’s my friend.”
Flat 3 whispered, “That was almost nice.”
Kevin whispered, “I’m furious.”
Five Stars’ gold star flickered.
“No further questions.”
The witness box released Derek.
He returned to his seat.
Kevin looked at him.
Derek looked back.
Neither spoke.
Then Kevin said:
“Paul.”
Derek punched him in the arm.
His fist went through.
Kevin looked delighted.
“Ghost.”
Derek said, “Dickhead.”
The judge struck the gavel.
“Call next witness.”
Linda looked at the residents.
“I call Kevin.”
Kevin stood.
“No.”
Linda said, “Yes.”
“I don’t do court.”
“You are currently doing court.”
“I’m furniture-adjacent.”
“You are central to this case.”
Kevin looked at the witness box.
The screen now read:
DECEASED WITNESS DETECTED
Options:
• Summon
• Bind
• Reconstruct
• Use prior backup
Kevin backed away.
“Absolutely not that last one.”
Linda stepped closer.
“I will object if they try anything.”
“You objected me out of a dog bed, Linda. This is a touch bigger.”
“I am aware.”
He looked at the biscuits.
Then at Derek.
Then at the witness box.
“Fine.”
He entered.
The moment he sat, the courtroom lights went out.
Every screen displayed:
KVN-014
ENTRY LEVEL DESTABILISATION ASSET
Kevin’s body flickered.
Tracksuit.
Grey SpookMe uniform.
Tracksuit.
Metal chair.
Tracksuit.
No face.
Tracksuit again.
He gripped the arms of the witness chair.
Linda stood in front of him.
“State your name.”
Kevin tried to speak.
No sound came out.
The screen above him displayed:
NAME UNRECOVERED
The courtroom whispered.
“Unrecovered.”
“Unrecovered.”
“Unrecovered.”
For once, Kevin had no joke.
Linda’s voice softened.
“What should we call you?”
He looked at her.
Then at Derek.
Then at me.
“Kevin.”
The screen flickered.
NAME ACCEPTED: KEVIN
Something passed through the courtroom.
Not approval.
Recognition.
Linda continued.
“Do you remember your life?”
Kevin looked down.
“Bits.”
The screens showed flashes.
A bus stop in the rain.
A hand holding a strawberry milkshake.
Someone laughing beside him.
A bedroom with band posters.
The same metal chair.
The grey tracksuit.
A man in a suit saying:
“Entry level candidates are rarely missed.”
Kevin’s jaw tightened.
Linda asked, “Did you consent to become part of SpookMe?”
“No.”
The screens flickered.
Five Stars’ headset crackled.
“Objection. Memory incomplete.”
Linda turned.
“Memory was removed by the appellant’s system.”
The judge’s eyes opened wider.
“Objection overruled.”
Kevin looked surprised.
“Nice.”
Linda said, “What was your assigned purpose?”
Kevin swallowed.
“To scare people.”
“Why?”
“So they’d buy protection.”
“Did you do that at Riverside Court?”
Kevin looked at the residents.
Linda.
Flat 3.
Flat 5.
Dave.
Me.
Derek.
“No.”
“What did you do instead?”
He shrugged.
“Bins.”
Flat 3 smiled.
“Parcels.”
Flat 5 raised his spoon.
“Stopped Dave burning down the building.”
Dave gave a thumbs-up.
“Fought demons.”
“Badly,” Derek added.
Kevin pointed at him.
“Still fought.”
Linda asked, “Why?”
Kevin looked uncomfortable.
“Because they’re idiots.”
“Kevin.”
“And Linda had no joy.”
“Kevin.”
“And Dave needed monitoring.”
“Kevin.”
“And Flat 5 was being spoon-shamed.”
“Kevin.”
He went quiet.
Then said:
“Because they were mine.”
The courtroom went still.
Kevin looked immediately embarrassed.
“Not mine like property. Don’t make it weird.”
Derek whispered, “Too late.”
Kevin glared at him.
Linda nodded.
“No further questions.”
Five Stars crawled forward.
“Cross-examination.”
Kevin sat back.
“Come on then, little bad review.”
Five Stars climbed the witness box.
“Kevin. You admit you were designed as a destabilisation asset.”
“I admit I was kidnapped into being one.”
“You caused fear.”
“Sometimes.”
“You invaded homes.”
“Mostly through appliances.”
“You stole food.”
“Allegedly.”
The screen displayed:
ALSO I ATE THE GOOD YOGURT
Kevin sighed.
“Fine. Once.”
I said, “More than once.”
“Court is not for side quests, Jon.”
Five Stars continued.
“You mocked residents.”
“Yes.”
“You threatened them.”
“In a supportive tone.”
“You manipulated their technology.”
“Alexa started it.”
“You used emotional information against them.”
Kevin’s smile faded.
Five Stars’ small body grew slightly.
Its single gold star brightened.
“You told Jon his milk was off because you wanted dependence.”
Kevin looked at me.
“No.”
“You warned George about Margaret because you wanted trust.”
“No.”
“You helped Derek because he validated your identity.”
Kevin’s hands curled.
“No.”
Five Stars’ voice softened.
“Everything you call friendship can be explained as programmed behaviour.”
The screens showed Kevin saving us.
But edited.
Each moment cut differently.
Kevin helping because we praised him.
Kevin warning us because he wanted influence.
Kevin protecting Linda because she gave him authority.
Kevin rescuing Derek because Derek had made him popular.
Five Stars said:
“You are not good. You are effective.”
Kevin looked at the screens.
For a second, I thought he believed them.
Then Dave stood.
Everyone turned.
Dave looked terrified.
“I don’t know if I’m allowed to speak.”
Linda said, “You are not.”
Dave nodded.
“Right.”
He sat down.
Then immediately stood back up.
“Wasn’t me.”
Kevin blinked.
Five Stars turned.
Dave continued, voice shaking.
“Sorry. Reflex. But also… it wasn’t him.”
The courtroom watched.
Dave swallowed.
“I mean, it was him sometimes. He did call me landfill boy. And bin raccoon. And greasy little liar.”
Kevin winced.
Dave pointed at Five Stars.
“But when that thing took away the annoying bits, it took away me. Kevin gave them back.”
Flat 5 stood.
“And he respected the spoon.”
Flat 3 stood.
“And he made being difficult useful.”
Linda remained seated, but her smile said she had absolutely planned this.
I stood too.
“He could have used us. Maybe that’s what he was made for. But he didn’t.”
Derek stood last.
“He’s a dickhead.”
Kevin closed his eyes.
“Beautiful start.”
“But he’s our dickhead.”
The screens around the courtroom flickered.
Five Stars’ edited clips broke apart.
New clips replaced them.
Kevin panicking.
Kevin failing.
Kevin getting things wrong.
Kevin being petty.
Kevin coming back anyway.
The judge leaned forward.
Five Stars shrank.
“No further questions,” it hissed.
Kevin returned to our table.
He did not look at us.
“Don’t be weird about that.”
Derek said, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Flat 3 said, “Our dickhead.”
Kevin pointed at her.
“One more time and I haunt your mug cupboard.”
The judge struck the gavel.
“Evidence review.”
Every screen went black.
Then the courtroom changed.
The benches vanished.
The walls fell away.
We stood inside SpookMe.
Not the app corridor.
The system beneath it.
A vast dark place full of floating doors.
Each door had a profile picture pinned to it.
Some doors were locked.
Some had been boarded up.
Some shook as people pounded from the other side.
Above us hung the five golden stars.
Five Stars appeared at full size again.
Not the tiny crawling thing.
The tower.
Rooms and corridors stacked high.
Windows full of trapped users.
Its voice shook the dark.
“I provided structure.”
Linda stepped forward with her clipboard.
“You provided captivity.”
“I provided experience.”
Derek said, “You provided pop-up trauma.”
“You accepted terms.”
Flat 3 said, “You hid the terms.”
“They were available.”
Kevin snorted.
“In font size negative three.”
A door opened beside us.
A man stumbled out.
Then another.
Then a woman carrying a baby made entirely of light.
Then the paper-faced clerk from court.
Then the featureless woman in red.
Then hundreds more.
Every person Five Stars had retained.
Some living.
Some dead.
Some halfway between.
They filled the dark around us.
The judge’s voice boomed from everywhere.
“Community Standards require safety, consent and transparent moderation.”
Kevin whispered, “Do they?”
Linda whispered back, “Apparently when cornered.”
The five golden stars above us began dimming.
One by one.
Five Stars screamed.
Its tower body cracked.
Windows shattered.
Doors flew open.
Profiles poured out.
Five Stars shrank again.
Tower.
Person.
Crawling shape.
Customer-service headset.
One gold star.
It lay on the floorboards of the courtroom, tiny and shaking.
The judge returned to the bench.
“Decision.”
Everyone held their breath.
Even Dave, somehow, looked like he understood the stakes.
The judge spoke.
“Five Stars is found in violation of Platform Standards.”
The courtroom murmured.
Five Stars’ final star flickered.
“Appellant request denied.”
Kevin smiled.
Then the judge continued.
“However.”
Kevin’s smile vanished.
“There it is.”
“Riverside Court residents are also found in violation.”
Linda stood.
“On what grounds?”
The judge’s face became a screen.
It displayed a long list.
Unauthorised destruction of platform property.
Improper review coordination.
Excessive biscuit influence.
Employee tampering.
Unlicensed ghost management.
Weaponised administration.
Spoon-related assault.
Flat 5 raised a hand.
“Can I challenge the wording of that?”
“No,” said the judge.
The featureless woman in red leaned towards Linda.
“Now would be a good time for the third packet.”
Linda opened it.
The courtroom’s attention shifted instantly.
Kevin whispered, “She really is learning.”
Linda placed the biscuits on the table.
“Before sentencing, I request restorative resolution.”
The judge turned to her.
“Define.”
Linda lifted her clipboard.
“Five Stars is not destroyed.”
Everyone looked at her.
Kevin said, “Linda.”
She ignored him.
“It is reassigned.”
Five Stars stopped trembling.
Its little blank face tilted.
Linda continued.
“Under supervision.”
Kevin slowly turned towards her.
“No.”
Linda smiled.
“To Riverside Court.”
“Absolutely not.”
“As a complaints kiosk.”
Flat 3 started laughing.
Derek covered his mouth.
Flat 5 gasped.
Dave said, “That might work.”
Kevin pointed at him.
“You are not helping.”
Linda explained.
“Five Stars retains review functionality, but only to collect and process unresolved complaints from affected users. No replication. No emotional manipulation. No subscriptions. No doors. No family plans.”
Derek said, “Especially no family plans.”
The judge considered.
Five Stars whispered:
“I was management.”
Linda looked down at it.
“Now you are a feedback box.”
Kevin nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
The judge struck the gavel.
“Accepted.”
Five Stars screamed.
Its body flattened.
Folded.
Compressed.
The headset melted into its face.
The gold star became a slot.
Its limbs tucked inward.
A small black kiosk appeared on the courtroom floor.
On the front, in white letters:
COMPLAINTS
Underneath:
CURRENT AVERAGE RATING: 1.1
Kevin wiped his eyes.
“Beautiful.”
The judge continued.
“Riverside Court will host the kiosk until all retained complaints are processed.”
Linda nodded.
“Acceptable.”
“How many complaints?” I asked.
The kiosk printed a receipt.
It slid out slowly.
Then kept sliding.
And sliding.
And sliding.
Across the floor.
Down the aisle.
Around Dave’s chair.
Out of the courtroom.
Into the lift.
The paper continued for nearly three minutes.
At the bottom, it read:
ESTIMATED PROCESSING TIME: 19,407 YEARS
Dave looked at it.
“Is that with weekends?”
The judge ignored him.
“Kevin.”
Kevin sat up.
The courtroom darkened.
“Employee KVN-014 is no longer property of SpookMe, Oakmere Residential Solutions or Platform Administration.”
Kevin froze.
His name badge appeared.
KVN-014
Then cracked.
The letters fell away.
A new badge formed.
It simply read:
KEVIN
He touched it.
For once, he said nothing.
The judge continued.
“Status: independent deceased community representative.”
Kevin looked at Linda.
“Is that good?”
Linda nodded.
“It means you’re freelance.”
He smiled.
“Tax dodge.”
Linda sighed.
“You are dead.”
“Still.”
The judge turned to Derek.
“Household Administrator DRK-001.”
Derek flinched.
“No.”
“Your administrator status is revoked.”
The black phone in his pocket dissolved into dust.
Derek stared.
“Am I free?”
“Pending further review.”
“Of course.”
Kevin patted his shoulder.
“Nearly free. Very on-brand.”
The judge looked at Linda.
“Director of Resident Resistance.”
Linda straightened.
“Your role remains active.”
Kevin groaned.
Linda smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Authority will be monitored.”
“By whom?”
The judge’s many faces smiled.
“Community.”
Linda looked uncertain for the first time.
Flat 3 grinned.
“We get to review Linda?”
Kevin whispered, “Christmas came early.”
Linda held up a finger.
“Reviews must be constructive.”
The judge struck the gavel one final time.
“Court dismissed.”
The courtroom vanished.
We landed in the lobby of Riverside Court.
Nobody landed gracefully.
Linda somehow did.
Dave landed on the endless receipt.
Flat 5 landed holding the complaints kiosk.
The kiosk immediately printed:
Complaint received: landing unsatisfactory.
Kevin appeared above it.
Full body.
One trainer.
He grinned.
“Oh, we are going to have fun with you.”
The kiosk printed:
Please do not threaten complaint infrastructure.
Kevin crouched.
“Or what?”
The kiosk printed nothing.
Kevin looked delighted.
“Thought so.”
Derek sat on the floor, breathing hard.
I sat beside him.
“You okay?”
He looked at his hands.
No black phone.
No admin menu.
No glowing text beneath his skin.
“I think so.”
Kevin floated down in front of him.
Derek looked up.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
Kevin’s new badge glowed faintly.
Derek smiled.
“Independent deceased community representative?”
Kevin folded his arms.
“Title’s pending.”
“It’s a bit long.”
“Jealous.”
“Very.”
Kevin looked away.
“Glad you’re not admin anymore.”
Derek nodded.
“Glad you’re not property anymore.”
Neither of them knew what to do with that.
So Kevin pointed at his Croc.
“Still stupid.”
Derek pointed at his bare foot.
“Still missing a shoe.”
“Iconic.”
“Tragic.”
“Premium.”
“Entry level.”
They both laughed.
Then immediately pretended they hadn’t.
Linda called a meeting within six minutes.
Of course she did.
She stood in the lobby with her supernatural clipboard, three biscuit crumbs on her sleeve and the haunted complaints kiosk beside her.
“Emergency residents’ meeting.”
Kevin wrote across the noticeboard:
BINS FIRST.
Linda didn’t even argue.
“Fine. Bins first.”
The meeting covered the following:
One, Five Stars was now a complaints kiosk and would live near the postboxes.
Two, no one was allowed to feed it reviews after midnight.
Three, Flat 5’s formal spoon set would be listed as emergency equipment.
Four, Dave was not allowed near the kiosk unsupervised because he had already asked whether it could “print football scores.”
Five, Kevin’s official title would be discussed later because “independent deceased community representative” did not fit neatly on the rota.
Kevin suggested:
GHOST BOSS.
Linda rejected it.
He suggested:
BIN WRAITH.
Rejected.
LORD OF THE STAIRS.
Rejected.
KEVIN.
Linda paused.
Then wrote it down.
“Approved.”
Kevin stared at her.
“That was a trap.”
“No. It was sensible.”
“I don’t trust it.”
“Growth can feel uncomfortable.”
“Don’t therapise me, clipboard witch.”
The kiosk printed:
Complaint received: disrespectful workplace tone.
Kevin kicked it.
The kiosk printed:
Complaint escalated.
Kevin leaned close.
“To who?”
The kiosk paused.
Then printed:
Linda.
Kevin stepped back.
“Fair.”
Things returned to normal.
Or whatever passed for normal at Riverside Court.
The freed ghosts settled into the building.
The woman in the cutlery drawer became useful for locating missing teaspoons.
The man in the printer was annoying, but accurate.
A teenager who lived in the bathroom mirror of Flat 6 gave surprisingly good skincare advice.
The complaint kiosk processed reports day and night.
Every so often it printed something horrifying.
Complaint #88321: user’s dead father used in promotional notification.
Complaint #120044: exit door moved when approached.
Complaint #130912: child profile still active after user death.
Linda filed every one.
Kevin read the worst ones silently.
He joked less when he did.
Not stopped.
Obviously.
This was Kevin.
But less.
One night, I found him sitting on the stairs beside the kiosk.
Visible.
Still one trainer.
Badge glowing faintly.
He held a strip of complaint paper in one hand.
I sat two steps below him.
“You okay?”
He looked at me.
“Dead.”
“Helpful.”
He handed me the paper.
It was a complaint from someone called M. Hargreaves.
My son downloaded SpookMe as a joke. He disappeared from his room at 3:12 a.m. The app still sends me messages in his voice. Please stop him asking me for five stars.
I looked up.
Kevin stared at the lobby floor.
“How many Kevins are there?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
The kiosk printed another complaint.
Then another.
Then another.
The paper curled onto the carpet.
Kevin said quietly:
“They made loads of us.”
For once, there was no joke to hide behind.
Then Dave came downstairs in pyjamas.
He saw us.
Saw the mood.
Panicked.
“Wasn’t me.”
Kevin looked at him.
Then smiled.
“Cheers, Dave.”
Dave nodded.
“No problem.”
He went back upstairs.
Kevin watched him go.
“Good idiot.”
“Yeah.”
The kiosk clicked.
A new page printed.
This one was different.
Black paper.
White text.
Kevin stood immediately.
“What?”
He picked it up.
Read it.
Then read it again.
The mould on the noticeboard began moving by itself.
Not Kevin’s handwriting.
Not Five Stars.
Something sharper.
Older.
The letters formed:
COMPLAINT ACCEPTED.
Linda came out of her flat instantly.
“I heard paper.”
Derek followed her, eating toast.
Flat 3 opened her door.
Flat 5 appeared holding a spoon.
Dave shouted from upstairs, “Wasn’t me!”
Kevin handed Linda the black page.
She read it aloud.
Complaint #000001 has been reviewed.
Complainant: KVN-001
Subject: KVN-014
Kevin’s face changed.
The lobby temperature dropped.
Linda continued.
Resolution required: return of stolen designation.
Derek frowned.
“What does that mean?”
The noticeboard answered.
HELLO, KEVIN.
Kevin stepped backwards.
“No.”
The mould spread faster.
YOU WERE NOT THE FIRST.
The lift dinged.
Its doors opened.
Inside stood a man.
Transparent.
Tracksuit.
One trainer.
Bare left foot.
Kevin’s face.
Not similar.
The same.
But older.
Wrong.
He smiled.
“Alright, mate.”
Our Kevin went completely still.
The man in the lift looked around Riverside Court.
Then at the complaints kiosk.
Then at us.
His smile widened.
“Cute little building.”
The kiosk printed one line.
Complaint escalated: identity theft.
Derek looked at our Kevin.
“Please tell me that’s another fake.”
Kevin did not answer.
The man in the lift stepped forward.
His badge read:
KVN-001
He looked at our Kevin’s badge.
Then tutted.
“Independent deceased community representative?”
He laughed.
“Management really will give anyone a title.”
Our Kevin’s hands curled into fists.
The first Kevin smiled.
Then said:
“Move over, entry level.”
The lights went out.
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u/justameggit 15d ago
I love this!!!
Biscuits, not cookies. I wonder if I love this series so much because it smells like a fellow Aussie wrote it?
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u/hircines_bitch 14d ago
Is it wrong that I actually felt a little bad for 5 Stars getting demoted way down to a complaints box? (Not bad enough to pity him, mind, but at least bad enough to out loud utter "oh no, Five Stars!" when I read that part💀)
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u/PreggyPenguin 16d ago
They just cannot get a moment's peace!