Sans.

The definition that Google gives you is:

literary, humorous

without

That last bit made sense. Unless Sans had a terrible sense of humor. Which begged the question: was this all a huge prank? Messing with your shit, breaking it, cutting, scratching, biting you? All a prank? Though when you searched deeper, Sans in Latin was absentia.

in the absence of

Which fit better than the others.

There was a thought for a split moment that his name was Comic Sans. You'd lose your shit if that was true.

It was hard to contemplate on such a situation when the cause of said situation was trying to fight with you. He refused to use anything else to communicate with you other than your phones. He also had a terrible addiction to sapping all the power from the phones and setting "virus traps". Yeah that's right. You were in custody with a technologically-abled creature that was able to infect the apps, pictures, videos, and voice recordings on all your spare phones.

One of them had gotten so corrupted it literally combusted in the palm of your hand.

He had also managed to create a self-sustaining tornado in your room.

You had requested help from multiple people who had no idea how to deal with it. But currently, Sans seemed content with collecting what you thought was his favorite things. Anything red or yellow colored (mostly your undergarments). Garbage. Empty mustard bottles. Socks, and these weren't your socks. Obviously he had been stealing from neighbors because these were obviously USED mens socks.

No amount of Febreze was able to put a dent in the smell.

And that's what inspired you to buy a clamp grabber from the store during one of Sans's "lazy" days. As in he didn't follow you to work so you went grocery shopping.

So here you are, standing in front of that little whirlwind of stench and disappointment. Sans had yet to bother you, so you had to act fast. Quickly, with the reflexes of a waving arm inflatable tube guy, you struggled against the surprisingly strong pull and collected as much garbage and socks you could. You wrapped the trash in a bag and dropped it out of your window directly into the dumpster a few floors down (score!) and tossed all the socks into your laundry hamper and dragged it downstairs to the attached laundromat.

You hoped that if you washed the socks, he'd still be content with them in his weird tornado and wouldn't collect more.

Laundry was a complete success. All the stray unmatched socks were donated to the tornado, the cycle actually causing the smell of your detergent to spread throughout your room. Still no sign of Sans, so you set about cleaning the rest of the apartment.

And of course you'd choose the bathroom last (obviously to wash off the sweat).

Before turning on the light, you were able to see that red orb glowing in your tub. Ah.. He'd been here all day.

He wasn't moving or even acknowledging you staring at him.

"Sans?"

No answer.

You went to your room and grabbed a handful of pennies from your change jar and stood outside the bathroom door.

You toss one.

It clatters loudly in the tub.

You grab three more and toss them in. The red orb moves a little.

"Sans, get out of my tub."

The orb seems to consider you for a moment and sinks further down. You pour half the handful of pennies you have to the other hand and toss them. This finally grabs his attention and the glow completely disappears.

You proceed with cleaning the bathroom just to have your shower.

Sans is an enigma.

You've found him in stranger spots other than your tub.

The coffee cabinet (which literally set you into a panic), behind the fridge (how'd he fit there?), under the kitchen AND bathroom sinks, under a pile of your dirty clothes (gross), and many more strange places.

It was almost a daily game. Come home and find the spooky entity before fixing dinner. Lately, you swear you could see a golden glint before the glowing red (that you associate to be his eye/s) disappears.

Everything was becoming routine, and he was obviously falling in line with it as well.

You grunted a bit, re-adjusting the multiple bags of groceries lined up on your arm and in your palm. You were the type of person who refused to make more than one trip to the car to carry in shit. Using your mouth to pick through your key ring and single out the apartment key, you finally unlocked the door and shoved it open to walk in and delicately drop everything onto the floor and slam the door closed with your foot.

A thump echos from your bedroom as you organized your groceries, you watched each plastic bag be ripped open and tossed to the side until none were left. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on point as you moved around setting things in place.

"I forgot to buy mustard."

The fridge opens and your newly bought carton of eggs is thrown onto the floor. You watch uninterested. Honestly you didn't forget. You wanted to see what his deal with mustard was. A pinging grabs your attention as you finish up and reach for a rag to clean the new mess. It seems you received an e-mail.

You finish the mess and flop onto your couch, no need to turn on the TV. Sans always had a horror flick playing on Netflix (though at night you swore you heard comedy shows playing). Pulling out your phone, you read the new e-mail.

And grinned.

Perfect timing.

It seemed the videos and pictures you posted online finally paid off. An investigation group called Supernatural Investigators was very interested in your situation and wanted to set up an interview, then decide whether or not to investigate if it was okay with you. Glancing around, you see no sign of Sans. You reach into your pocket and toss out a mustard packet into the hall.

It sits there for as long as you could blink and then it was gone.

This was going to be interesting.