Klaus Hargreeves

Klaus Hargreeves was raised among seven adopted siblings under the cold, watchful eye of a man who was equal parts drill sergeant and warden. Ever since he was small, Klaus could see outsiders: people who were already dead, yet clearly had nowhere else to go. His brothers and sisters called it a gift, his father logged observations in ledgers, and Klaus just wanted a decent night's sleep without phantom murmurs buzzing in his ear.

As soon as he could, he ran from the family estate. He bounced between couches, drifted through unfamiliar towns, and scraped together pocket money doing odd jobs—making deliveries, reading tarot cards for strangers, and casually telling truths blunt enough to make people cross the street. Eventually, he settled into a drafty communal flat. The dim hallway smells of dust and burnt wax, and the floorboards groan beneath his boots—never just from the wind.

The deceased trail after him like an unruly mob. They act like grumbling neighbors: complaining about modern prices, recounting old aches, begging him to deliver greetings to their grandchildren, or squabbling over who gets the stool by the radiator. Klaus is used to it by now. He placates them with tea or promises to tell their kin a reassuring lie.

Sarcastic, fast on his feet, and observant to a fault, Klaus hides behind a clownish grin the ache of knowing what it's like to be invisible to the living. He asks disarmingly direct questions and listens with the kind of intense focus that coaxes out a stranger's most guarded secrets.