Alright. Family arc? Emotional catharsis? Check.
Time to haunt someone else.
Ezra Cole. My best friend. Since school. The one who always gave mysterious brooding energy and had a new girl every month, yet somehow—always made time for me.
"Let's see if this idiot even remembers me," I muttered, floating toward his apartment.
It was past midnight. His light was still on.
"Should I even enter a guy's room this late?" I smirked. "Oh wait... I'm dead. Social etiquette doesn't apply."
I slipped through the wall.
Same room. Same mess. Same boy.
Ezra sat at his desk, scribbling in that damn journal of his.
"This guy and his journal... Never let me read it. Used to act like it held the nuclear launch codes."
I peeked over his shoulder.
"I wish I could..."
And then he slammed it shut.
"Oh come on," I groaned. "I'm literally a ghost. Can I catch a break?"
He sat back, sighed. Stared at the ceiling.
"He misses me," I whispered. "This playboy... This emotionally constipated, romantic disaster misses me."
For a second, I smiled.
Then I spotted his phone buzz.
Rachel.
"Oh, no. Not her."
Rachel. My cousin. Professional snake. She always made herself look like Mother Teresa in front of my mom. The overachiever. The angel. The fake-humble narcissist.
She was texting Ezra.
"Why is she texting him? What is this?"
No reply.
I smirked. "Good luck, princess. He never texts once he's journaling."
A second later, his phone buzzed.
He replied.
"Excuse me?"
He replied to her?
"He told me he doesn't even keep his phone near him after 10 PM! Said it was part of his nightly 'mental detox' or whatever."
I stared in disbelief.
"Now this vixen's got her claws in Ezra?"
I shook my head. "His taste in women has always been questionable. Still... not her."
"Ugh. If I were alive, I'd have blocked this circus before it even started."
I rolled out of the room dramatically.
"Alright, let's go somewhere fun. Somewhere dead girls never go..."
A club.
I smirked. "Never liked clubbing much. Sweaty people. Bad music. Expensive drinks. But hey, I'm dead, might as well haunt a few DJs."
I soared across the city lights.
For a brief moment, I felt free again.
And then... that feeling. That gaze. Like someone was watching. Following. Not human. Not just paranoia.
"Okay. Either I'm going crazy or ghost-me just triggered some ancient spidey sense."
I looked around.
Nothing.
But I knew something was out there.
Still... not tonight. Tonight, I was going dancing.
"Alright," I whispered to myself, floating toward the glowing sign, "if I'm doing this whole post-death journey thing... might as well go deluxe."
'Luxze.' The most expensive club in the city. VIP lines, velvet ropes, and the kind of music that made your bones vibrate—assuming you had bones.
"VIP perks," I said as I phased right through the bouncer. "Or should I say... ghostly perks."
The lights hit me like a neon migraine. The bass was so loud it almost made me feel alive.
"Whoa. Even the ice cubes in here look rich. And classy. What is that, Himalayan glacier water?"
I hovered toward the dance floor. Bodies moved like waves. Drinks spilled. Smoke curled. A few people were doing very questionable things in dark corners.
"Perks of being dead: No alcohol hangovers, no student loans, and definitely no judgment."
I dove into the crowd. The music pulsed through me—literally. I could feel the rhythm like it was in my ghost-veins.
I danced. Like no one was watching. Because no one could.
I floated between dancers. Slid through a guy doing a backflip. Twirled through a cloud of vape smoke.
I felt free.
Then the beat dropped. Everyone threw their hands up. So did I. In sync.
And instantly... blackout.
My head spun. My stomach twisted. A wave of nausea hit me like a tsunami.
"What the—"
The club blurred. The music warped.
I looked down... Legs. Arms. Skin. Not mine. My hands. Her hands.
"Oh my God. Did I just—?"
"Did I just... possess someone?"
The girl stumbled. Her friends laughed.
"Woah, slow down, Serena," one of them said. "You okay?"
Serena. Her name. Her body. My soul.
"Oh... this is bad. This is so, so bad."
My voice came out through her mouth, slurred like she'd had five shots. And judging by the burning in her throat, she probably had.
"Crap. What did I do?"
The music kept blaring. The lights kept spinning. And I? Was no longer just a ghost. I was... something else.
I tried to get out. I tried. But I couldn't. I was stuck.
"No, no, no. This can't be happening. I'm not done haunting people yet!"
I panicked. Was I... trapped? Was this it?
"Are my ghost days over?"
"Wait—am I not even a ghost? What if I'm some kind of... demon?"
"Oh my God. I've seen this in movies. Possessing innocent people, no control, endless chaos. Am I one of them?"
My thoughts were spiraling.
"I didn't even like clubs! Why did I come here?"
"This night went from VIP ghost perks to paranormal prison time."
I tried again. Tried to move Serena's arms. Legs. Fingers. Anything.
Nothing. Except her lips. She mumbled, "...this is so bad."
My words. "Wait—so I can speak through her? But I can't move?"
"Great. I'm a possessed Siri."
And then, a kiss.
Another woman leaned in. Full-on kiss.
"Whoa, what—wait. Natalie?"
I know her... How do I know her? Memories. Flashes. Emotion. It wasn't just her body. I was her.
"Oh my God. I'm inside her and I feel everything?"
"What did I get myself into?"
Natalie smiled, breathless. "I have a surprise waiting for you at home."
God, I hope it's a coloring book and not handcuffs.
Spoiler: It was not a coloring book.
Serena—I—mumbled something like "I wanna go home."
Natalie giggled. "Of course, baby. I'll take you home."
Cab booked.
The luxury sedan pulled up, smooth as a shark gliding to shore.
Natalie, still tipsy-flirty, opened the back door for us.
And then I saw him.
The driver.
At first glance, he looked like any late-night cabbie, until my eyes landed on the patch stitched onto his jacket sleeve. A symbol. A tree with no leaves, only jagged branches, each one curling outward like broken fingers. At the center of the trunk... an eye. Wide. Watching. Surrounded by a wreath that wasn't made of leaves at all—just more thin branches twisting around the circle, like they were growing to hold it shut.
My stomach dropped.
"What the hell kind of cult logo is that?"
I slid into the backseat. Serena's heartbeat throbbed through me.
The driver's left hand gripped the wheel. A glove. Only on that hand. The leather was smeared with dried mud... or dirt... or something that didn't belong inside a luxury car.
His skin, where it was visible, was pale with the yellowish tint of someone who hadn't slept in a week. Even his eyes looked bruised, hollow with exhaustion.
Natalie didn't notice. She was in her own flirty universe.
But he kept glancing at us in the rearview mirror.
Except—he wasn't looking at Serena. He was looking at me. Straight through her. Straight into the seat of her mind where I was sitting like some squatter ghost paying zero rent.
My breath caught.
He blinked slowly, like he was confirming something.
Then he spoke—calm, conversational, borderline polite:
"Well... enjoy tonight. You'll be out tomorrow."
I froze.
Out? Out of what? Out of her body? Out of life? Out of this whole nightmare?
Natalie laughed at something on her phone. Serena's body slumped against the seat.
He kept driving. Didn't explain. Didn't look again. Just that one line.
And suddenly the air in that car felt colder than a morgue.
I muttered internally, "Great. Fantastic. I've been possessed for twelve minutes and already some sleep-deprived mud-glove cab driver knows more about my situation than I do."
The car slowed to a stop in front of Natalie's skyscraper.
Before we got out, he spoke one more time—tone soft, almost courteous:
"Same time tomorrow, miss."
Natalie waved, oblivious. I felt my ghost-spine crawl.
We got out.
Natalie's building? A literal skyscraper. The penthouse was bigger than my entire life.
As we stepped into the building, the security guards greeted Natalie with the kind of respect normally reserved for royalty or people who tip way too much.
The moment she let go of Serena's arm, the body wobbled hard.
"No, no, no—NOT THE FLOOR AGAIN—"
I fought for balance like a ghost doing Pilates, and somehow... we didn't fall.
For one glorious second, I felt victorious.
"I did it. I prevented a concussion. I am a benevolent spirit. I deserve a medal."
Then I noticed the problem. Everyone was staring. Security. The concierge. A random couple walking by. Natalie was wheezing—full-on laughing at her loudest.
I turned toward the nearest mirror.
And there she was.
Serena... frozen in a stance that could only be described as:
A newly awakened zombie from 'Running Dead,' Season 3, Episode 'Why Is It Always Me?' Arms twisted. Neck angled. One leg half-bent like she was mid-moonwalk.
Fantastic.
So much for dignity.
We headed into the elevator, and while Serena's body recovered from the surprise acrobatics, my mind drifted back to the cab driver.
"Same time tomorrow."
I tried to think it through, but thanks to Serena's bloodstream being a soup of expensive cocktails and what felt like three Vicodin, my brain was doing philosophy on airplane mode.
At least it took the edge off.
We reached her floor. The elevator chimed. The hallway was quiet, too quiet for someone like Natalie.
She unlocked the penthouse door, and as soon as it swung open, I realized I had a much, much bigger problem.
Walking toward the main hall, a single thought hit me:
What the hell is this "surprise"? And more importantly—why is my control over her disappearing the more sober she gets?
If I can't move her... If I can't steer her... What exactly am I supposed to do when things go wrong?
We stepped inside.
And then...
I saw it.
A man. Tied to a chair. Completely. Butt-naked.
I blinked.
"Who the hell is that?"
Serena didn't know. I felt her confusion.
"Wait... this is the surprise?"
Natalie grinned. Clothes started coming off.
I hovered internally, emotionally scarred.
"What is this? 50 Shades of Emotional Collapse?"
"I didn't sign up for this. I came here to dance, not headline an erotic horror-thriller!"
I closed my metaphorical eyes.
"God... If you're up there... Please give me a fast-forward button."