That night, I drifted straight to Rachel's house.
Her room hadn't changed. Same vanilla-scented candles she never lit, the same carefully arranged books she never read. She was sprawled across her bed in faded pink pajamas, thumbs tapping away on her phone.
I floated closer and peered over her shoulder.
Ezra.
Of course.
A flicker of jealousy pricked me, sharp and petty.
Are you trying to take my spot in his life? Not happening.
I slipped into the old armchair by her desk, crossing my legs like some smug poltergeist. She didn't notice—too busy composing whatever cringe she thought would make him fall in love.
I smirked and decided to amuse myself.
Slowly, I nudged the corner of her notebook. It slid half an inch across the desk. Rachel's head snapped up. She blinked. Rubbed her eyes.
I pushed it again.
Her face, drained of color. I almost laughed out loud.
She scrambled for the nightstand drawer and pulled out—oh, this was rich—a rosary.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.
She started whispering some half-remembered prayer, her hands trembling. Nothing happened, obviously.
Newsflash, Rachel—you can't just start believing when it's convenient.
I folded my arms.
"Yeah, maybe try praying more than once a year if you want divine backup."
But I didn't keep mocking her. Because the second she looked back down at her phone, I caught a glimpse of her messages. And something in me… softened. Not jealousy. Not completely. But something.
Because beneath all her vanity and fake humility, I felt it, the ache.
The exhaustion of always trying to look perfect. The desperate need to be adored. The tiny, constant panic that maybe she wasn't enough.
I reached out, half curiosity, half cruelty, and slipped inside her.
Possession.
It wasn't like with Serena. This time, I braced myself. I knew what to expect. But still—God—it hit me in a way I didn't think possible.
All at once, I felt everything Rachel felt.
The nights she stayed up picking apart her own face in the mirror. The bitterness she swallowed every time she saw Ezra look at me. The way she rehearsed jokes in her head before texting him. The relief and shame when he actually replied. For a moment, I almost pitied her.
Almost.
And then I found it, the tiny thought buried under all her insecurity. She doesn't even feel that bad I'm gone.
Not really.
I could feel it—how my death was convenient for her. How it freed up space she'd always wanted. And something in me curdled.
This bitch.
Her feelings for Ezra were real. I'll give her that. But even that felt more like hunger than love.
And now that I was inside her, even my own certainty wobbled.
Is this just infatuation?
Why does it feel so real when I know it's hollow?
I sifted through her memories, her perfect little recollections of every time Ezra brushed her arm, every time he laughed at her jokes. She'd been nursing this crush since freshman year, pretending she'd never stoop to liking a playboy.
Hypocrite!!
She tried so hard to look above it all. And here she was, texting him like some giddy teenager.
I felt a flicker of pride when I realized he wasn't really responding.
My man knows better.
But then—he was still replying. Even this late.
A spark of jealousy hissed through me.
Why is he entertaining this? Why is he humoring her at all?
And that thought, that cold, ugly thought, reminded me that I was dead. None of this should matter.
But it did.
I hovered in her mind, stewing in my own possessive rage, and decided that I'm not letting this slide.
I rummaged through the sensations in her head, trying to recall how I'd controlled Serena's body. Unconscious. Drunk. Or… sleep-deprived.
A slow smile spread across my borrowed face.
Sleep-deprived it is.
Tomorrow, when she drags herself to campus half-awake, I'll be waiting.
And when she sees Ezra—
I'll make sure she says exactly what I want. I sank back into the dark, humming to myself. Let's see how you like being haunted, Rachel. I settled deeper into her mind, plotting.
Alright… if I'm going to make her embarrass herself tomorrow, I'll need her good and sleep-deprived.
I tapped a finger against her thoughts, mulling it over.
How do I even get her to that point, though?
And then it hit me.
Oh, I should've just kept messing with her. Kept the little hauntings going until dawn—slamming drawers, whispering in her ear. She'd be terrified, wide awake, and ripe for the picking.
I sighed.
But nooo… I had to get impatient and jump in early. Now I'm stuck.
I tried to remember exactly what Dante said about possession.
Was it one possession per day?
Is there an emergency clause?
I rubbed my temples—hers, technically—and groaned.
I should've asked more questions. Gramps really half-assed that tutorial.
I shifted my focus back to her senses.
Ezra had stopped replying. Rachel's eyes flicked to her phone every few seconds like it might buzz again if she stared enough. She was thinking—hard, about how she'd approach him tomorrow.
But beneath that, I could feel it.
She was scared.
My little stunt worked better than I expected. She glanced around the dark room, hugging her knees to her chest.
And then—I swear—I almost burst out laughing.
She slipped the rosary over her neck and tucked it under her collar like it was some magical ghost shield. Oh, sweetheart… if only it worked that way.
She tried to sleep. Rolled over. Counted breaths. But every creak in the house made her flinch. Every rustle of the curtains made her clutch that string of beads tighter.
She was exhausted, but her brain wouldn't let go.
Scared.
Confused.
Dreading how tomorrow would go.
And even though a tiny part of me felt sorry for her…
I would've helped you if you were anyone else. But not you.
She finally dozed off around 3 a.m.
And guess what? I tried it.
Yes, the thing.
The trick Dante mentioned—controlling speech while someone's unconscious. And what better way to keep her sleep-deprived than to have her wide awake… talking… or singing… until sunrise?
I am brilliant, I told myself.
I didn't really know how it worked, but I focused hard, until her eyes fluttered open. And then, just like that—I could speak. Her voice came out, flat and mechanical:
"I am a little bitch who is so deprived, I have to chase my dead cousin's best friend while my funeral clothes haven't even circled back from the cleaners."
I paused.
Wait. Did I just call myself a bitch?
I blinked, her eyes blinking for me and realized something unsettling.
Why don't I feel her thoughts right now? Why don't I have any of her memories?
All I could feel were my own emotions—nothing else.
Weird. I shook it off.
Alright… What now? Songs? A bedtime story?
I spent the next few hours wasting time—singing Taylor Swift into the darkness, narrating half a romance novella I'd written, even humming theme songs from old cartoons.
It was almost morning when I shifted on the bed and froze.
Wait… did I just turn?
I flexed her hand.
I did.
I sat bolt upright—still in her body and practically cackled. Dante said I couldn't move them. He said I could only speak. Did he… not know about this?
Or worse—Did he lie?
A dozen questions collided in my head.
If he lied about this, what else was he hiding?
Was I wasting my time singing like an idiot when I could've been learning what I'm really capable of?
I flopped back onto the pillow and groaned. This is probably how he "guides" souls. Letting them figure it all out themselves. Free will, he called it.
Do I even have free will?
Morning came. And with it—a blackout.
When I resurfaced, Rachel was already awake, hair a mess, eyes dull and swollen. Perfect, I thought. Properly drained. I decided to test something. I looked into the mirror and tried to speak.
"Good morning," I said in her voice.
And the strangest thing—she didn't even look confused. It was like she thought she'd said it herself. Convenient.
Finally, college.
And there he was.
Ezra. Standing by the fountain, a book in one hand, tapping something on his phone.
Rachel clutched two paper cups, rehearsing her lines. Sneaky, I thought. But he doesn't like decaf, babe.
She walked over, cheeks pink.
He looked up—eyes tired, smile automatic. She started the small talk—how was your night, did you sleep, I brought you coffee, and he actually took the cup.
He drank it.
He drank the decaf.
Is this how he charms every other girl? This guy… unbelievable.
And then, something else hit me. A warm, fluttering ache in the chest.
No. No, no, no—
It wasn't mine. It was hers. Her hopeless, stupid love for him. God, this is worse than watching a rom-com in 3D. She was picturing things—his mouth on hers, his hands on her waist—
Stop. How old are you?
The small talk dragged on, weather, exams, all the usual filler.
I couldn't take it anymore. So I did it. I made her say it. In a low, smug voice that wasn't quite hers:
"I thought you didn't like decaf."
He froze mid-sip. Eyes locked on hers. And for one breathless second, I saw something flicker behind them. Recognition. Slow and certain.
"Serah?" he whispered.