Chapter 2: Family Curses Go Live

“Damn! My worldview is shattered.”

“That ghost sneaking pizza is so cute. No wonder my pepperoni kept disappearing.”

“Never seen this before! Isn’t this framing? He bumped into the girl and still blamed her—was he trying to scam her?”

“I’m convinced. Kneeling in one second. Streamer, I was young and stupid just now, let me off the hook.”

“President of the Looks League, some people have no self-awareness—can spot ugly in others but not themselves.”

...the chat kept going.

The ghost girl said her name was Lila. When she saw someone in the chat praise her, she leaned in shyly and covered her face.

Even in death, she blushed. Her hair shifted, forming a shaky heart in the air. The chat, always quick to meme, started sending heart emojis.

The tip of her long hair, which had been strangling the boy’s neck, made a heart shape.

It hovered there—a silent apology. A wish for kindness she never got.

“Ghost God, I don’t really want his life. It’s just that he’s ugly but calls girls ugly—I couldn’t stand it.”

Her voice was soft now. More hurt than angry.

After speaking, she accepted my token and went to the afterlife to report in.

I handed her the token—a silver coin etched with runes—and she faded, her form growing lighter as she crossed over. The chat watched, spellbound, as she faded, her outline dissolving.

Lila was a wandering spirit—not bound to a place like haunted ghosts, nor dependent on offerings—so I could take her under my command.

It’s rare, but every now and then, a ghost sticks around. Lila had that spark. I made a mental note to keep her close—she’d be useful. Maybe she’d come in handy for tougher cases. Hey, you never know.

As for the President, after regaining his senses, he couldn’t take the chat’s ridicule and hung up.

He vanished from the screen, leaving behind a flurry of “L”s and clown emojis—the internet’s way of saying, “You blew it.”

Hey, I’m not a monster. Out of basic decency, I still sent him a private message:

“Slander leads to the hell of tongue-pulling, you little punk. Tomorrow night at midnight, light three candles and leave a set of makeup in the southwest corner of your room.”

I added a lipstick emoji for good measure. Sometimes, a warning sticks better with a little drama.

Lila has some appearance anxiety.

She always did, even before the accident. Maybe in the afterlife, she’ll finally get some peace. Or at least, better brows.

After this, more people started requesting to connect with me.

My inbox was blowing up. People love a good ghost story. Especially live.

This time, the fan’s ID was “Big Money Blooms.”

I half-expected a Wall Street bro, but when the feed connected, I saw a couple who looked like they’d stepped out of a Midwest family photo.

But on camera was a middle-aged couple.

They were simply dressed, faces tired, hands rough. They sat upright in front of the screen, looking stiff, nervously rubbing their hands together.

The man spoke first:

“My name’s Carl Dobson, this is my wife, Marsha. We have a son named Danny. Five years ago, after a fight, he left home and never came back. We’ve searched everywhere but can’t find him. Streamer, can you tell us if he’s dead or alive, and where he is?”

His voice was gruff, but underneath was a tremor that told a whole story. He looked straight at the camera, eyes red.

After he finished, his eyes were red. His wife Marsha took over, her voice breaking as she spoke:

“Son, if you see this, please come home. Mom misses you, I’m old and sick—I don’t know if I can hold on until you come back.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a faded handkerchief, her shoulders hunched with years of worry. The chat, never shy, jumped in.

The chat boiled over:

“As the saying goes, you raise kids to care for you in old age, but this son is too ungrateful—hasn’t come home in five years.”

“Looking at Mr. and Mrs. Dobson, they don’t seem well-off. Maybe he went to college and started to look down on his family. What a jerk.”

“Danny, right? Ma’am, give us more details—we’ll find him and see what kind of lowlife he’s become!”

“No news for five years—he’s probably already gone.”

I jumped in before they could go any further:

“Danny isn’t dead. Don’t you get money from him every month?”

I didn’t bother with theatrics—sometimes, the truth is best served straight. You could hear a pin drop.

The woman’s crying stopped instantly. Then she covered her face and sobbed harder:

“He’s alive, so why won’t he come home to see his mom? Does he really want to cut us off? Son, how could you be so heartless!”

Her wail turned sharp, almost accusing. The chat started to turn on Danny, sympathy shifting back and forth like a seesaw.

Carl snorted, clenched his fist, and slammed it down:

“What can a thousand bucks do? For the two of us, he only sends a thousand. If either of us gets sick, it’s not enough. I always said he wouldn’t amount to anything—no education, no skills, big dreams but a weak spirit.”

He slammed his fist on the table. The chat echoed his frustration.

“A thousand really isn’t enough—he should just come home and take care of his parents.”

“People would rather beg in the city than come home.”

“Still ungrateful. Even if you like city life, you could bring your parents to live with you.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dobson are so pitiful, streamer, please help them.”

“If I knew I’d have a son like this, I’d have shot it at the wall.”

...chat kept rolling.

But I sneered: “With parents like you, no wonder he’s struggling.”

I let the words hang, heavy and cold. The chat blew up.

Those words exploded in the livestream like thunder. Comments rolled in fast, some in disbelief, others in outrage. The Dobsons looked stunned.

“Does the streamer not have a mom? So heartless.”

“I thought the streamer was capable—didn’t expect such poor character.”

“Reported—just a charlatan making a scene.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dobson are crying so sadly—is it right for you to say that?”

As soon as I finished, the previously sobbing Marsha glared at me in anger:

“Have you ever been a parent? Do you know how much parents care about their kids? If you don’t understand, don’t talk nonsense. I’ve given everything for my son—what more do you want?”

Her voice was sharp, defiant. Carl looked away, jaw clenched.

Carl’s face darkened. He didn’t want to say more:

“Streamer, these are our family matters. Just tell me where my son is.”

He tried to take control, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

But I ignored him and turned to Marsha:

“Your cheekbones are high, face broad, jaw wide, eyes sharp and sunken. From your face, you’re stubborn and controlling, like to dominate those around you, and your love for your child is shallow.”

“Your husband is a male chauvinist, and in your marriage you’re in a weak position. Unable to control him, you became even more controlling of your son, trying to dictate his life, his hobbies—his entire future.”

I let the words settle, watching her expression flicker between indignation and something like fear. The chat was divided—some were intrigued, others furious.

As if I could feel the pain and twisted soul of the person involved, a bitter smile crept onto my lips:

“Do you know how much your son suffered?”

I spoke softly, but the words hit like a hammer. The chat slowed, sensing the shift in mood.

Marsha raised her eyebrows and shot back immediately:

“You’ve never been a parent, what do you know? Everything I did was for his own good. What parent doesn’t love their child? Which parent doesn’t want to take care of every aspect of their child’s life? I care about my son—is that controlling?”

Her voice was brittle. She clung to her old reasons. The chat jumped in, some defending her, others calling her out.

The chat echoed:

“You can’t judge people by their face. Lots of people look the same—does that mean their personalities are the same? Streamer, don’t show off your shallow knowledge.”

“Yeah, I’m a mama’s girl—my mom bought me a house and car, set up my career, took care of me. Should I say she’s controlling and I’m oppressed? I’m not Emily.”

“Maybe the streamer really doesn’t have a mom.”

“Controlling life, controlling fate—the streamer exaggerates.”

“Parents are great. Hope the streamer doesn’t attack a mother just for views.”

“But not all parents love their children.”

...chat kept rolling.

I ignored the insults in the chat, staring at Marsha on screen:

“So your ‘for his own good’ meant, when he got into flight school and was about to enroll full of hope, you bit off a piece of his earlobe?”

“He liked cats, saw a stray and secretly fed it. You said cats have germs and smashed the cat to death in front of him. In high school, he had a crush on a girl. You read his diary, went to school, slapped the girl twice, called her a slut seducing your son, and made him a laughingstock at school for three years.”

I listed the facts one by one, each one landing like a punch. Marsha’s face twisted with anger.

But Marsha didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She was full of anger:

“What’s so good about being a pilot? Flying every day is dangerous—there are plane crashes all the time! I’m just thinking of his safety! No mother can bear the slightest risk to her child.”

“That cat—strays run wild. Who knows if it had rabies? What if he got bitten? High school is for studying. If I hadn’t stepped in, how could they focus? Everything I did was for him. Why can’t he understand his mother?”

She was doubling down, her voice shrill with self-righteousness. The chat turned, disgusted.

The chat exploded:

“Damn! This kind of love is suffocating.”

“Can’t stand animal abuse.”

“A pilot! He could’ve had an amazing life.”

“So many parents never treat their kids as independent people.”

“Now whenever I hear ‘it’s for your own good,’ I feel sick.”

“And that saying ‘there are no bad parents.’”

...the chat kept going.

Carl saw the chat cursing them and seemed to realize being a pilot was a great job.

His face fell, and he shot a glare at Marsha. You could see the gears turning—regret, anger, maybe even shame.

He blamed Marsha:

“I told you not to do that—let him be a pilot, let him make his own way.”

He tried to pass the blame, but I wasn’t letting him off easy.

I sneered: “You think you’re off the hook? Think again. Wasn’t it all with your silent approval as a father? You think you didn’t play a role?”

“Your jaw is wide, cheekbones protrude, nose flat, forehead convex, head pointy and narrow. From your face, you’re selfish and cruel, short-sighted. You’ve farmed all your life and think that’s best, and you’re afraid your son will surpass you and threaten your status as head of the family.”

“That year, you forced your son to repeat a year, and he managed to get into a top university. But you lied and said he didn’t get in. Five years ago, he came home from work, found his acceptance letter at the bottom of a box, fought with you, said he wanted to cut ties, and left.”

I watched his face harden, jaw set in stubborn denial. The chat seethed with anger and empathy.

“No wonder Danny hasn’t gone home in five years. If it were me, I wouldn’t send a cent.”

“Most parents have kids just to have someone for old age or out of instinct.”

“You blame him for not being successful, but isn’t that your fault?”

“I get it. My mom was afraid I’d work out of town after graduation, forced me to apply only to local colleges, and when I refused, she and my uncle secretly changed my applications.”

“If only parents understood our lives aren’t their do-over. You can take the horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.”

...chat kept going.