Chapter 1: Ghosts in the Stream

Yeah, that’s really my job title. I’m Riley Quinn—a paranormal investigator. Go ahead, laugh. I’ve heard it all before.

Sometimes I say it with a wink, sometimes with a tired laugh. Depends on who’s asking, honestly. In this gig, you learn to keep your sense of humor close. Your salt? Even closer. There’s always a battered thermos of black coffee in my hand and a bunch of weird, hand-carved charms rattling in my jacket pocket. I don’t just chase shadows—I walk right alongside them.

That’s my job. Walking the Unseen Path, knowing the balance of light and shadow. Summoning spirits—yeah, all kinds. Sometimes the job’s exactly what you’d expect, sometimes it’s a lot weirder.

That’s not just some Instagram bio fluff. My mentor always said the world’s stitched together by stuff most people never notice. I learned to read the signs—the way the air thickens before a storm, or how a shiver up your spine means more than just a draft. Summoning? Sure. But sometimes it’s about listening, not just calling. You’d be surprised how many ghosts just want to talk.

After I left my mentor and struck out solo, I started livestreaming—hey, it pays the bills these days. Gotta keep the lights on, right?

Honestly, I never thought I’d be one of those people, talking into a ring light at midnight. But rent in Maple Heights isn’t cheap, and, well—ghostbusting doesn’t exactly come with dental. Turns out, people love to watch someone else get spooked from the safety of their own couch. Go figure.

One night, a viewer called in, asking me to bust a ghost—yeah, like the movie.

His voice was shaky. The kind of nervous you get after one too many Reddit deep-dives. My chat was already buzzing, egging him on. You know how it goes.

"Streamer, I think I’m possessed. I can see a health bar floating above everyone’s head."

I just stared at him for a second. Then I sighed, exasperated. "Nah, you just ate some bad mushrooms, man."

The chat lost it.

[LMAO streamer, forget ghosts—just do stand-up!]

[Bro, with your looks, if you did a little dance, I’d tune in every night. Peak content.]

[Isn’t this supposed to be about hauntings? I’ve watched for weeks and haven’t seen anything weird, but the hype is real.]

[Is this a scam? Influencers these days will do anything for clout.]

Didn’t bother me. Honestly, when it comes to the supernatural, the less you see, the better. If these people ever really saw something, they wouldn’t be so quick to crack jokes.

It’s always the ones who haven’t seen a thing that laugh the loudest. Go figure. I’ve found that the truly haunted are usually the quietest in the room.

Next caller.

The guy on screen looked terrible, bundled in a thick blanket despite the August heat, shivering like he’d been caught in a blizzard. (Seriously, someone get this guy a doctor.)

Sweat was slicking his hair to his forehead, and his eyes darted like he expected something to leap from the shadows behind him. He looked like the poster child for "Don’t Try This at Home."

Some viewers recognized him.

[Isn’t that Mason Blackwell, the guy who fell in the river last month?]

[No way! Even the Blackwell family’s tuning in.]

[This is the closest I’ll ever get to the one percent. Let me stare a little longer.]

I saw his name and remembered: the Blackwells were one of Maple Heights’ founding families, and Mason was the only heir—rich, easy on the eyes, but with a reputation for trouble. He’d gotten tangled up with more women than I could count. I’d heard that after he fell off his family’s yacht, he’d been stuck in bed ever since. Small town, big gossip. Everyone knows the Blackwells.

I studied the guy on screen, fighting back a smile.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones. His hands fidgeted with the blanket, knuckles white.

His eyes darted, his energy scattered—looked both hungover and wide awake, totally unsettled.

The chat started placing bets on whether he’d make it to morning. I could almost hear the collective inhale every time he coughed.

Everyone’s got luck, and it comes in all shades. Red means smooth sailing; brown means life’s a grind. But Mason’s luck was thick and black—like someone with one foot in the grave. (Luck colors—think aura, but with a traffic light system. Black’s the worst.)

I’d seen that kind of shadow before, usually in hospice wards or on the edge of a bad accident. It clung to him, sticky and cold.

Didn’t look like he’d make it much longer. I’d seen that look before.

Mason doubled over, coughing so hard I thought he might hack up a lung. Even the viewers got nervous just hearing it.

I saw the chat slow down, people sending worried emojis. A few regulars asked if he needed an ambulance.

Nothing like the wild party boy you saw on Instagram. Anyone who didn’t know would think he’d been sick for years, barely hanging on.

His skin was sallow, eyes ringed with purple. The kind of look that comes from more than just a bad night out. I’d seen it before.

His eyes were empty. "Yesterday I saw a psychic. He said my time’s almost up. I wanted to ask you—how do I fix this?"

This was a Hail Mary, nothing else. Why else would he come to someone as weird as me?

I rubbed my fingers together, thinking.

The chat was more anxious than he was.

[The streamer’s gone quiet. Told you, it’s all a scam.]

[What’s Mason Blackwell doing, asking a pretty influencer to exorcise his demons—biggest joke of the year.]

[This is the closest I’ll ever get to old money. Let me look a little longer.]

I could almost feel the static in the air—everyone waiting to see if I’d choke or come up with something wild.

Mason’s patience was shot, his face white as a sheet.

"I’m asking you a question!"

His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. The bravado was wearing thin.

Jeez. Not much time left and still yelling.

I waved him off. "Can’t be fixed."

The words hung in the air, heavy as thunder. I could see him deflate, shoulders slumping.

He coughed even harder, eyes bloodshot.

"You fraud! I’ll have you blacklisted!"

The audience went nuts.

[If you can’t do it, just say so. Aren’t you scared of ghosts coming for you after all these scams?]

[Finally someone I like, but she’s a fake. Get outta here!]

[Girl, why scam people when you could do something else? Now you’ve ticked off the Blackwells—you’re toast.]

[I love watching scammers get roasted, LOL. This is peak content.]

I could practically see the pitchforks. Cancel culture comes quick when you’re live.

...

I kept my voice calm. "You should have died ten years ago."

My voice was steady, but the words landed like a punch. For a second, everything froze—chat, stream, even Mason. My heart thudded.

Then added, "Someone used a forbidden ritual to borrow a life for you."

[This is getting more and more ridiculous. Does anyone actually buy this?]

[If you’re gonna make stuff up, at least try. Died ten years ago? That’s just cursing someone.]

[I think you’re the one who should drop dead.]

[My granddad was a preacher and I’ve never heard of this. Make it more believable, at least.]

I responded, "That kind of ritual? Dark magic. Not just cruel—if it backfires, best case, you get sucked dry. Worst case, your whole family’s wiped out."

"Been feeling tired? Having weird dreams?"

I leaned forward, voice low. You have to meet people where their fear lives. Sometimes you can see the exact moment someone starts to believe.

Mason paused, then nodded. "Yeah, I keep dreaming of a pitch-black road lined with red flowers."

I hummed, "Those are spider lilies. In old legends, they bloom along the road to the underworld. Yeah, like those flowers in horror movies."

I watched his pupils shrink. The chat threw up a dozen Wikipedia links about death flowers.

He jumped up.

"If I don’t find you today, I’ll eat my hat!"

"Alright." I gave him my address.

He didn’t expect that. The chat went wild.

[Wait, the streamer actually lives at 404 Oakwood Apartments, South Main Street?]

[No way!]

[New here—what’s up with that place?]