Chapter 2: Haunted Heir, Borrowed Life

[That’s where the headless double murder happened a few years back.]

I shrugged.

"Yeah, the rent’s cheap. Place stays cool in summer—don’t even need AC."

I flashed a crooked grin. I always did love a good ghost story—especially when it kept the rent low. Priorities, right?

The stream went dead silent—a wall of ellipses filled the chat.

Mason was so mad his hand shook as he pointed at me. "Just wait, I’m coming over right now. If I don’t make you beg for mercy, I’ll take your last name!"

I raised an eyebrow and said, "Mason, you really shouldn’t go out tonight."

He huffed, trying to save face. "You say don’t go out, so I won’t? Who do you think you are?"

I told him to hold on.

He thought I was scared.

"If you apologize on your knees, maybe I’ll let it slide."

Just then, my clock chimed midnight. The window was shut tight, no wind, but the candle by it flickered and dimmed.

The room felt colder all of a sudden, the kind of chill that seeps into your teeth. Even the chat noticed.

"Take a look at what day it is."

Mason didn’t care. "You think I need to pick a day to deal with you?"

Chat came alive—someone explained:

[Today’s August 15th—Ghost Night. Supposedly, the veil’s thin, and the dead walk.]

I smiled. "That’s right. If you don’t want to die young, stay home. Because those things are coming for you."

Mason froze halfway out of bed.

He might not believe me, but he’d heard stories about the weird stuff that happens on Ghost Night.

His bravado faded, and for a second, he looked like a little kid lost at a sleepover.

"How about this—I’ve got some charms to keep you safe. Not $999, not $99—just $9.99."

I grinned, winking at the camera. The chat sent laughing emojis, LMAOs, and a few tips.

"You… don’t scare me. How could a guy like me be afraid of ghosts?"

[Exactly! Guys have strong energy, ghosts wouldn’t dare. Bro, he’s got main character energy.]

That’s true, but Mason’s been haunted for a month. His energy’s shot. After falling in the river, he got hurt, and now the ghosts are after him—his soul’s stuck.

So, tonight, he’s in real trouble.

I turned off my alarm and waited.

Sometimes, words aren’t enough—you have to see for yourself.

I watched his feed, waiting for the inevitable. Some lessons, you can’t teach with words alone.

Mason thought I was mocking him and was about to blow up when footsteps echoed behind him—steady and getting closer.

He whipped around, but nothing was there. Door still closed.

"Who’s there?"

No answer, but the footsteps kept coming.

[What’s that sound? There’s no one there, just footsteps.]

[Could the streamer be right?]

[I buy it. You’d need guts to live in a haunted apartment.]

[Come on, people still believe this stuff? It’s the 21st century—believe in science.]

[The end of science is the supernatural.]

The chat was split—half joking, half spooked. I could feel the tension rising, the kind that makes you check behind you, just in case.

Mason’s lips trembled. He shrank back on the bed, phone aimed at the sound.

The stream’s view count spiked—here comes the money.

I grinned, playing it up like the other streamers, "Welcome to the stream! If you’ve got cash, send some gifts. If not, your support is plenty…"

I threw in a finger gun for good measure. Gotta keep the show rolling.

Suddenly, Mason screamed:

"There’s a ghost! A ghost!"

His bedroom door creaked open, pitch black outside.

Wet footprints trailed in, but no one was there.

The chat exploded, weird voices calling Mason’s name.

Ghosts calling for his soul.

I frowned.

A lot showed up.

Way worse than I thought.

I felt a cold prickle at the base of my neck. This wasn’t your garden-variety haunting.

"Mason, do you have any charms on you?"

He hugged his head, wailing, "I do! I do! The psychic from before gave me some!"

"Take every single one and put them on."

He scrambled to obey.

There were a bunch—only his eyes weren’t covered.

I watched him slap charms all over himself, like a kid playing superhero with Post-its.

"And then? And then?"

Then—

I sighed. "Then you pray. That’s all I can do."

Seeing I was about to end the stream, he broke down: "Miss! Ma’am! Please, help!"

[Big man, what are you scared of? Grab a bat and fight!]

[This isn’t acting, this is real! Mom, I saw a ghost!]

Chat was losing its mind. Some begged for help, others spammed popcorn emojis and LULs.

Right then, my old mentor called. As soon as I answered, he sounded urgent: "Riley, save Mason Blackwell first. He doesn’t deserve to die yet. I’ll explain the rest after you help him."

Since my mentor said so, how could I not?

I trusted his judgment. If he said Mason was worth saving, I’d drop everything.

Ignoring the viewers just there for the drama, I killed the stream.

The Blackwell mansion was easy to find, easy to break into.

On a night like this, the whole neighborhood was dead quiet.

Even the crickets seemed to hold their breath. The air was thick, heavy with something old and angry.

It took less than ten minutes to bike over, but I stopped short of the wrought-iron gates.

If a normal person saw what I did, they’d lose their mind.

This fancy estate was now drowning in bad luck—dark energy that should’ve flowed away was pooling here.

A coffin sat in the center, eight paper effigies stood guard, white banners raised high.

Ghost infants wrapped in white sheets, their lower halves missing, crawled toward the house.

I’d seen some things, but this? It made my skin crawl.

Ghosts leading the way, carrying the coffin—they wouldn’t leave empty-handed.

Mason was in serious danger.

They couldn’t speak, just made chilling, inhuman noises in the still night.

The air vibrated with a sound that made my teeth ache—a mix of crying and static.

I whispered a calming prayer and stepped inside.

I kept my voice low, more for me than the ghosts. The old words always helped steady my nerves.

Mason was easy to find—the loudest guy in the house.

"Whoever cracks a joke, sings, dances—the louder the better—I’ll send you a hundred bucks!"

Even on death’s door, the guy’s first move was to throw money at the problem. Typical.

Soon, a bizarre song played from the phone across from him.

"I don’t have K, I don’t have K, not boom, not boom…"

Me: "..."

I kicked open the door and saw something with hollow eyes—couldn’t tell if it was human or ghost—standing on the table.

The room stank of burnt incense and fear. My heart pounded, but I kept my voice steady.

I called out, "Mason?"