"Tonight’s third item," the host said. "Is an erald necklace believed to have belonged to Princess Miraval of the Western Highlands."
Matthew flipped through his brochure, pretending to look interested. The na didn’t ring any bells.
"She was kidnapped during the coastal invasions over two hundred years ago," the host continued. "The necklace was recovered last year in the ruins of an old port city, sealed inside a rusted iron chest buried beneath a collapsed well."
Polite applause echoed throughout the room as two staff mbers approached the center of the stage. One of them held up the necklace under a focused beam of light. The eralds glead in their polished casing, the gold work still intact despite the age.
Matthew leaned back slightly.
His attention wasn’t on the necklace.
It was on the figure sitting beside him.
At first, he thought one of the veiled won had returned. But no, she wasn’t wearing anything close to what the staff wore.
The woman sitting next to him had translucent skin.
She turned her head toward him. "You can see , can’t you?"
Matthew stiffened.
She leaned in a little closer. "You can hear too, right?"
He didn’t answer.
Her mouth curved into a grin. "I knew it. You looked right at earlier. That guy you’re sitting with? Argent? He’s got sothing nasty attached to him. You should stay away."
Matthew kept his eyes forward, pretending to be focused on the necklace’s estimated value being listed on the screen beside the stage.
"Do I sll good?" she asked suddenly. "You sll really good. I want to eat you."
Matthew’s eye twitched. What the heck is this ghost talking about?
No. The real question is... how was she even able to speak to him?
"Not like a full al or anything. Just a bite. Just enough." She sniffed the air beside him. "It’s strong. I bet your spirit burns really bright. That’s right, your spirit is even brighter than that Duke. It slls good. You must be one of them. Can I touch you?"
Matthew shifted slightly in his seat.
"I an, just a finger," she whispered. "Or a little piece of skin. A mory, maybe? You look like soone who rembers everything. I love those."
He resisted the urge to get up and leave. If he made a scene, it would attract attention. The last thing he needed was a bunch of masked elites watching him swat at thin air like an idiot.
"I’m not really a bad ghost," she said. "I’ve only eaten like... two people. Maybe three. And one was already dying, so I don’t think that counts."
Matthew inhaled slowly and flipped to the next page of the brochure just to avoid reacting.
"I was an opera singer, you know," she continued, placing her chin on her hand as if they were on a casual date. "I sang until my throat bled. One guy said I sounded like a dead cat. So I threw him off a balcony."
He glanced to the side.
She was smiling proudly.
"That was a lie," she giggled.
Lie my ass, Matthew thought inwardly.
"You’re fun," she said. "I like your energy. Do you work out? You’ve got great shoulders for a human."
Matthew leaned forward and grabbed a glass of water from the small tray in front of him. He took a slow sip.
"You can’t ignore forever," she said. "I’ll just keep talking. I don’t get to do this often. Most people don’t even twitch when I scream into their ears. But you—oh, you flinch. That’s my favorite."
He set the glass down. What is this woman’s problem?
"Can I lick your thoughts?"
Matthew stood up. If this ghost follows him to the restroom then he is going to absorb it!
Argent imdiately looked at him, startled. "Where are you going?"
"Restroom," Matthew said.
"Again?" Argent frowned. "You’ve got the smallest bladder in this building."
Matthew didn’t reply. He just walked away, ignoring the ghost that now clung to his shoulder, whispering sothing about his "delicious-looking brain."
Matthew stepped into the private restroom and closed the door behind him. The soft hum of the lights above was the only sound. He turned the lock, then moved straight to the sink. Water. That was his first instinct. He splashed it on his face again, then grabbed a towel and wiped off the moisture with slow, steady movents.
No voice followed him this ti. It seed the woman hadn’t entered either. But how was he supposed to absorb her if she didn’t follow?
He looked around. No opera ghost. No whispering. No annoying comnts about his shoulders.
He clicked his tongue in irritation before he turned toward the mirror.
Then he froze.
The man in the blue suit—the ghost from earlier—was standing in the reflection.
He wasn’t behind Matthew. Not physically.
Just in the mirror.
Then the overhead light flickered.
Matthew blinked and looked behind him.
Empty.
When he turned back, the man was still there—closer now.
The lights flickered again, this ti longer. The restroom dimd into shadow. When they ca back on, the mirror image twitched.
The ghost’s hand moved first—slowly reaching toward the surface from inside the glass.
Matthew backed away, but his legs locked in place.
Another flicker.
The hand was now outside the mirror, stretching forward.
Matthew reached for the door handle.
Nothing moved.
His arm didn’t respond.
He looked down.
His limbs weren’t listening.
The ghost stepped forward, still inside the mirror—but sohow, impossibly, his hand had already wrapped around Matthew’s throat.
The pressure was sudden.
It tightened.
"You look fun," a voice hissed, low and sharp like it was inside Matthew’s skull. "You should accompany ."
Matthew tried to tear away the grip, but he couldn’t lift his arms.
The pressure increased.
His back slamd into the edge of the sink. The cold porcelain dug into his lower spine.
Then, in one violent motion, the hand shoved him forward.
His face crashed into the sink.
Water burst from the faucet without warning.
It was everywhere. Mouth. Eyes. Ears.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t shout.
He twisted, but his limbs refused to obey. The water kept rising. It didn’t make sense—sinks couldn’t fill that fast. But it was already overflowing. It soaked his sleeves, pressed into his nose, and clogged every inhale.
"You’re not like the others," the voice said. "I want to see what you beco."
Matthew’s vision blurred. His lungs scread. His mind was yelling for control.
Then, finally, one hand moved.
He gripped the ghost’s wrist.
The skin under his fingers sizzled like it touched fire.
A piercing screech echoed inside his skull.
Matthew staggered, his back hitting the wall.
"You—" the male ghost screeched. Matthew could clearly see him not too far away from him.
The ghost moved again—fast, faster than before. His hand shot out and wrapped around Matthew’s throat, yanking him forward with enough force to make his shoes scrape against the tiled floor.
"What are you?" the ghost hissed. His face was inches away now. "You’re not supposed to burn. You’re not—"
Matthew reacted instinctively. He raised his arm and grabbed the ghost’s wrist.
The reaction was imdiate.
The ghost scread.
A shrill, broken sound filled the room as his entire body jerked backward—but Matthew didn’t let go.
He tightened his grip.
Smoke began to rise from where their skin touched. Except it wasn’t smoke. It was sothing else—wispy, like ash, like steam from sothing dying. The ghost’s skin blistered under Matthew’s fingers, but there was no blood. Just light. Just fragnts of sothing pale and cracking.
The ghost writhed, trying to pull away. His other hand clawed at Matthew’s arm, but Matthew stayed locked on.
Then sothing hit him.
A surge of mories—images that weren’t his.
A dim corridor. A child crying. Fire. A man shouting. Cold walls. A sharp object. Betrayal. Pain. Screams that weren’t his own. Faces lting into one another.
Matthew gritted his teeth. His head throbbed. The mories poured in too fast. They weren’t like dreams. They were full—whole experiences slamd into his mind with every second of contact.
But he didn’t let go.
The ghost kept screaming.
Matthew felt the power shift. The ghost’s limbs twitched, but the strength was gone. The edges of his body faded, losing form. His face cracked like glass, and light spilled from within—pale blue, then white.
"No—no—stop—stop—" the ghost gasped, trying to pull his hand free. "Let go! LET —"
Matthew didn’t.
He watched as the ghost’s form began to crumble.
One mont he was whole.
The next, his outline flickered like a faulty light.
And then, he was gone.
The mont the ghost disappeared, Matthew released his grip and staggered backward. His legs buckled.
He dropped to the floor.
Both palms pressed against the cold tile, his breath sharp and uneven. His head pounded.
He stayed there for a few seconds, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.
"What was that?" Matthew mumbled before his consciousness left him.
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