We went for the meeting the next afternoon.
The couple—an older man and woman, welcomed us into their home, a warm, quietly cluttered space with soft lamps, incense in the air, and shelves full of old books and copper bowls. They had that gentle, grounded presence that made you want to trust them before you even understood why.
We scanned the room first—the kind of stillness hanging in the air that didn't feel familiar, yet didn't feel wrong either. And despite every instinct telling us to stay guarded, they didn't radiate the usual signs of hustlers or hobbyists chasing a paycheck. No slick smiles. No forced mystique. Instead, there was a quiet confidence about them, an air of lived wisdom, as if they understood this world in a way most people never would. A subtle warmth settled over the space, disarming but not enough to make us drop our guard.
So we kept our composure. Told them we were curious. Then, a friend introduced us to their beliefs and we just wanted to try something different.
Rachel handled it perfectly.
I couldn't have done it without sounding like I was hiding a dead body in the basement.
She'd always had a way with people, especially elders and children. That soft, respectful tone. That effortless, sincere smile.
She made it believable.
We started with casual talk.
But then something shifted.
The woman took Rachel's hand—my hand, technically—and paused.
Her hand tightened around Rachel's, and for a moment I thought she was just concentrating—until her fingers began to tremble. Not dramatically, not theatrically… just enough to make the air shift. And then the room changed.
It wasn't sudden, but it was unmistakable. The air stilled, as if the moment folded in on itself. Even the ticking clock on the wall felt muted, swallowed by a quiet that shouldn't have existed.
Rachel stiffened. She smelled it before I did—a faint, pungent rot threading through the warm incense of the house. It lingered for only a breath, but it was enough to raise every hair on her arms.
The husband moved immediately, like he'd been expecting it. He stood, struck a match, and lit what looked like a small clay candle, except the smoke didn't rise. It curled downward, trailing along the floor. He sprinkled a pinch of something over it—herbs, ash, I couldn't tell, and the rotten smell vanished as quickly as it came.
The woman still hadn't spoken. Her trembling stopped, but her eyes… they weren't the same. Like she'd just seen something she wasn't prepared for.
Her expression changed. She looked scared. Then she muttered something in Hindi to her husband. Even without knowing the words, I understood one thing: she felt something.
Something is wrong.
She started asking questions. Very direct questions.
"Has there been a recent death in your family?"
"Have you felt… different lately?"
"Any dreams you can't explain?"
We knew then that these two weren't just hobbyists.
They were the real deal.
Apparently, the woman could channel spirits if necessary.
The husband was her protector, he made sure she didn't lose control, or that no spirit tried to take over during a session.
They explained all sorts of Indian spiritual concepts about souls, possession, detachment, karma, rebirth, protection.
Half of it went straight over my head.
But Rachel was focused—asking, listening, even following. And thanks to this shared mind space of ours, I knew everything she learned. It's like downloading knowledge by proxy.
She learns, I learn.
Honestly? Feels like cheating.
Eventually, they asked us to sit across from the woman.
She took both our hands, hers on top, like a bridge between us, and began chanting.
Not Hindi. Not Sanskrit either. Something older, I think. Something otherworldly.
Her voice was calm, but it vibrated. Like it came from somewhere deeper than her throat.
Then the questions began again. Sharper this time.
"Have you seen any ghosts?"
"Do you feel you're being watched?"
"Do you feel any presence… inside you?"
Rachel hesitated. So did I. We wanted to tell the truth—our truth. But it was risky.
They knew Meera's family. If word spread… if Rachel's parents found out… this could spiral. Not everyone reacts well to 'I'm being possessed by my dead cousin who's kind of stuck inside my head now.'
The woman went quiet after the chanting, her gaze fixed on Rachel like she was listening to something the rest of us couldn't hear. Her husband placed a hand on her shoulder, then turned to us.
"Wait a moment," he said, voice low but steady.
He stepped into the kitchen and returned with two small clay cups of tea—fragrant, earthy, with three tiny leaves drifting lazily on the surface. They looked like tulsi leaves. Rachel glanced at them with zero recognition, but I knew the scent immediately. Meera's grandmother used to brew the same thing whenever someone in the family felt "off." A grounding tea, she called it.
Rachel lifted her cup and took a careful sip.
And that's when it happened.
The leaves sank.
All three. Straight to the bottom, like they'd been pulled by something unseen.
Rachel didn't notice. She was too nervous, too focused on her own breathing. But I did. And when I looked at the woman's cup, still steaming gently beside her, the leaves in her tea floated perfectly on the surface. Untouched.
The woman must have noticed the shift in the air, because she inhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing as she watched Rachel's cup. Her expression softened, but the worry underneath it was unmistakable.
She reached out and took Rachel's hand again, gently, like she was afraid of what she might find.
"There is something here," she whispered. "Something I can't name yet. I need to study this more… and I'll call you."
She was worried. That much was obvious.
She tried to smile, but her eyes were uneasy.
We asked if there was a fee.
The husband shook his head.
"We don't do this for money," he said. "Only for people who need help. And only through people we trust. Most don't understand this work."
He wasn't wrong.
Practices like theirs could easily get shut down. Or worse, labeled as fraud, superstition, even criminal.
But still…
There was something about them.
They didn't feel fake.
They didn't try to sell us anything.
They just wanted to help.
And then—
something shifted.
It began as a flicker at the edge of my vision. A brief blur, a half-formed outline—there, then gone. I thought it was just the light. Or nerves. Until another shape appeared.
And another.
Rachel went rigid.
Not startled—paralyzed. Her breath thinned to shallow sips, her fingers curling into her palms hard enough to tremble.
Because in the center of the room stood a man we had never seen before.
Just standing.
Not looking at us. Not moving. Not even breathing. He existed the way a memory does—quiet, unannounced, already halfway gone.
Then he blinked out like a faulty projection.
A second flicker.
A woman in the doorway, her outline sharper than the first. She lingered for a heartbeat, then dissolved into nothing.
Outside the window, two children holding hands, faces blurred like smudged paint, staring at a world they no longer belonged to.
Rachel broke.
She gripped the edge of the table so violently the wood creaked. Her entire body shuddered, breath catching in sharp, panicked bursts.
And I was right there with her.
Because Dante told me this wasn't possible.
Ghosts don't see each other.
They don't share space.
They don't overlap.
At least, they're not supposed to.
None of the figures turned toward us. None reacted. They drifted like echoes from a different timeline.
But that didn't matter.
Rachel's mind couldn't hold any more.
And I could feel her collapsing from the inside out.
We left.
Ran, really.
At home, she locked the door.
Pulled all the curtains.
Sat on the floor, knees to her chest, trying not to sob.
I tried to calm her down, but my voice was shaking too.
"From what I know," I said, because I had to say something, "this isn't how it works. Or at least, that's what I was told."
She didn't answer.
Just pressed her hands over her eyes like she could scrub the images out.
And then it got worse.
The night, usually dark and silent, filled with tired people finally heading home to rest, and streets that thinned as the hours passed, wasn't empty anymore.
Every time we looked out the window, there were flickers. Quick, ghostly flashes—souls drifting by, untethered, floating as if carried by some unseen current.
To me, they all looked lonely. Empty. Drifting past each other without a glance, as if each soul existed only for itself. There was no recognition, no connection, no acknowledgment that anyone else was there.
But Rachel froze. Fear had taken her whole being hostage. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and I could feel the panic rolling off her in waves. I didn't know how to reach her, how to steady her trembling.
Rachel's fists clenched tightly. She yanked the curtains closed and pressed her hands over her eyes. Her body shook as if trying to squeeze the terror back inside. She was this close to breaking.
I tried—God, I tried to hold her together.
"It's just flickers," I told her. "Not… not constant. Maybe there's a way to shut it off."
Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was her.
I couldn't tell anymore.
But I focused hard. I imagined shutting my eyes to them, shutting a door they had slipped through. Willed them back into whatever space they came from.
And slowly, almost reluctantly, the flickers faded.
The room settled.
Rachel didn't speak for a long time. She just sat there, breathing like every inhale hurt. When she finally found her voice, it scraped out of her throat.
"Please… don't ever do that again."
I told her I wouldn't.
But the promise rang hollow in my own mind. Because something had already begun gnawing at me.
If I could see them—other ghosts, other souls—Couldn't I speak to them? Couldn't I ask the questions no living person could answer? How any of this worked. Why I was still here. Whether there was a way out.
A terrible idea… unless I found someone I trusted. Someone from my world.
But inside Rachel's body? Not a chance. Not after everything I'd already dragged her through.
If only I could step out. Get answers. Fix this. Make any of it make sense.
Rachel wouldn't leave the house after that night.
Two days passed.
No matter what I said, she barely moved from the corner of the bed, knees pulled to her chest. Fear had rooted itself so deeply in her that stepping outside felt impossible.
And the truth was… I didn't blame her.
Because I was just as afraid.
Kathy kept calling.
Rachel told her she was sick and left it at that.
Ezra didn't text.
Not once.
I tried giving him the benefit of the doubt, but after a while it just felt deliberate—cold in a way only someone close to you can manage.
I didn't know how to pull Rachel out of the hole she was sinking into. I tried talking, distracting her, anything that came to mind. None of it even made a dent.
Then Miss Rosaline appeared at the door.
She stepped in without hesitation, took Rachel's trembling hand in both of hers, and spoke to her in that soft, almost melodic way she had, like someone comforting a frightened child without ever making them feel small. And somehow, impossibly, it worked. The tension in Rachel's body eased. Even I felt something settle.
When she offered to let Rachel stay with her for a few days, I thought it was the most sensible move anyone had proposed. But Rachel only shook her head. She couldn't leave. The paranoia had welded her to the house.
So when she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, I did something I hadn't in a long time.
I took over.
I texted Ezra, told him Rachel needed to see him.
Then I called Mrs. Sandra, the woman who'd done the reading. If anyone had answers, it was her.
She sounded worried the moment she heard "Rachel's" voice. I told her about the flickers. The souls. The things Rachel had been seeing.
Silence stretched on the line. Then, quietly, she said, "This is my fault."
She explained that she might have passed on too much spiritual energy during the session. It had happened to her once, when she was young. It had nearly killed her.
"There's a risk," she said. "When someone becomes too sensitive, they're… open. Like a doorway. Souls can find them more easily. And some will try to enter."
She paused, her voice thinning.
"I'm worried you may already be possessed."
For a second, I didn't know whether to laugh or confess. She was right and she had no idea just how right. She was speaking to the spirit she feared.
But I didn't tell her.
I just thanked her, ended the call, and sat in the dark with that truth pressing heavily on me.
When Rachel woke, confusion washed over her face like she'd missed a chapter of her own life.
Then Ezra called.
Said he'd come pick her up.
And for the first time in days, Rachel smiled—small, fragile, almost surprised at her own face in the mirror. She looked from the reflection to the phone, trying to decide whether she should thank me… or accuse me.
"What did you do?" she asked.
I shrugged, because the truth would only make things worse.
She didn't press.
Maybe she didn't want the answer.
Maybe she understood.
Either way, the tension in her shoulders eased, and for the first time in a long while, fear loosened its grip on her.
When Ezra arrived, we both saw it instantly.
He looked terrible.
Pale.
Dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
A hollow, unfocused stare like he hadn't slept in days.
I muttered to myself, He looks worse than you, and you're the one being haunted.
Rachel tried not to smile… but she did.
For a brief moment, the evening felt almost normal. They walked. Talked. Laughed. As if the world hadn't been collapsing around us.
But on the ride back, something shifted.
Ezra went quiet, strangely quiet, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly.
Then he said, "Do you ever… feel like Serah is watching over us?"
It hit like a cold hand around my chest.
Rachel didn't answer.
Neither did I.
He blinked hard, embarrassed. "Sorry. Weird thought. Haven't been sleeping well. Probably just… nerves."
He drove her across the city, dropped her off, and left without another word.
Inside, Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, staring at herself in the mirror. Her voice barely carried above a whisper.
"Did he feel you?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
But a thought crept in, one I hadn't let myself consider until now.
What if Ezra hadn't been tired?
What if he'd been fighting something?
Listening.
Sensing.
Trying to understand something he couldn't see.
Rachel swallowed hard. "Do you think he knows?"
I didn't respond. Because at that moment—something shifted in the room.
The air tightened.
Cold swept across the back of Rachel's neck, lifting every hair like a silent warning.
She stiffened. I felt it too, an invisible weight settling beside us, as if the space itself had bent to make room for someone we couldn't see.
A presence.
Unmistakable.
Uninvited.
Rachel's eyes flicked to the mirror.
And there, just for a heartbeat—a second reflection stood behind her.