I wake up drowning.Not in water—I wish it were water.
Water I could fight. Water has a surface I could break through, and air I could gulp down until my lungs remembered how to work.
But this? This is something else entirely.The hands around my throat are cold. Not the kind of cold that makes you shiver, but the kind that burns, that seeps into your bones like frost creeping across a window. They squeeze, and I can't breathe, can't scream, and can't do anything but claw at fingers that aren't there.
My eyes snap open to darkness.The ceiling fan spins lazily above me, a shadow against shadows. My bedroom looks exactly as it should—posters peeling at the corners, clothes draped over my desk chair, and the faint glow of my phone charger in the corner. Everything is normal. Everything is safe.Except for the hands.
They tighten, and I thrash against my sheets, my own hands flying to my neck. I feel nothing but my own skin, slick with sweat, pulse hammering beneath my fingertips. But the pressure is there. Real. Crushing.I try to say something—anything—but only a broken wheeze escape my mouth.
Then I see her.She stands at the foot of my bed, exactly where she always stands. A silhouette darker than the darkness around her, edges blurred like smoke. I can't see her face clearly, never can, but I know she's looking at me. I feel it in the way the temperature drops another ten degrees, in the way my chest tightens beyond what the phantom hands are already doing.Her head tilts slowly, too slowly, like a puppet with cut strings.
"Namping,"
she whispers, and her voice is everywhere—in my ears, in my skull, vibrating through my teeth. It sounds like wind through a graveyard, like the last breath before drowning. "Not yet. But soon."The hands release.
I gasp, sucking in air so fast it hurts, coughing and retching as I roll onto my side. My fingers dig into the mattress, anchoring me to something solid, something real. My throat feels raw and bruised, even though I know when I look in the mirror tomorrow there won't be a mark. There never is.When I finally gather the courage to look up, she's gone.
The room is just a room again. Silent except for my ragged breathing and the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street.
My phone screen lights up with a notification—3:47 AM. Same as always. She comes at 3:47 AM every single night.I curl into myself, pulling my knees to my chest, and count my heartbeats until they slow. One. Two. Three. By the time I reach fifty, I can almost pretend I'm okay.Almost.
I don't go back to sleep. I never do after she visits.
Instead, I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and pad across the room to my desk. My reflection stares back at me from the black screen of my laptop—hollow eyes, messy hair, and skin too pale in the blue glow of my phone. I look like I'm already halfway to being a ghost myself.Maybe I am.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I quickly open my laptop, flooding the room with artificial light. Anything to chase away the shadows. Anything to make the walls feel less like they're closing in.
I pull up the document I've been keeping for the past three months—a log of every supernatural encounter, every nightmare, every inexplicable bruise or scratch. The entries blur together after a while: Woke up choking. Saw her again. Can't breathe properly. Felt like drowning. She said my name.Tonight's entry is the same as all the others, except for one detail."Not yet. But soon."
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Soon. My birthday is in four months Twenty-two years old—the age I'm not supposed to reach. The age I've never reached, not in any of my past lives.Not that I remember those lives, not clearly anyway. Just fragments, like dreams you can't quite hold onto when you wake up. A field of peach blossoms. The smell of incense. Hands touching mine, warm and steady and safe. And then fire. Screaming. A woman's face twisted in rage and grief.Her face.Joonjae.I don't know how I know her name.
I just do, the same way I know she's the one killing me, lifetime after lifetime, always before I turn twenty-two.The monks tried to help when I was younger. They burned incense, chanted prayers, and drew protective symbols on my skin with ink that smelled like earth and ash. It worked for a few years. The hauntings quieted and became manageable. But lately—especially this past year, everything has gotten worse.
Last month, I woke up in the forest with no memory of how I got there, mud under my fingernails, and scratches all over my arms. Two weeks ago, I collapsed in the middle of class, and when I came to, Kong was shaking me, yelling my name, and everyone was staring. The school nurse said it was exhaustion. Kong said it was bullshit.He's right. It is bullshit.I'm not tired. I'm haunted.
A soft knock on my door makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat.
"Namping?" Kong's voice was rough with sleep. "Are you okay in there?"I close my laptop quickly, as if he could see what I've been writing through the door. "Yeah. Just… couldn't sleep."A pause. Then the door cracks open, and Kong's face appears—concerned, exhausted, familiar.
He's been staying over more often lately, crashing on my floor because he says he doesn't trust me to be alone. He doesn't say why. He doesn't have to."She came again, didn't she?" he asks quietly.I nod, not trusting my voice.
Kong sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and steps into the room. He's wearing an old T-shirt and basketball shorts, his feet bare against the cold floor. He doesn't say anything, just crosses the room and sits down on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
"We need to do something," he says after a moment. "This can't keep going. You're going to—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.
"Die?" I finish for him, my voice hoarse.
"You can say it, Kong. We both know that's where this is headed."
"Shut up." His voice cracks, and he looks away, fists clenched on his knees. "Don't talk like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"It doesn't have to be."I want to believe him.
God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts. But I've seen too much, felt too much. The hands around my throat tonight weren't just a dream or a hallucination. They were a promise.Kong turns back to me, his eyes fierce despite the fear swimming in them.
"Jiro mentioned someone. A shaman. A real one, not like those monks who gave up on you."My stomach twists.
"A shaman?"
"Yeah. His name is Keng. Jiro says he's… different. Powerful. He's helped people with cases like yours before."
"Cases like mine," I repeat, the words bitter on my tongue. "You mean people who are cursed to die at twenty-two?""People who are haunted,"
Kong corrects. "People who need help."
I look down at my hands, at the faint tremor I can't quite stop. "What if he can't help me? What if no one can?"
"Then at least we tried," Kong says firmly. He reaches over and grabs my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to ground me. "I'm not watching you give up, Namping. Not now. Not ever."Something in his voice—the desperation, the stubborn refusal to let me sink, makes my throat tighten.
I nod slowly, even though fear coils in my stomach like a living thing."Okay," I whisper. "Okay. I'll meet him.
"Kong's grip relaxes, and he offers me a tired smile. "Good. We'll go tomorrow.
"Tomorrow. The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with possibility and dread.As Kong heads back to his makeshift bed on the floor, I glance at the window. The sky is still dark, but there's a faint hint of gray creeping along the horizon. Dawn is coming.