Chapter 1: Ghosts, Brows, and Justice

There are way too many vengeful spirits hanging around in the afterlife, and most of them just flat-out refuse to move on. Seriously, it’s like they’re all clinging to their grudges with a death grip. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, Are we ever gonna clear this place out? Guess not.

It’s gotten so out of hand that the waiting room to eternity is basically standing-room only. The air’s thick with old beefs and unfinished business—nobody wants to budge. Sometimes, I swear, it’s like trying to run the DMV on a Monday morning. Everyone’s got a chip on their shoulder—and all the time in the world.

To hit my quota for souls crossing over, I started a fortune-telling livestream. Yeah, you heard that right. I figured if I could get people watching, maybe I could bridge the gap between the living and the dead. Or at least, help a few restless ghosts get some justice. Gotta keep those numbers up, right? Honestly, if you’d told me this was my afterlife side hustle, I’d have laughed.

It’s a weird hustle, I’ll admit. But hey, in a world where everyone’s glued to their phones, it’s the only way to get noticed. Honestly, what’s more American than turning a side gig into a mission from the afterlife? Gotta respect the grind, even on the other side.

As soon as I hit the Go Live button, people flooded in. The stream’s title was like clickbait for skeptics and thrill-seekers alike.

I barely had time to adjust my mic (it was always too loud or too soft) before the chat started popping off. The stream’s name—“Crossroads Oracle: Ghost Justice Live!”—seemed to draw in every troll and believer on the internet.

“Hey! There’s a fortune-telling stream here.”

“These days, even kids are out here running scams.”

“Openly promoting superstitions and the stream’s not banned? This streamer must have some tricks.”

“Fortune-telling? I’m not superstitious—do you actually believe in ghosts? You think there are really ghosts out there?”

...and so on.

The chat roasted me, but someone with the username “President of the Looks League” kept blowing up the join requests. I had to laugh—sounds like the kind of dude who rates selfies for sport. Still, when someone’s desperate, you pay attention. His messages kept popping up like fireworks:

“Streamer, I believe you, I really do! Please help me, I’m desperate.”

I didn’t even think twice—I just hit accept.

I figured, why not? The guy sounded genuinely freaked out. You never know which call is going to blow up into something real. I sat back and waited for the feed to load.

He seemed anxious about showing his face, so he kept his camera off. Not that I blamed him—some people get stage fright.

There was a nervous rustle on the audio, like he was shifting around in a dark room. His voice came through—thin, shaky, barely above a whisper:

“Streamer, there’s a ghost girl haunting me. Every night at midnight, she makes me draw her eyebrows. If I mess up, she complains about my lousy skills. What do I do?”

As soon as he finished, the chat exploded:

“If you’re brave enough, even The Ring girl could take maternity leave.”

“After you do her makeup, quietly ask your husband, ‘Are my brows on trend?’ Human-ghost romance, I ship it.”

“Stop shipping everything—you’re just asking for trouble.”

“Doubt Jonathan Crane, understand Jonathan Crane, become Jonathan Crane.”

He jumped in, sounding more panicked than before:

“I don’t want to be Jonathan Crane.”

You could hear the panic—he was hoping someone, anyone, would take him seriously.

Then, as if afraid someone might overhear, he lowered his voice:

“The ghost girl is really ugly.”

He whispered it, like a kid confessing to a crime. For a second, the chat went wild.

But the next second, there was a burst of static from his side, then the sound of glass shattering and screams for help.

A sudden, jarring crash. Muffled yelps. The unmistakable sound of panic. The chat froze, then erupted with emojis and question marks.

Without thinking, I used my power to flip his camera on from my end.

On screen was a boy with a face full of acne, looking a bit greasy. On his back was a fierce ghost in a tattered red dress, her long, sticky hair wrapped tight around his neck—squeezing, tighter and tighter.

The image flickered, but there was no mistaking the terror in his eyes. The ghost girl’s presence warped the air around them. Her dress was torn and stained, her hair clinging to him like seaweed. Her grip tightened, and his face went even paler.

The ghost girl had died in a car crash; her body was broken, her face unrecognizable.

The camera caught the horror—her features were twisted. One eye nearly closed. The other, blank and staring. The way she hovered—half-solid, half-shadow—made my skin crawl. Even through the screen, you could feel the chill.

I shouted, “Every debt has its debtor. He doesn’t owe you any blood debt—let him go!”

I tried to sound as commanding as possible, channeling every old rite I knew. My words seemed to vibrate through the air, and for a moment, the room on his side went still.

At my words, the ghost girl loosened her grip, but she refused to get off his back.

Her hair slithered away from his neck, but she perched there stubbornly, eyes burning with something between rage and heartbreak. The President gasped for breath, hands shaking.

“He deserves it. He’s ugly himself but always laughs at girls for being ugly, bullies others, calls them unwanted. Ghost God, tell me, doesn’t he deserve it?”

She spat the words out, her voice shaking with old pain. You could feel the years of humiliation simmering in every syllable.

I ignored her and looked coldly at the President:

“How did you provoke her?”

I let my tone go icy—no room for excuses. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that ghosts don’t just latch on for no reason.

He thought for a moment. “I don’t know. After pizza with my roommate that day, she started clinging to me. Every night she makes me draw her eyebrows, and if I mess up, she slaps me. But I’m a guy—how am I supposed to know makeup?”

He sounded lost, like he couldn’t believe this was his life now. The chat, predictably, lost it.

The chat burst out laughing again.

“Hahaha, I’m dead—can’t draw well so he gets slapped.”

“I think I saw it—there’s a shadow on that guy’s back. Is that a ghost?”

“Damn! Do you have ghost vision?”

“Hahaha, poor streamer, even hired actors to play along. It’s 2020s—who still believes in ghosts?”

“I’ll say this: if there really are ghosts, I’ll do a handstand and eat my shoe on livestream.”

The ghost girl’s hair tightened again:

“Handsome, you really forget things! That day at the pizza place, didn’t a girl bump into you? You spilled your Starbucks on her, and I happened to walk by—most of it landed on me. Ghost God, you know how much girls love their dresses.”

You could hear the old hurt in her voice. Her words trembled just a little at the memory. The chat slowed. For once, everyone went quiet.

“Streamer, if you really have skills, get rid of this ghost girl, smash her soul to pieces. Ugly freak—looks like she got run over by a car and still makes me draw her eyebrows every day. Bet you were so ugly in life you scared gods and ghosts. Being ugly isn’t your fault, but scaring people is.”

He looked like he was about to collapse. His face was pale, his energy drained. He was barely coherent, spirit broken.

He looked like he was fading in and out, the life draining from him with every insult. The chat got quieter, sensing the real danger now.

If I didn’t step in, he’d be dead on the street within three days. I could almost see the clock ticking.

You could almost see the clock ticking behind him. Some hauntings you can walk off; this one was a death sentence.

I borrowed Hecate’s Mirror of Reminiscence to trace back the events of that day. The mirror flickered. Images swirled. My secret weapon from the old gods.

When the President entered the pizza place, he bumped into a girl at the toppings bar, and red sauce splashed on his white T-shirt.

The memory played out in grainy detail. The girl was nervous, clutching her tray, while he glared at the stain spreading across his shirt.

He glared at the stain. Lost it. Started cursing:

“You’re so fat—don’t you know to be careful? Still eating when you’re this fat? Do you know how much my T-shirt cost? Can you afford it?”

His words cut sharper than the mess on his shirt. The girl shrank back, cheeks flushed with shame.

The girl was short and chubby. She turned red and apologized over and over.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling as she tried to make it right. But he wouldn’t let it drop.

But he wouldn’t let it go, and finally dumped his leftover Starbucks on her:

“Ugly freak, fatso, just looking at you ruins my appetite. Fine, I won’t make you pay—just get lost.”

The humiliation was complete. He tossed the cup like it was nothing, coffee splattering across her dress and the linoleum floor.

By chance, the coffee also splashed onto the ghost girl, who was sneaking pizza nearby. That’s how he got entangled with her.

Sometimes, fate’s a jerk. One careless moment, and you end up bound to a ghost for eternity.