Chapter 2: The Red Cord and the Stranger

Even though I already suspected, seeing “Mariah Ford” on that wooden frame made my heart skip a beat. My eyes stung. Mariah Ford—that’s me. Only twenty-six years old. When did I die? How did I die? Why am I trapped in this tiny apartment, unable to move on? My mind spun.

I stared at my own name, my own face, frozen in time. I tried to remember—anything. But all I found was a dull ache, a hollow space. The idea of being dead felt too big to grasp. Too final. My thoughts scattered.

Suddenly, chaos exploded in my mind—countless images ripped through my brain. Three days ago, at his family’s farmhouse, while I slept, he used nine rusty railroad spikes dipped in black dog’s blood to nail me alive to the bed. The last nail, hammered into my heart, struck eighteen times. His eyes were greedy, his face crazed, and he growled, “Mine. Everything is mine.”

The images came in flashes—blood on white sheets, the metallic clang of hammer on iron, his face twisted in a way I’d never seen. The pain was unbearable, but the betrayal cut deeper. The memory of his voice, low and rough, echoed in my head: "Mine. Everything is mine."

Hatred swept through me. My vision turned blood-red. I lunged at him, wanting to tear him apart, but I passed right through his body—and then was sucked into the photo frame, paralyzed. I struggled and screamed, agony burning through me.

It felt like drowning, being pulled into a whirlpool of pain and rage. My hands clawed at the glass, but I couldn’t break free. I screamed until my voice was hoarse, but no one heard. The world faded to black. Alone.

“Click!” The little door of the memorial snapped shut, and my consciousness dropped into darkness.

The sound was final, like the lid closing on a coffin. I felt myself slipping away, fading, until there was nothing but cold. Empty cold.

Why did you do this to me?

I wanted to cry, but not a single tear came. Turns out, ghosts can’t cry. Not even when their hearts are breaking.

The ache in my chest was worse than any pain I’d felt alive. I tried to sob, but nothing came out. I was empty. Hollowed out by grief and rage. Numb.

I discovered he lit candles twice a day. The daytime ritual was random; afterward, he’d use my phone to text my parents, pretending I was still alive. No wonder my folks hadn’t caught on. But the nighttime ritual was always around midnight. And after the midnight candle, a faint red cord would connect my wrist to his. If he went out, I could follow him outside—but I couldn’t stray more than a few yards before my heart would seize with pain, yanking me back like a leash.

I watched him from the shadows, my own phone in his hands, typing out messages to my mom and dad. It was surreal—seeing my words come from someone else. The red cord tugged at me if I tried to wander, pain sparking at the edge. Every time I reached the limit, it yanked me back, sharp and sudden.

Tonight, he went out again, and I hurried to follow. I needed to figure out why he killed me—and how to break free. The riverfront at midnight was eerily quiet. Only the wind and the sound of birds flapping up into the trees. I felt exposed, raw.

The streetlights cast long, crooked shadows. The river’s surface rippled with moonlight. I hovered at the edge of the cord, watching as he moved with purpose, his breath a ghost in the cold air. Every step felt like a countdown.

He cut his palm, drew a strange symbol in the sand, took out two red cords, and placed them in the center, chanting incantations. I recognized those cords—they were our couple’s bracelets. Back then, it was trendy for couples to braid each other’s hair into red cords and wear them, “entwined forever.” I’d dragged him to that little shop in Silver Hollow to make a pair. I thought it was cute.

I remembered sitting in that shop, giggling as we tried to braid each other’s hair. The owner smiled, saying we were lucky to have found each other. Now, those same cords were part of something dark, twisted far from love. My stomach twisted with the memory.

When he finished chanting, the sand at the symbol swirled up and wrapped around him. I thought I saw his soul nearly leave his body, but then it fought to stay inside. When the sand settled, the symbol and red cords were gone. My wrist burned, and when I looked, the red cord connecting us was even brighter, clearer.

It felt like someone had branded me, the burn pulsing with every heartbeat I didn’t have. The cord glowed faintly, a constant reminder—I was still his, even in death. I wanted to rip it off, but I couldn’t.

After all this, I felt more confused than resentful about his actions. If he wanted to marry me—our relationship was good, my parents liked him, our last trip to his hometown was to talk about marriage. So why kill me so cruelly? If he didn’t want to be with me, why keep my soul, lighting candles daily, always talking about marriage, even performing weird rituals to deepen our bond? None of it made sense. I wanted to scream.

I replayed every moment, searching for a sign I’d missed. Nothing. If he loved me, why this? If he hated me, why all the rituals, the marriage talk, the effort to keep my parents fooled? My thoughts spun, tangled and raw.

Tyler sat motionless, staring at the dark river, his back calm, but I could sense a hint of madness inside him. He looked like a statue, unmoving. But beneath the stillness, I felt something twisted—a storm hiding just under the surface. The wind whipped his hair, but he didn’t flinch. It was like he’d stopped being human.

“Girl, your boyfriend’s got it bad, but he picked the nastiest spell in the book!”

I turned. An old man in a faded blue suit, stroking his long white beard, was laughing, shaking his head.

He looked like he’d stepped out of an old Western—crumpled suit, scuffed boots, eyes twinkling with mischief. The sight of him, so out of place on the riverbank, startled me. For a moment, I wondered if I was hallucinating.

“Sir, you can see me?”

He was the first person to see me since I died—and an expert at that. My heart leapt, hope flickering.

“Of course I can see you. We’re both spirits, not people.”

The old man dismissed me with a glance. Only then did I notice he was floating half a foot above the ground, casting no shadow. My mouth went dry.

He grinned, flashing a gold tooth. His feet hovered just above the dirt, not a speck of dust on his shoes. I realized then—he wasn’t just a ghost. He was something more. Something old.

“Sir, what did you mean just now?”

“He wants to be with you, a dead girl, for life. But he used his own blood as a guide. It can deepen your bond, but at most ten days later, his life will end and his soul will scatter.”

“He wants to be with me forever, but will destroy himself?”

I’d never noticed anything off about Tyler before—now I understood even less. My head spun.

The old man shook his head, beard swaying. “Love and obsession, kid. Sometimes they’re the same thing, just twisted up.”

“He must’ve been tricked by someone,” the old man sighed, stroking his beard. “People do stupid things when they’re desperate. Sometimes, they trust the wrong folks.”

“We were about to get engaged, but he nailed me to death, then used these evil methods—what’s the point?”

The words tasted bitter. The old man just shrugged, like tragedy was an everyday thing in his line of work. I felt a pang of loneliness.

“Nailed to death? You can still think clearly under a soul-binding spell? Honey, that’s interesting. Real interesting!”

The old man looked surprised, even stopped stroking his beard. “Do you know where your body is? Take me to see it.”