Chapter 1: Livestream Lies and Ghostly Guests

I livestream relationship readings. Yeah, you heard me right. Not exactly what I thought I’d be doing with my evenings, but here we are.

My workspace? It’s just a little corner of my cluttered Brooklyn apartment—string lights tangled overhead, a battered tarot deck next to my laptop, and a mug of coffee that’s been cold for hours. The camera’s always rolling, my mic’s hot, and the chat’s never really quiet. There’s always someone lurking, dropping an emoji or two. Sometimes I just listen to the hum of the city outside. But here’s the thing—my clients aren’t the living.

The dead, though? That’s my specialty. The chat cracks jokes, but the regulars? They know I’m not bluffing. Tonight, an elderly woman with white hair joined my stream. Her username was SilverFox, and honestly, the second I saw her pop up, I got a weird little chill.

She appeared on screen, wrapped in a faded blue cardigan, her white hair in a bun—looked like it had seen a thousand sunrises. “Ma’am, can I help you?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle, almost conspiratorial, like we were sharing secrets in a church pew. I could feel my own heartbeat, steady and slow.

She smiled, her face all wrinkles and those eyes—sharp as anything. “Miss, can you tell me if I’ll ever get back together with him?”

I shook my head. “Some people are on different sides now. Sometimes, you have to let go.” My words hung there. Softer than I meant. Heavy, though, all the same. Sometimes, the truth lands like a stone in your gut, and you just gotta let it sit.

I looked past her, at the shadowy figure with a cold hand resting on her shoulder. My skin prickled, and I shivered a little. The air in my apartment seemed to drop ten degrees, goosebumps racing up my arms. I could see his outline in the screen’s reflection—just barely, like a smudge in the glass. My heart thudded against my ribs.

“I’m talking to you,” I said, raising my voice. “Let her go. If you keep draining her, she’s not making it through the night.” My voice went hard, the kind you pick up growing up in this city, where you learn to yell back at things that go bump in the night. I wasn’t about to back down.

Ever since some guy in LA blew up on TikTok with his tarot love readings, every psychic in the tri-state area started streaming too. No joke, it’s cutthroat now. Everyone’s chasing that viral moment, hoping to land a sponsorship or at least pay the rent. You blink, and someone’s already got a thousand more followers.

I asked the old priest at St. Mary’s if I could start my own channel. He told me to focus on love readings—but only for the dead. Not what I pictured, but hey, gotta pay the bills. Father Murphy always did have a twisted sense of humor.

Tonight was my debut. Not a ton of viewers yet, and none of them were my target audience. The chat was mostly lurkers, and my heart was thumping like I was about to go on stage at Madison Square Garden. I even laughed at myself, thinking, who am I kidding?

I hunched over my desk, weaving red and white friendship bracelets, glancing at my laptop every so often. The bracelets kept my hands busy, my nerves calm. Incense. Old books. That’s what the room smelled like. Familiar, grounding.

Suddenly, a user called BlueberryPie requested to go live. Weird username, but hey, I’ve seen stranger. My pulse ticked up.

A raspy voice asked, “Miss, are your readings the real deal?” The voice was crackly, like somebody calling in from the Twilight Zone. For a second, I wondered if someone was playing a prank. My fingers hovered over the end call button.

I set down the thread and pointed to the sign behind me: “No readings for the living. Only for the dearly departed.” Yeah, I made it myself. Not exactly Etsy-worthy, but it works. The paint was still a little smudged in the corner.

A comment popped up: [What is this? If not for the living, then for the dead? How would the dead even get on TikTok?! LMAO, this app’s getting weirder every day.]

I just smiled. That viewer would be gone soon. Seen it a hundred times. The weirdos never last. The real weirdos, though? They stick around.

But BlueberryPie didn’t leave. Instead, she showed a photo on camera: “I know. This is my ex. He’s been missing a year. I don’t believe he’s dead. Can you find him?” Her hands were shaking. I could see chipped blue nail polish, and a silver ring glinting on her thumb. My own hands started to sweat.

I studied the photo of a young man, then looked at the white-haired woman. My hands froze in the middle of braiding. Even the city outside felt quiet for a second. The kind of hush that makes you listen closer.

Behind her stood a man dripping water, his clothes straight out of the 1950s, skin pale, hand on her shoulder, eyes wide and mouth a dark void. Classic drowned ghost. On his wrist, a red thread looped around to the girl’s hand. Not good. Not good at all.

A death-bound connection. Not good. The air tasted metallic, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill breakup energy. Not by a long shot. I almost wanted to laugh, but my throat was too tight.

I pointed at the woman’s back and sighed, “You’re so young—how’d you end up tangled up with such an old soul?” Tried to keep it light, but my fingers were already reaching for the cross under my shirt. Old habits die hard.

The chat went wild:

[Young? She looks like my grandma!]

[This some kinda deepfake? Are they both in on it?]

[Here we go again, another scam.]

[Reporting this stream!]

I ignored the trolls and pressed on. Gotta keep the show rolling. “Did you, maybe last year, go somewhere to pray for love?” My voice softened, coaxing her to remember. Sometimes, the details matter more than the drama. I could feel my own heartbeat in my ears.

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! Before my boyfriend vanished, we went hiking upstate, found this little church, and I said a prayer for us…” Tears welled up. She blinked fast, trying to hold it together. “After that, I started aging like crazy, he broke up with me, then disappeared.”

The chat buzzed:

[Girl, that’s rough. You need a doctor, not this scammer.]

[Lol, breakups happen, you’ll bounce back.]

I watched the viewer count climb, palms sweaty, my heart was racing. The chat was on fire, and I could barely keep up.

She nodded, teary-eyed. Before the chat could roast me, I ended the stream, left my room, and knocked next door. My apartment hallway smelled like old pizza and bleach, and the carpet looked like wet cardboard. Classic Brooklyn.

The girl who opened up was the same one from the stream—her real name was Marissa. Behind her stood her boyfriend, the so-called drowned ghost, Josh. I grinned. “Not bad!” I said, breaking up the tension. “Tonight’s haul covers rent and groceries!” I flashed them a thumbs-up, adrenaline still buzzing in my veins.

Marissa squealed, hugging me, her white hair dye smearing my black hoodie. “Why bother with a regular job? Let’s keep doing this!” Her laughter was contagious, and I couldn’t help but laugh too.

Josh wiped off his lipstick, pulled Marissa close, and kissed her. “Way better than being actors at the haunted house!” His voice was muffled, but his grin was real. We were all in on the joke.