Chapter 3: Ghosts, Lovers, and Doubt

“Sarah, it really is you!”

A handsome guy in a letterman jacket stared at me. It took a beat before his name clicked.

His voice hit me like a memory—warm, a little cracked, and too close. Nathaniel Brooks. My childhood fiancé. The boy who once promised to save me.

He’d once tried to run away with me so I wouldn’t be drowned.

I remembered the way he’d held my hand by the riverbank, whispering plans to escape, hope flickering in his eyes.

“Sarah, you’re really alive! Then, that woman in the sky...”

Smart as ever, he caught on fast.

He’d seen me tied to a cinder block and drowned, yet here I was, alive and well.

He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost—relief, disbelief, and something sharper glinting in his eyes. I wasn’t sure if I should hug him or run.

And I hadn’t shown up alone—a woman in the sky claimed she was the river spirit.

Then it hit me: the nine girls and I were proof enough she was real.

I pulled the nine girls forward to speak for her.

We formed a line, hands clasped, voices trembling but clear. We probably looked like a choir at a funeral.

Gradually, relatives of the girls in the crowd came out to recognize them. Girls who had been missing for years reunited with their families, each one breaking down in tears.

There were gasps, sobs, the kind of cries that only come from years of grief and hope colliding. The reunion was messy, raw, and real.

Moved by this scene, the furious crowd gradually calmed down. People looked at us girls, then at the river spirit in the sky, and began to waver.

Doubt crept in where rage had been. The crowd’s anger softened into confusion, uncertainty rippling through them like a breeze.

The caretaker’s face was ashen, looking up at the sky with fear and a hint of malice in his eyes.

He clung to his broom, eyes darting back and forth, as if searching for a way out or a way to regain control.

He seemed to be weighing his options. After a while, the caretaker prepared to kneel and beg for mercy, trembling.

His pride cracked. I almost felt sorry for him—almost. Almost. But not quite.

But at that moment, a voice suddenly came from the crowd: “Even if these girls are alive, it doesn’t prove she’s the river spirit, does it?”

The words cut through the crowd like a knife. The tension snapped back, and I braced myself for another wave of disbelief.

The caretaker looked sideways, and a glimmer of hope appeared on his previously defeated face.

He latched onto the words, his posture straightening just a little.

I looked in surprise at the speaker, my heart beating faster with unease.

It was a new voice, but the tone was familiar: suspicion, fear, and just a hint of calculation.

“Maybe it’s because this demon stole the offerings meant for the river spirit that the river spirit has been angry these years?”

The river spirit had indeed been dissatisfied in recent years because of people’s misunderstandings.

But she was a good spirit. Even when venting her dissatisfaction, she only summoned occasional storms, never ruining a harvest.

She’d sent warnings, not punishments—rain that came late, winds that rattled windows but never shattered them.

Her displeasure was shown, and people tried to appease her as if coaxing a child.

There were extra prayers, more elaborate offerings, but always the same mistake: never asking what she wanted.

Of course, that was before they knew the river spirit was female.

Now…

Nathaniel kept going: “Our ancestors saw the river spirit. The statue was carved based on their descriptions, so how could it be wrong?”

He spoke with conviction, his words ringing out over the crowd, stoking the old stories.

“So this person is definitely not the river spirit, but a shameless demon who stole the offerings!”

The crowd erupted again, and the nine girls and I—who’d vouched for the “fake” river spirit—became targets.

The mob’s fury reignited, and I felt the weight of their stares. Stones began to fly again, and fear surged through me.