On a sunny Friday, in a university library, one with a rustic atmosphere by virtue of the exposed wooden beams and intricate stone sculptures, students enjoyed themselves, or stressed themselves out in silence. There were some discussions on a few tables, but none of the chatters were audible more than a couple steps away.
Debbie is a nerdy-looking, 19-year-old girl, who wasn't studying in an inconspicuous corner. The biology textbook she's holding was merely a shield obscuring her phone between.
Debbie is a rather attractive girl conventionally; she was the typical bookworm that guys would fantasize about: Thick-framed glasses, freckles, twin braided pigtails and an oversized T-shirt.
The video playing on her phone which no one saw was what's ugly about her. Debbie was watching some questionable content in public: content that could get her in trouble with the police, or... anyone in general, really.
The morning sun poured in from rosewood-framed windows, landing gently onto murmuring groups and reading loners. And of course, barely landing on the back of Debbie, whose fingers were already between her legs.
Rubbing it in public... This was pleasurable for Debbie... Having to hold her moans from her open mouth while risking a chance of being caught in action...
THUMP!
The sound of something hitting the ground was suddenly heard; Debbie whipped her head up over the book to understand the noise. Ahead were rows and rows of bookshelves, brimmed with opaque reading materials; sunlight was more scarce the deeper one walked.
At the aisle right in front of Debbie, a book laid on the floor. Debbie may be a degenerate, but she did understand to pick the book up, for she was a student librarian and the closest to it.
She paused the video with an annoyed sigh, then sandwiched her phone between her book before getting up.
After fixing the shelf,
THUMP!
Another thump sound echoed. Another book slipped from the second bookshelf.
Debbie walked deeper into the aisle.
THUMP!
Before her fingers reach the cover, another thump sound was heard.
Yet another book had slipped from the third bookshelf.
Then, without waiting, the fourth book thudded against the ground, then the fifth, then the sixth, each one from a shelf deeper into the aisle.
Debbie frowned, and her fingers started to tremble. She didn't continue advancing deeper, she simply stretched her neck for a better look at the fallen books.
Instead, she heard a voice.
"Help..." A feminine, faint, weak voice, coming from further down the aisle.
Debbie didn't respond to the cry, but she did felt compelled to approach the voice. She was a student librarian... maybe someone's having trouble finding a book?
Debbie checked every space between every bookshelves, each step brought her further from the light and closer to the voice, which repeated, "Help... Please... Help..."
The floorboards creaked underneath Debbie's foot, grasping her attention. No one usually walks this far, the floorboards had already degraded. Nonetheless, the voice still pulled Debbie deeper, "... Someone... I need someone... Please help..."
Debbie reached the end, the final row of bookshelves; there's no one there, just a few more fallen books scattered on the floor.
Debbie didn't see the voice, but the voice saw her.
"Help! Please!" It was clearer now, almost excited for someone showing up to her cries.
"Where are you?" Debbie asked sheepishly. She turned and turned but still found no one.
"Here! Please..."
Suddenly, a perfectly stable book, started sliding on its own.
It slid out of its place, tearing up spiderwebs on its way out the shelves until THUMP!
It thudded on the floor.
Debbie stumbled back, startled, but the voice encouraged her, "No! Please! Its just me!"
Debbie was breathing heavier and heavier with every second. Her shuddering legs didn't know to step forward or back.
"Please... Help... I'm trapped..."
But the voice was sincere, and it ultimately won Debbie over.
Debbie approached with deliberate, careful steps, but the floorboards creaked regardless.
Debbie nearly tripped on a book; it was so dark, she couldn't see clearly.
"Yes! Here! Right here!"
Debbie halted her footsteps; the voice couldn't have been nearer. She squinted in the dark and realised: the voice, it came from the book right beneath her.
She bent down, slowly. The book laid with its hardcover facing up, and an open page facing down.
Debbie cautiously turned the book over, "Yes... Please... Yes..." The voice became so close, that it felt like whispers into Debbie's ears.
When Debbie finally flipped the book over, she sees it:
On the open page was a poorly drawn woman with no face. Her hair was a tangle of long, messy strokes, scratched in with a blunt pencil. She wore a plain white dress, drained of detail, as if the artist had given up halfway through.
"Thank you..." The voice echoed again.
The empty space where her face should have been suddenly split open. The paper tore without warning, without hands.
By itself, the page peeled into an eerie smile, cutting it into the woman's face.
Debbie flinched, dropping that book to the ground, hugging her own and scrambling out and away from the dark aisle hurriedly.
Judgmental gazes from the library shot at her, but that was the least of her concerns. She power-walked out of there, as sweat began to slide.
She'd whip her head around periodically.
She didn't know why, but even now when she's away, she kept getting the unmistakable feeling that she was being shadowed, that she was being stalked.
She'd think the stalker, possibly the voice, was right behind her, practically riding on her back, making her breathing heavy and difficult.
But it wasn't there, there was nothing there every time she turned her head, not even a passerby.
Debbie turned the corner into an obscure, filthy alley, with unattended rusting pipes, reeking dumpsters and dirt puddles: the sanctuary for rebellious university students.
She jogged past one of them, who had a joint in his mouth and a lighter in his hand.
Debbie suddenly felt like a weight had lifted from her chest, or shoulders, she wasn't sure, she just knew she could breathe again. Whatever it was, it's like it had gotten off her. She turned to look again.
The renegade flicked open his lighter for a smoke.
It was her.
Debbie's eyes widened and reddened, her legs tensed and her jaw trembled.
Behind her was a translucent and gray feminine figure with haunting long black hair obscuring the face, yet undoubtedly staring at Debbie.
The smoking man also noticed it; he stumbled back in shock and fear, the joint by his mouth lit but not used. "W-w-w-what?"
He dropped his lighter, which shut close when it hit the ground.
The gray figure disappeared.
Debbie bolted out of the scene, panting with her eyes squeezed tight. Her phone dropped on the ground as she hurried out of the alley; the degenerate video played.
———
The alabaster paint was coming off, but they didn't complain, so I pretended to not notice.
It's the walls of the stairwell, and they were already in an acceptable state especially when compared with the floor, which was just dusty concrete; Emily's high heels sounded like a drum walking up.
The door on the left of the third floor was where she stopped: a single wooden swing door with my name hanging on a sign.
Emily twisted her fingers nervously, her toes didn't know where or how to settle either.
Eventually, her palm reluctantly held the knob, only to realize it was locked. After an awkward sigh and chuckle, she found the doorbell.
The door buzzed open for her to meet me, whom she greeted with a smile I could tell was forced.
"Good evening," I started.
"Good evening, Mr. Chen."
"You're slightly late," I commented, eyes on my watch.
"Yeah um..." She twisted her fingers again, more agitated today than ever. "Sorry..." She wiped a bead of sweat off her cheek: apparent signs of unease.
"Well." I sauntered on knowing she'll follow soon. I passed my glass top front desk and pushed open the door to our therapy session this week. "Shall we?"
She nodded and walked on past me at the doorway.
The room we entered didn't need bulbs; natural light filtered through orange voile curtains provided a warm, comforting environment.
Emily was looking around the room despite having been here twice already. Her eyes went from the old-fashion coffee maker, to the cupboard of houseplants, to the drawers with board games, to the wool carpet beneath her feet then finally to where she should sit.
This sightseeing most likely reflected apprehension, so did the way she sat; she sat on the edge of the vissle grey double-seated couch, the soft cushion barely even curved.
Me, on the other hand, I dealt with this too often to reciprocate. I sank myself into my jacquard couch across the coffee table from her, palms on the armrest above the level of my chest.
"So," I said with a faint grin, "Wanna tell me what's up?"
"Meditation has been helping a lot, really," she said while playing with her hair; she probably had more to say, but couldn't bring herself to say it, thus resulting in an awkward start for herself.
"Right?" I said while my pot of cactus behind her actually caught my attention: it's shriveled and brown... It died. I resolved my own disappointment with a sigh before continuing, "Overthinking is a real devil for people going through loss. Didn't you say the funeral's this Monday?"
She nodded weakly with a faint smile. "It was."
"How was it?"
"Um... The speech was quite difficult to get out..."
"Did you finish it?"
"The majority of it. Though... I think I went off-script halfway through..." She's still keeping up her feigned smile, but her eyes told everything else.
"Do you feel comfortable to tell me more."
"Uh... Yeah... His family was there... A couple of mine were too, just my sister and her husband."
"Good sister."
"She is." She nodded more firmly this time, fully agreeing. "And I... I saw how many loved James, as they should... really..." She chuckled.
"You met any of his family?" I'm suspecting that's probably the problem here.
"I have."
"Good people?"
"Such... an amazing... and kind person can only be raised in a wonderful household." A weak nod again, that wasn't sincere.
I shook my head. "Not really." I calmly sipped on a cup of coffee before continuing. "Who someone grows up to be can sometimes be entirely up to themselves. It's not common, but I'd like to consider myself one of them."
"How so?"
"I didn't grow up in the most loving home. I don't know what my father looks like, and, my mother always saw me as inferior rather than a son."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm mostly angry at my mother because she disagreed with me on a girl I used to really like." I laughed softly; she followed suit.
"... His parents didn't exactly like me either." There it is. I found it.
"Is it because of your history with substance?"
"I think so. That's what they... they emptied their lungs on." Her head was lower and lower, gloomier and gloomier over time.
I sat up straighter, not because my emotions prompted me to, but just to show her my attention. "You know being transparent in therapy really helps it move, right?"
"I... I..." She squeezed her eyes tight before answering. "They blamed me for his passing. Well, maybe not... not 'they'... I think its mostly his mom... She said... she said I was the one who got him into the... nightlife and all... drinking... Then the others... they were trying to calm her down... I think..."
"Do you agree with her?"
"... I don't want to..." She shook her head, her body tense and trembling.
"It doesn't matter whether it was your fault, Emily. What matters is if your heart's in the right place; it's whether you felt the hurt, as that's solid evidence of your love for him. Then, he can never blame you for it."
She finally lifted her head, her face now thinly streaked with tears. Eyes red, expression sorrowful. "But I just can't shake the thought that I... I am accountable for what had happened."
"Guilt doesn't change anything, Emily. Beating yourself up won't make the situation any easier."
"But then... What should I do? I can't get this off my head..." She buried her face in her palms, so I reached out, lending warmth with a firm grip on her shaky forearm.
"It wasn't your fault. And you need more people to tell you that."
After a bit more talks and emotional unloading, she left the session half an hour later than scheduled. That's fine; she's my last client of the week anyway. It's now time to enjoy my Friday night.
Then my phone rang.
"What?" I picked up.
"Address has already been sent to you." This dreadful, robotic, feminine voice that sounded like it's from an ASMR video echoed through my phone, followed by beeps. I was the one who hung up the phone. I'm too tired for another job...
But a job is a job.
.
I went back to my austere yet spacious apartment first to change from my therapist outfit to my therapist outfit, albeit for ghosts this time, right before I exterminate them.
If I hadn't said that I was going to exorcise a ghost, people would think I'm going to attend James' funeral for my outfit: its just a formal black suit.
While changing, my phone beeped with a fresh notification. It was Matthew, who texted: [tmr 10?] followed by an unknown address.
I texted back [sure] before getting back to fix my tie.
Then, I sheathed my dagger, armed myself with a stack of yellow talisman paper, before finally heading out the door — leaving my dark, moonlit apartment, which walls were adorned with perhaps hundreds of pencil sketches of her on papers, varying in sizes and details, held up by white tacks.
———
In a dark, cramped bedroom, plain gray curtains were wafting, disturbed by the night's breeze invading through an open window.
Under the curtains, a man slept calmly in his bed, burying every inch of his body below the blanket.
Beside was presumably his work desk, with unorganised stationaries and a notebook opened. The night's breeze turned the pages, each one had a different date written on the top right corner; it was a journal.
Today was October 22nd, and today's journal was a short one:
Something's here. I can't see it. I don't know it.
The noises of the night's breeze must've masked it, it being the turning of the doorknob, it being the something that the journal mentioned.
Then, the door creaked open slowly, nothing behind it, until the knob thudded against the wall.
Footprints etched into the carpet beneath, but nothing was above them. The footprints trailed until the bed; the billowing curtains seemed to have hit an invisible wall.
Two edges of the blanket wrinkled, then, it dragged, it moved, it levitated; someone was pulling it down, someone that couldn't be seen.
The blanket was steadily removed until the dummy decoy revealed itself to the ghost.
He did all that to a mannequin.
"Evening." I was hiding behind the door.
Tsk...
I flicked open my incredibly ostentatious lighter to reveal the invisible man, who could only be seen under firelight.
Three yellow talisman papers that I had planted as trap lit up in flames, conjuring a triangular cage sealing the ghost. On each talisman paper, the character '封' was inscribed in thick black ink.
He must've been shocked, because he, the ghost, in response to my trap, just stood still with his back against me.
Then,
"Come closer..." His hoarse voice echoed, but it was weak, I had to strain my ears to hear clearly: "Closer... Closer..."
His voice wasn't just hoarse, it was two different voices speaking at the same time, one deeper than the other but unmistakably masculine and distinct. One voice was his in the living, another was his victim's.
"I'm very close already." I said simply.
crack. crack. crack.
I wasn't sure what was the noise at first, until I squinted: it was his neck.
He was twisting his neck towards me, and every brief but swift progress spawned a wet click.
His body wasn't moving, only his neck, until his distorted face finally faced mine.
THWACK!
One loud noise suddenly flipped his entire torso around too, his arms swung unnaturally with it.
But this isn't new.
I scanned him and analysed: He's been working hard moulding himself into his target, probably already four days in. His left elbow and his right knee was contorted, and he didn't have a single normally connected phalanx. His mouth was too low, his nose too small, and his eyes, there were two eyeballs in each, different colours: One was his in the living, the other was his victim's.
On his tilted head, supported by a neck without any correct bone placements, was an overly wide, bloodlusted smile.
We have a ghost overdosed on copium.
I lazily unsheathed my dagger and waved it around like how a kid shows off his cool toys; he didn't flinch. I angled the dagger so that its glimmer would directly assault his eyes; he still didn't react.
Alright, his cope is quite powerful...
"Boo." I thrusted the dagger towards his face, not with much force, but that did finally startled him; he flinched, hard.
His smile that was meant to be intimidating faltered, as he staggered back until he can't; the invisible triangular walls prevented his escape.
"Oh god..." He dragged his back down against the invisible wall, his face turned tense and his legs began writhing frantically in panic. His head whipped left, right, 180 degrees, it didn't matter, he was sealed tight
I wasn't sealed, as I was on the side of the living. I was able to bypass the barrier, grab a chair from outside, and bring it in for myself.
"My name is Chen Mo." I smiled at the panicking ghost on the ground, unhurriedly returning my dagger to its sheath. "What's yours?"
"Just..." He gritted his deformed teeth hard. "Just kill me already... man..."
"No, I'd like to get to know you first." I plopped down on the chair, its backrest to my chest, more tired than anything.
"Why? Why bother?" He held his arms out. "I'm all yours, damn it, I'M ALL YOURS!"
I wasn't so bothered. I've been through this hundreds of times. I pulled out my canteen for a drink.
"KILL ME ALREADY!"
"Can't kill ghosts. The correct word is exorcise, or expel... or... banish..."
"Then do it..." He leaned in, towering over me, trying to intimidate me yet again with that same bloodlusted, futile smile. My master's degree in psychology told me that smile there is cope: its the ghosts falsely believing that their fear factor might scare off us exorcists.
But in reality, he already fell for my trap, and he's powerless.
"Like I said, I wanna get to know you first."
"Sadist..."
"Therapist." I took another calm sip from my canteen while he continued the act.
"Why? Just exorcise me. That's your job, isn't it?"
I had to swallow a mouthful first, then also inhale a long one before explaining,
"... Everyone will die one day, but not everyone is capable of resting in peace. Some leave this world physically but dwell on in what could've been. And it is those regrets, that stubbornness that lead to the birth of ghosts: travelers floating between the living and the dead, battling fate to reenter humanity. But the universe placed a price tag: a life for a life. A ghost can only reenter the living by replacing an already existing member. Thus began the cycle of killing, which people like me, the exorcists, fight against. All this violence stemmed from ghosts wanting to live so badly that they'd kill for it. It could've all been prevented if you had just accepted Death's extended hand."
That copious smile of his faded halfway through my explanation.