Page 3 of Ghosted AF
The lights stuttered once more, causing shadows to leap from the corners like living things. Objects danced across the pair of rickety shelves that bracketed the TV, some toppling over completely to bounce across the carpet. The microwave in the kitchen powered on by itself, and the windowpanes trembled violently in their frames.
Panicked, I bolted to my feet and rushed for the front door. It wouldn’t budge. The locks wouldn’t disengage. The knob wouldn’t turn.
Heart crashing against my ribs, I stumbled back to the living room on unsteady legs, reaching the sofa just as my entire apartment plunged into inky blackness. Not even the streetlights beyond the windows seemed to penetrate the darkness.
Falling onto the sofa, I pressed myself into the cushions, into their illusion of safety, and fumbled for my phone. The screen flared to life when I bumped it with my fingers, though the blue glow didn’t extend beyond the device itself.
I snatched it up, my thumb hovering over the emergency call button in the corner.
Yes, I had an emergency. Yes, I needed help. I couldn’t call the Circle City Police Department, though. What the hell would I even tell them? That a ghost had broken into my apartment?
At best, they would laugh at me. At worst, they would send me for a psych eval—or worse, arrest me for misuse of emergency services. While I wanted the problem solved, I didn’t want to end up in jail because of it.
But who the hell did I call?
After a brief argument with myself, I bit my bottom lip, exhaled sharply through my nose, and opened the MNSTR app.
two
~ Caius ~
WorkingforMNSTR’sCrisisContainment unit, I never knew what I would be walking into, which meant being prepared for anything.
Unlike other task requests that required detailed forms and waiting periods, Crisis Containment acted more like a paranormal emergency service. As such, users needed only to select a category, enter their location, and make a payment.
The Magical Network of Specialized Task Resources did have safeguards in place to ensure users didn’t make the selection lightly. First off, the service came with a hefty price tag that discouraged most people from choosing it by accident.
The categories also helped weed out non-urgent requests. The onboard AI gathered minimal information with yes and no questions, and at least three notifications asked if clients really wanted to proceed with the request.
Still, the rare misuse case did slip through. Like the teenage girl who had used her parents’ credit card to hire a CrisisContainment agent after she hadn’t been selected as captain of her school’s cheer team.
Lights burned in the majority of the windows as I navigated the pockmarked streets of the ungated apartment complex. Empty bottles and wrappers littered the grassy areas, and only half of the security lamps seemed operable. Many of the cars parked in the lots appeared older, some decades past their prime.
I noted these things, not to judge, but rather to get a better idea of the situation. Having lived in places like this myself, I knew most residents didn’t have the kind of disposable income necessary to drop on a Level 4 Haunting Extermination.
That alone told me I had a serious situation on my hands. Whether for me or the client, however, remained to be seen.
Pulling into an empty space in front of the corner building at the back of the complex, I grabbed a black duffle bag from the passenger seat and exited my pickup. The ambient noise immediately assaulted me—blaring music, barking dogs, and crying babies. A couple on the second floor seemed to be having a loud disagreement about the thermostat.
I scanned the immediate area, then shifted my gaze to the third-floor landing. Apartment 3C. Rylee Burke. He claimed to have a poltergeist situation on his hands, but beyond that, I had no other information.
As I started up the concrete steps, I rolled my shoulders, settling my wings more securely against my back to ensure no one could grab onto them. Despite what fiction claimed, I couldn’t just hide the appendages when I wasn’t using them. They didn’t retract into my body, then burst from my skin only when I needed them.
Biology didn’t work that way.
Instead, they simply existed, always visible, equally an asset and a liability, depending on the situation. And it made finding tops that fit virtually impossible.
Back in the day, winged shadelings had no choice but to go shirtless, or hide their “deformities” under heavy fabrics. Now, most of us turned to designers who used enchanted materials with openings that stretched to allow our wings to fit through, then contracted around the base.
The humid night air clung to my skin as I climbed, and I grimaced when a bead of sweat trickled down my spine, my wings like a down blanket pressed against my back. The scent of distant rain carried on the warm breeze, barely detectable beneath the stench of garbage and musty concrete.
In the breezeway on the top floor, I stepped over a plastic tricycle and dodged a shiny brown beetle as it skittered across the ground. Somewhere in the shadows, a lone cricket chirped, the sound piercing as I strained to hear what was going on inside unit 3C.
Honestly, it sounded pretty quiet. No loud thumps or bangs. No wailing or screeching. Just some shuffling and the low hum of electricity.
I stepped onto the welcome mat and rapped my knuckles against the door.
Nothing happened.
