Chapter 1: Brokest Ghost Gets a Second Chance

I’m the brokest ghost the afterlife has seen in centuries. No, seriously. I checked.

Honestly, if there were a Guinness World Record for broke ghosts, I’d be front and center—no contest. Yeah, that’s my claim to fame. It’s not like I didn’t try to hustle, but in the afterlife, money doesn’t just grow on trees, and I was as empty-handed as a kid at a lemonade stand in winter.

Because I was flat broke, I couldn’t move on. Seriously. That’s all it took.

Turns out, the afterlife has a paywall. No cash, no pass—like some cosmic toll booth with a grumpy attendant, and not even a wink gets you through.

And in the three hundred years I spent in the afterlife, the whole place just got shabbier by the day. Now, even the roof of the Devil’s Hall lets the wind howl right through. Figures, right?

You’d think things would get better with time, but nope. Cobwebs in the corners, paint peeling, and the Devil’s Hall? It’s like an old high school gym—drafty, echoing, and smelling faintly of despair. You could hear the wind whistle straight through the rafters on a bad night. Ugh.

Finally, the Devil himself couldn’t take it anymore. With a dramatic wave, he sent me back to the land of the living. Because of course he did.

He did it with all the flair of a Vegas magician—one minute I’m shivering in the draft, the next, I’m tumbling through a swirl of smoke and landing flat on my butt in the middle of a city park. Classic. The Devil’s voice echoed in my ears, sounding both exasperated and oddly relieved.

He said, once I’d saved up enough cash in the human world, I could come back and talk to him about moving on.

He even tried to sound encouraging, like a guidance counselor telling a dropout to get their GED. “Just make enough money, then we’ll talk. Until then, don’t come back.” Sure, Devil. Thanks for the pep talk.

As for what counted as “enough,” he handed me a tiny old penny. I rolled it in my hand—it was so light I could barely feel it. Seriously, who comes up with this stuff?

The penny looked ancient, like something you’d find buried at the bottom of a wishing well. It was so thin I half expected it to crumble between my fingers.

The Devil said, all the money I saved would be collected into this penny. When it weighed a full two pounds, I could come back and get my shot at reincarnation.

He told me this like it was some grand quest, but really, it just sounded like a cosmic joke. Two pounds of penny? That’s, what, a lifetime of tips at a roadside diner?

As a broke ghost, I had zero marketable skills. I’d heard that psychic livestreams were all the rage these days, so I figured, why not give it a try?

I mean, what did I have to lose? Ghosts don’t get unemployment. Trust me, I checked. Besides, people online will pay for anything if you’ve got a hook.

At least I had connections. Whatever my clients wanted to know, I could just slip back to the afterlife and check the records. Way better than those fakes who just throw out random guesses.

I mean, come on—those wannabe psychics don’t have a direct line to the afterlife’s database. I practically had Google for ghosts.

With the $300 that everyone in the afterlife scraped together for me, I spent $200 on a phone, leaving me with just $100 to my name.

It was a group effort. Old Mrs. Jenkins pawned her knitting needles, and even the Devil chipped in a buck just to get rid of me. I bought a used iPhone with a spider-webbed screen and prayed it wouldn’t die on me.

Clutching that crumpled bill, I gritted my teeth and decided to crash under an overpass for now.

There’s broke, and then there’s “sleeping under I-94 with nothing but a backpack and a hoodie” broke. I was the latter, and let me tell you, the city at night is a whole different world.

After all, rent in the real world is insane—I couldn’t afford even the cheapest apartment.

I checked Craigslist and nearly fainted. Even a closet in someone’s basement would set me back more than I had. So, under the bridge it was.

I found a decent spot under the bridge, sat cross-legged, opened up TikTok, and prepped for my first live psychic stream.

The concrete was cold, but I set up my phone on a battered thermos, took a deep breath, and told myself, "Showtime."

After fumbling with the settings, a pale, dazed-looking face popped up on the screen. My chin was sharp, and my lips were so red it was almost freaky. Even the ghost girl who’d hung herself in the afterlife three days ago didn’t look this creepy.

I startled so hard I nearly knocked my phone into the gutter. My own face stared back at me, looking like a horror movie extra. For a second, I wondered if the app was haunted, too.

I jumped a foot in the air—then realized that was me. The real ghost. By then, a handful of viewers had already joined the stream.

The chat wasted no time:

[Did the streamer just get spooked by her own beauty filter? LOL, that jump was priceless.]

[Where is this? Looks like a dump.]

I realized I’d cranked the beauty filter up to max by accident.

Turns out, max beauty on TikTok turns you into a porcelain doll with blood-red lips. Great. Now I looked like a porcelain vampire. I fumbled with the settings, cheeks burning.

After I turned it off, I looked a lot more normal.

Normal-ish, anyway. At least I didn’t look like I’d just crawled out of a crypt.

[Wow, streamer’s actually pretty. Real beauty, no filter.]

[She’s cute, but honestly, I got chills looking at her. Is it just me?]

[Is this a horror stream? Is she about to do some kind of seance or something?]

At that moment, I had 17 viewers. I cleared my throat, determined to land my first paying customer.

I tried to sound upbeat, but my voice came out a little shaky. First impressions matter, right?

“Live psychic readings, one hundred—no, make that ten bucks a pop. First three readings are free! Who wants in?”

[With a face like that, why bother? Careful, or someone’s gonna report your stream.]

[All dressed up just to play games?]

[Is it really free? If so, I’m in. At least I get to chat with a cutie, not a bad deal.]

[Guy above is a creep, but he’s got a point. I’m in too.]

Two video call requests popped up. I picked one.

My thumb hovered for a second. I picked the one with the least suspicious username: @AntiqueHunter88.

A pudgy guy’s face filled half the screen. He squinted, holding up a string of old pendants for everyone to see:

“Tell me where this pendant came from. How much is it worth? If you get it right, I’ll send you a tip. If not, just shut down your stream yourself.”

He sounded cocky, like he’d done this before. The pendant was old, bronze-colored, and definitely not from any mall kiosk.

I eyed the intricate, bronze-colored pendant and frowned. Something was off about it.

There was a chill rolling off it, like it had a story to tell. Not a good one, either.

As for value, it was a worthless trinket—but it was wrapped in a nasty, bloodthirsty energy.

I felt my fingers tingle just looking at it. I knew right away—this thing had a history, and it wasn’t just from an estate sale.

“That belonged to someone who died.”

The chat blew up.

[If you can’t figure it out, don’t go cursing people. What’s your problem, streamer?]

[Pretty, but cold-hearted.]

[Judging by the color, it’s probably from an antique market? So saying it’s from someone dead isn’t wrong, right?]

But after my next sentence, the chat went silent: