Chapter 4: The Basement’s Forgotten Children

I figured, hey, ten bucks for hope or closure isn’t a bad deal. Most people just wanted a little reassurance.

I wasn’t worried. Once they realized I was legit, word would spread.

I could see the skeptics slowly shifting in the chat, curiosity winning out over doubt.

“Streamer, tell me what I asked yesterday.”

This caller appeared: a scruffy man, shirtless, sitting in a pile of trash, chewing a toothpick.

He looked like he’d just rolled out of a dumpster behind a Waffle House.

I wrinkled my nose: “Dude, put on a shirt. Not cool to be half-naked on stream.”

I tried to sound stern, but it came out more exasperated than anything.

“Who cares, I’m at home. Hurry up and answer, let’s see what you got, faker.”

A troublemaker.

I kept my cool. Politeness is a ghost’s best policy.

I found his question.

“You asked if you could go pro as a gamer and win a championship. The answer is no.”

Actually, if he kept slacking off, he’d die alone in his rented room, and nobody would find him for days. But hey, he only paid for one question.

I left out the worst of it. No need to ruin his day more than necessary.

“Scammer! I’m awesome at games, I’ll definitely go pro. Everyone, see? She’s a fake. With a face like that, you should just sell yourself, you’d make more.”

His words were nasty. I took a breath and didn’t snap back.

But the chat wasn’t so patient.

[Gross, what’s with your mouth?]

[So disgusting.]

[You only want to hear good news? Get real.]

[No mirror at home? At least check a puddle. Do you look like a pro gamer?]

The chat roasted him so hard, I almost felt bad.

“Pay up on Venmo and you can end the call.”

I tried to keep it businesslike, but my patience was wearing thin.

“You want to scam me, bitch! I’m not paying. What are you gonna do, hit me through the internet?”

Now I was pissed.

He didn’t know, but as a ghost, I really could reach through the internet and smack him.

He wanted it? Fine.

I let my eyes go cold, then let my ghost side slip out. The temperature dropped on his end, too.

Next thing the viewers saw, I blurred out of the stream.

To them, it looked like the camera glitched, but I was already halfway through the ether.

The slob was still smirking when a cold wind whipped behind him.

His hair stood on end. He looked around, confused.

He shivered, then I grabbed his hair and slapped him a few times.

It was satisfying—like popping bubble wrap, but louder. The echo of my palm on his cheek was pure justice.

His smile disappeared—mine appeared in its place.

I grinned into his webcam, letting him see my real face for a split second. He went pale.

“Didn’t you ask me to come through the internet and hit you? How’s that?”

He was still stunned, so I gave him a few more slaps, then wiped my hands on a napkin.

I materialized a napkin just for effect, dabbing my hands as if I’d just finished a messy meal.

The chat went blank, then exploded.

[Holy crap, she really did it!]

[Is this scripted?]

[Script or not, that was satisfying!]

[This is why you don’t talk trash online.]

[I just called her a scammer—am I next? I’m sorry!]

I glanced at the chat: “The internet isn’t lawless. Don’t think you can say anything you want. Just a little trick—enjoy.”

I winked at the camera, channeling my best superhero energy.

Then I zipped back to my spot under the bridge.

I landed right back on my crate, phone in hand, as if nothing had happened. Victory lap, complete.

The rest of the stream went smoothly. Nobody talked trash again—even the doubters were polite.

It was like magic—one slap, and the trolls vanished. The chat was downright civil.

After answering yesterday’s fifty questions, I started taking new ones.

My notebook was filling up fast. I felt like a real professional.

“Anyone want a reading today? Still ten bucks, but pay up front.”

I flashed my Venmo QR code. The payments rolled in like a slot machine hitting jackpot.

After my ‘internet smackdown,’ more people believed I had real powers, and business boomed.

I saw my follower count spike. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of the action.

I was jotting down requests when I noticed two faces on the screen.

At first, I thought it was a filter glitch, but nope—two actual people, not ghosts.

Two dirty faces appeared behind me, their hair almost brushing my shoulder.

I jumped, spinning around. The smell hit me before I even saw them.

I turned and saw two homeless men, their stench overwhelming.

They looked at me like I was squatting on their favorite bench.

“Where you from, little girl? This is our turf. Pack up and get out!”

Their voices were gruff, but not unkind. Still, I knew better than to argue.

Great—even the bridge had owners. Even bridges have gatekeepers. Figures.

I sighed. Even in the afterlife, there’s always someone with seniority.

I remembered hearing about gangs of homeless guys running bridge turf. No need to pick a fight, so I left.

I packed up my things—what little I had—and gave them a respectful nod. Survival tip: never mess with the locals.

Now, I was homeless again.

I wandered down the street, trying not to let it get to me. The city was big. I’d find another spot.

The stream saw it all.

[Streamer fighting homeless people for territory, LOL!]

[She really does sleep under the bridge.]

[Can someone really be this broke? Didn’t she make money streaming?]

The comments ranged from amused to concerned. I shrugged for the camera.

I sighed: “My poverty isn’t normal poverty—it’s next-level. If I can avoid spending, I will.”

I tried to laugh it off, but the truth stung a little.

I was about to end the stream when an account kept spamming:

[Streamer, look at me, I can give you a place to stay!!]

[Streamer, look at me, I can give you a place to stay!!]

[Streamer, look at me, I can give you a place to stay!!]

I answered the call.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped accept, hoping it wasn’t another troll.

Two girls popped up, one with pigtails, one with a high ponytail.

They looked nervous but excited, like they’d just won concert tickets.

“Hey streamer, um…” the pigtail girl stammered.

She was twisting her hands in her lap, glancing at her friend for backup.

“We’re already connected, just say it. Here’s the deal: we just graduated college and rented a dirt-cheap place—only $200 a month, two bedrooms, but it’s in the basement. We thought it was fine, but after moving in, weird stuff started happening. I think we rented a haunted house.”

The pigtail girl was hugging her friend, shivering, glancing around.

Their fear was real—every time a pipe rattled, they flinched. I could practically see goosebumps.

“Your place is definitely haunted.”