Chapter 1: The Haunting Request

On the third anniversary of my death, St. Peter leaned across his cluttered desk and asked, “Any last wishes, Natalie?” as if I was ordering takeout, not haunting the afterlife.

I rubbed my temples, muttering, "Derek is digging up my grave again tonight."

The overhead fluorescents buzzed, casting weird shadows across the linoleum floor—like every DMV I’d ever suffered through. St. Peter peered at me over his wire-rimmed glasses, the look of a man who’d seen every excuse in the book—and believed none of them.

St. Peter waved his massive hand.

In the Mirror of Return, a tall, slender man was frantically hacking at my grave with a shovel, a handful of paranormal investigators standing behind him, chanting away.

The view in the mirror wobbled, as if filmed by a jittery cellphone, bringing the nighttime cemetery almost close enough to smell the wet grass. The moonlight made everything look ghostly blue, except for the flickering orange candles scattered around my headstone.

The sight of him, sleeves rolled up, shovel in hand, made my heart ache and my fists clench. Once, those hands used to hold me. Now, they were digging me up.

Thanks to him, I haven’t moved on even after three years dead; I’m the only holdout in the afterlife.

I muttered, "Unbelievable. Of course it’s him."

The word tasted bitter. I folded my arms, fighting the urge to yell at him through the mirror—even if it made me look like a crazy ghost in front of the other souls.

He suddenly paused, looked up, and stared right in the direction of my soul, a sly smile spreading across his face.

There was a flash of recognition in his eyes—almost like he could sense me watching. For a split second, it felt like the veil between us thinned, and I almost believed I could reach out and smack him.

"I’ve been leaving flowers and burning candles for you three years straight so you can be my audience down there."

His voice, rough and familiar, cut through the chanting behind him. The investigators hesitated, one glancing at his phone like he wanted to bail.

"Either come back, or..."

He leaned in, eyes dark. The threat—promise?—hung in the air like the low note of a church organ.

"I’ll come down."

July 15th.

The afterlife office was buzzing—almost ready to blast off from all the activity.

The place felt like an old DMV during the holidays: lines out the door, a murmur of voices, the faint scent of overbrewed coffee floating from the break room. In the distance, a few souls argued over paperwork, while a couple of bored spirit guides leaned against a vending machine, debating fantasy football picks.

Old souls were busy moving on, new ones were lining up to visit home.

Only I was squatting at the steps of St. Peter’s hall, bored stiff, watching the endless line of souls below.

The marble steps were cold, and my afterlife-issued jeans weren't much help. Every so often, a breeze would ruffle the pages of my file, sending a chill through me—figuratively, since I didn't technically have nerves anymore.

St. Peter plopped down next to me.

His presence had weight, like a grandfather who'd seen every family drama imaginable. He nudged me with his elbow. "Natalie, it’s Ghost Festival today. Don’t you have any wishes?"

Before I could answer, the ground started to tremble.

My head throbbed. There are no earthquakes in the afterlife—so there could only be one reason.

"Derek is digging up my grave again."

St. Peter gave a casual wave.

A mirror materialized out of thin air before us.

That was the Mirror of Return, connecting the afterlife and the world of the living. In the image—

A tall, striking man had his sleeves rolled up, swinging a shovel like his life depended on it, digging up a grave.

He looked like he hadn't slept in days; his hair was messy, and there was dirt streaked across his cheek. The graveyard was eerily quiet except for the thud of metal on earth. I could almost smell the fresh-turned soil and ozone from the earlier rain.

Behind him, several elderly paranormal investigators had formed a circle, chanting incantations. Complex symbols were scrawled all over the ground.

They had folding chairs, thermoses of green tea, and the resigned faces of people who'd seen too much. One woman wore a Cubs cap, another kept checking her Fitbit, and a third sipped coffee from a battered Dunkin’ cup.

The grave digger was Derek, my ex-boyfriend.

And the grave he was digging up was mine.

Thanks to him, I haven’t found peace for three years since I died. I haven’t even had a chance to move on.

I’m the afterlife’s one and only holdout.

The new souls below gawked at the Mirror of Return, amazed.

A cluster of teenage spirits in hoodies whispered and nudged each other, pointing at the drama unfolding. "Dude, is that her ex?" someone murmured. "This is better than Netflix."

But the soul messengers? They’d seen it all before.

One of them yawned, checking his watch, as if waiting for the next coffee break.

I clenched my teeth.

"Unbelievable. Of course it’s him."

But the man in the mirror seemed to sense something.

He stopped suddenly, looked up, and stared right in my direction—as if he could see straight through the mirror to me.

I shivered. "Can... can he see me?"

St. Peter stroked his imaginary beard. "Possible. He’s picked up some spirit communication tricks."

At that moment, Derek’s lips curled up in a careless smile.

"Natalie, I’ve been leaving flowers and burning candles for you three years now, so you can be an audience down there."

What’s that supposed to mean? I hadn’t caught up yet.

He pulled a charm from his pocket.

It shimmered faintly, the way old Polaroids do in the light. Even the soul messengers in the back leaned in for a better look.

"Either come back, or..."

He paused, eyes suddenly icy cold.

"I’ll come down."

The moment St. Peter saw that charm, he started fidgeting. Hearing Derek’s words, he got downright jumpy, pacing back and forth.

"This lunatic," St. Peter cursed, "If he manages to cross over, all hell’s gonna break loose—literally!"

His words echoed through the hall, and a few nearby spirits glanced over, sensing the tension.

I was even more panicked than St. Peter. "You can’t let him come down!"

God knows, I’ve haunted his dreams every single day for the past three years.

If he comes down, won’t he skin me alive first?

The next second, St. Peter gave me a swift kick—right into the Mirror of Return.

I looked back in shock.

St. Peter’s eyes narrowed with a smile: "Whoever started this mess has to clean it up, Natalie. I’ll give you seven days to resolve his obsession."

"Don’t worry, when you come back to move on, I’ll make sure you get the best fate."

Heh.

After slaving away for this deadbeat St. Peter for three years, turns out I was still the one in the wrong.

I couldn't help but mutter, "I’d spent three years dead, and I still couldn’t escape cleaning up after Derek. Some things really do haunt you forever."