Chapter 1: The Graveyard Gig Gone Wrong

Yes, that incredibly unlucky college girl majoring in acting at Maple Heights University? That’s me—the one who spent more time in the campus theater than at the football games, and could recite the best lines from every SNL skit by heart.

If you’d told me four years ago that my post-grad life would be a string of oddball side hustles and supernatural chaos, I’d have laughed you right off the quad—probably at the Starbucks next to the student union. But here we are—cue the Law & Order “dun-dun” or maybe the Stranger Things synths.

The year I graduated, the pandemic hit like a wrecking ball. I spent three months stranded in my off-campus apartment in Maple Heights, unable to land a single acting gig, not even a walk-on in a student film.

Every day, I scrolled Handshake and Indeed until my eyes burned, listened to my roommates bicker on Zoom, and lived off ramen and store-brand mac and cheese. The world felt paused, but my rent sure wasn’t—just ask my landlord, who texted me a passive-aggressive reminder every Friday.

And now here I was, wrapped in a scratchy old rain poncho from Walmart, hair a tangled mess, standing in the wind among a field of gravestones.

The poncho was my only shield against the relentless Ohio drizzle, and I could feel the cold dampness creeping through my worn-out Converse. The cemetery was classic Americana—tall oaks, mossy headstones, and a chill that crept up from the muddy ground, Memorial Day flags fluttering between the stones.

A theater senior had hooked me up with this gig: the son of a certain Mr. Lawson couldn’t come home for Easter because of COVID, so he hired someone—me—off the campus job board to cry at his father’s grave and pay respects.

Weird? Absolutely. But apparently, guilt plus distance equals cash. I figured, hey, acting is acting—even if your audience is just squirrels and the dearly departed.

The deceased was Michael Lawson.

Didn’t ring any bells. Maybe he’d been a big deal—his son was paying decent money, and my fridge was emptier than my post-grad prospects, so I didn’t exactly interrogate the details.

I spent ages trudging through wild, overgrown graves, phone flashlight in hand, searching for Michael Lawson’s tombstone. When I finally spotted a cluster of newer stones down the path, I pressed on.

My sneakers squelched in the mud, the wind whipping my hair into my face. I muttered every curse word I’d learned from late-night cable, but kept going—hey, a paycheck’s a paycheck.

Here, the weeds were even thicker, almost up to my knees. I stopped at one lopsided mound and, after a sweaty struggle pulling weeds, finally uncovered a single name: Lawson.

My hands were caked in dirt, and I had to use a stray stick to pry up the biggest clumps. My jeans? Total write-off.

A bit more effort revealed the next: Michael.

There it was—finally! I did a tiny Tiger Woods fist pump, then remembered where I was and tried to look respectfully somber.

Found it! Showtime.

I took a deep breath, ran my lines in my head like I was prepping for a Broadway audition, and braced myself to deliver the performance of my life for an audience of one.

I switched my phone to selfie video, pointed the camera at myself, and, channeling every ounce of acting skill I’d honed at Maple Heights, unleashed a full-throttle, gut-wrenching wail for the late Mr. Lawson.

I went all in—ugly tears, snot, hiccups, the works. If the Academy ever added a Best Cemetery Performance, I’d have been a lock.

Let’s be real: all technique, zero real emotion.

I mean, I’d never met the guy. But my acting professor always said, “Sell it, even if you’re selling air.”

The client insisted on at least thirty minutes of tears. I even gave him an extra five for good measure—call it overachiever syndrome.

I checked the timer every few minutes, making sure I hit my mark. At minute thirty-five, I let the waterworks dry up like a pro.

The moment the time was up, I stopped sobbing like I’d hit pause, cheerfully sent off the video as proof, and Venmo’d my way to my first paycheck in three months.

I was so happy, I did a little TikTok dance right there among the headstones. If any ghosts were watching, they got a free encore.

I was on cloud nine. I even reminded my senior to keep me in mind for any more gigs—grave-crying, dog-walking, you name it.

I texted her a string of celebratory emojis and a “Keep me on speed dial!” message. Gotta hustle when the world’s stuck buffering.

Back home, I drew a bath, ready to wash off the graveyard grit and celebrate.

I cranked up my “Ultimate Chill” playlist and tossed a lavender bath bomb into the tub, planning to soak away the day’s weirdness.

But as I sank into the tub, a shadow suddenly flickered across the wall.

At first, I thought it was just the steam messing with my head, or maybe my imagination running wild after a day in a cemetery.

I figured I was just seeing things after all that fake crying. But when I blinked, the shadow only sharpened... until it took the shape of a man!

He materialized slowly, like a Netflix buffering screen—first blurry, then crisp, and suddenly, he was standing right there, next to my sink.

And, okay, he was pretty easy on the eyes—

Tall, tousled brown hair, sharp jawline, eyes that looked straight through you. If he’d been alive, I’d have slid into his DMs.

—but that didn’t change the fact that he was a ghost!

My heart leapt into my throat. The water suddenly felt ice-cold against my skin.

I shrieked, "Aaaahhhhhhh! There’s a ghost!"

I flailed, splashing water everywhere, nearly slipping as I tried to grab a loofah for defense and yank the towel up at the same time.

Panicking, I hurled bathwater at him, only to watch it pass straight through.

The droplets hit the tile behind him with a sad little plop. He just stood there, totally unfazed.

Oh, right. Ghost. Of course water’s not gonna cut it.

My brain scrambled for logic, but all I could think was: Why did I think a loofah would help?

Just as I was about to start screaming again, the ghost spoke up: "Stop yelling. Even ghosts would peace out if you keep that up."

His voice was dry, a little sarcastic, and somehow soothing—like he’d seen this scene play out before on every sitcom.

I stammered, "Dude, please, I don’t know you, I’ve never done anything to you, please don’t haunt me! Whoever you’re mad at, go haunt them!"

I clung to the tub, trying to steady my voice, but I sounded more like a freaked-out freshman than a grown woman.

He looked at me, puzzled. "You don’t recognize me?"

He tilted his head, as if waiting for a lightbulb to go off. I shook mine so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash.

If my neck had been any looser, I’d have ended up in a chiropractor’s office. I was ready to swear on every Hollywood script I’d ever read that I’d never seen this guy in my life.

He studied me, frowning. "You really don’t know me? Then why were you bawling your eyes out at my grave?"

His words hit like a bucket of Gatorade dumped at the Super Bowl. My mind raced—what grave? Whose grave?

Wait—whose grave?

I replayed my afternoon in double-speed. Did I mess up?

He seemed to catch my confusion. "I’m Michael Quinn Lawson. You really don’t know me?"

Michael Quinn Lawson? Michael Lawson?

My stomach plummeted. The puzzle pieces snapped into place, one after another.

…

Oh. Oh no. I get it now.

I cried at the wrong grave and summoned a ghost!

What a disaster!

My face went hot with embarrassment. Of all the things to mess up, this had to be the most extra.

While I was still processing, Michael awkwardly turned away: "Um... maybe you should put some clothes on before we keep talking?"

His ears turned a little pink—charming, if it weren’t so mortifying. I glanced down and realized—

"AAAAAAHHH! Pervert ghost!"

I yanked the shower curtain in front of me and shot him a look that could kill. Even dead, some guys just couldn’t help themselves!

Once we’d gotten past that mortifying scene, I explained everything to Michael, hoping he’d just float away and leave me alone.

I babbled through the story, apologizing at least five times, and silently begged the universe to let this ghost get bored and haunt someone else instead.

But that’s when I learned: summoning a ghost is easy, but sending one packing? Not so much.

Turns out, the supernatural world had its own set of rules—none of which were covered in my acting electives.

Michael said he’d lost track of how long he’d been in the grave. My melodramatic crying woke him up, so he just followed me home.

He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Apparently, ghosts just wait around for someone to hit the right emotional pitch.

He seemed pretty chill for a ghost, so I tried to reason with him: "Um... how about you go back to your grave and keep resting? I’ll bring flowers and light a candle on holidays, promise."

I tried to sound sincere, but he wasn’t buying it.

Michael didn’t hesitate: "All the other ghosts there already moved on. I’m the only one left. It’s boring. Besides, flowers will grow on my grave anyway."

He said it so matter-of-factly, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Then... why not move on?"

He shook his head, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes, like he was daring me to ask.

At that, my internal alarm blared: "You’re not expecting me to help you, are you?"

I crossed my arms, ready to draw the line. No way was I about to become a ghost’s personal assistant.

The gloomy look on his face vanished, replaced by a dazzling, heart-melting smile: "Could you?"

He looked so hopeful, it was almost criminal. I could feel my resolve slipping like a dropped phone on concrete.

"Absolutely not!"

I practically shouted it, just to make sure he got the message.

He shrugged, unfazed. "That’s cool, too."

He leaned back, hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world. I realized with a sinking feeling that he wasn’t planning to leave.

But he made no move to go. Was this ghost seriously planning to haunt my tiny apartment forever?

I stared at him, then at my shoebox studio, wondering if I should call a priest, a therapist, or just move out.

Even ghosts shouldn’t be this clingy, right?

I mean, I’d heard of codependent roommates, but this was a whole new level.

I tried again: "I’m just a broke, freshly graduated college girl. I can’t help you. There are plenty of people out there—go haunt one of them."

I gestured around the room, hoping he’d get the hint. But he just smiled, totally immune to hints, sarcasm, and logic.

"But you’re the one who woke me up, and you’re the only one who can see me now. No one else can."

He said it like it was the most obvious fact in the world. I was officially stuck.

…

I was speechless. Like, jaw-on-the-floor, can’t-even-meme speechless. If I could, I’d pay good money for a pair of eyes that had never seen Michael.

I briefly considered dousing myself in holy water or wearing sunglasses inside forever. Neither seemed practical.

So as long as he doesn’t move on, he’s stuck to me like a ghostly shadow.

And apparently, I was his accidental medium. Just my luck.

After wrestling with myself, I gave in: "Fine. What are your wishes? I’ll do my best."

I sighed dramatically, hoping he’d appreciate the Oscar-worthy sacrifice.

Michael’s harmless smile grew even brighter.

He looked like a golden retriever who’d just been promised a walk. I braced myself for the worst.

Then... he pulled out a wish list from inside his jacket. It was thicker than his skin.

He handed it over with the flourish of a magician revealing a deck of cards. My eyes widened in disbelief.

1. Watch the sunrise by the ocean.

2. See northern snow in winter.

3. Ride a roller coaster.

...

And so on. N more, omitted for sanity’s sake.

The list went on and on—skydiving, learning to skateboard, eating a triple bacon cheeseburger. The man had ambitions.

What kind of wish list is this? It’s even more over-the-top than those viral "100 Things Every Couple Must Do" checklists!

I’d seen less demanding bucket lists on Instagram. Was I his girlfriend or his make-a-wish fairy?

I shoved the list back at him: "Whether you move on or not, I am not spoiling you!"

I tried to look stern, but he just grinned like he’d already won.

From then on, Michael and I started a secret battle of wills, neither willing to back down.

Our apartment became a battlefield—him with his puppy-dog eyes, me with my stubborn streak. Even my cat avoided us.

On the third day of his relentless haunting, I finally snapped: "Why are you following me everywhere?!"

I whirled around in the kitchen, spatula in hand, ready to defend my personal space.

He blinked his big, innocent cartoon eyes. "I’ve got nowhere else to go."

He looked so forlorn, I almost felt bad. Almost.

I was about to scold him, but then he looked so pitiful: "I was sleeping so soundly in my grave, and you woke me up. Now I can’t move on. I’m doomed to wander the world all alone..."

He let his voice trail off, adding a dramatic sigh. If ghosts could win Oscars, he’d have swept the category.

Honestly, when you put it that way, I did feel a little guilty.

I mean, I didn’t mean to ruin his afterlife. But still—boundaries!

But wasn’t it supposed to be that, after the founding of America, ghosts weren’t allowed to roam free? (You know, like how modern times are supposed to be ghost-free?)

I remembered all those corny TV shows where ghosts were just urban legends—wasn’t someone supposed to handle this?

Besides, how was I supposed to know my crying skills were so powerful?

Maybe I should put "summoning spirits" on my resume. Special skills: ugly crying, ghost magnetism.

For the sake of getting my life back to normal, I gritted my teeth: "Fine! Give me your wish list. I’ll help you cross things off."

I figured the sooner I finished, the sooner I’d be ghost-free. That was the plan, anyway.

Michael obediently handed over his thick wish list, then asked, "By the way, what year is it now? I want to know how long I’ve been sleeping."

He looked genuinely curious, like Rip Van Winkle waking up after a century.

I didn’t really care, so I tossed out, "Year 3 of COVID."

I watched his face, half-expecting him to understand. Instead, he looked totally lost.

"?"

He looked confused. "Come again?"

He squinted at me, as if I’d started speaking in tongues.

"2022," I clarified.

I rolled my eyes and spelled it out. He nodded, still a little dazed.

Ever since this male ghost moved in, the indoor temperature had dropped noticeably. Even when it was warm outside, it was chilly inside.

I started wearing socks to bed in May. My friends complained I was keeping the AC too low, but I knew better.

So every time Michael trailed after me, I felt a cold shiver down my spine.

It was like living with a portable freezer that followed me from room to room.

I couldn’t help but complain: "I’m already helping you with your wishes. Could you at least keep your distance? It’s freezing!"

I wrapped myself in a blanket, glaring at him from my cocoon.

Michael replied, "If you’re cold, you could stand in the corner."

His face was deadpan, but I could see the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

"Why?"

He shrugged, all innocence: "Because the corner’s ninety degrees."

He delivered the punchline with a straight face, like he’d been waiting to use it since before dad jokes were cool.

...

Wow. That joke was even colder than he is.

I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. "Dad jokes from a dead guy. Fantastic."

I rolled my eyes. "Enough with the jokes. Let’s get to work. I’ll help you cross off two wishes tonight."

I pointed at his list, determined to get this over with. He perked up instantly.

So, under cover of darkness, Michael and I—one human, one ghost—set out.

We snuck out like two kids breaking curfew, me clutching my phone, him floating along like a shadow.

Tonight’s mission: ride a roller coaster and watch the sunrise by the sea.

The city was still under pandemic restrictions, so the streets were quiet. The amusement park looked eerie, all neon lights and empty rides—like Six Flags on a Monday night.

Because of the pandemic, the amusement park was open but nearly empty, especially the roller coaster—no line at all.

The bored teenager running the ride barely glanced at me as I handed over my ticket. It felt like we had the whole park to ourselves.

I bought tickets, got strapped in, and prepared for takeoff.

I double-checked the safety bar, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the absurdity of it all. My ghostly companion sat beside me, invisible to everyone but me.

Michael took the empty seat beside me, practically vibrating with excitement.

He was like a kid at his first carnival, eyes wide and hands gripping the air.

I couldn’t help asking, "You never rode a roller coaster when you were alive?"

I glanced at him, curious. He shook his head, a wistful look on his face.

He shook his head. "I was sickly as a kid. Couldn’t do anything too strenuous."

His voice was soft, almost apologetic. I felt a pang of sympathy.

After that, he fell silent, looking a little down. I suddenly felt like I was bullying a helpless ghost.

I reached over, almost touching his hand, but stopped myself. What comfort could I offer someone who was already gone?

The roller coaster started. Even though Michael couldn’t really feel the wind or adrenaline, he still looked around with wide-eyed curiosity, like a caveman discovering the modern world.

He laughed out loud as we crested the first hill, and for a moment, I forgot all about our weird circumstances.

Afterwards, he thanked me, beaming, and hurried me off to the ocean.

His enthusiasm was contagious. I found myself smiling as we raced through the empty parking lot to my car.

In May, the sea breeze was cool and damp. I wrapped myself in my hoodie and rented a tent.

The air smelled like salt and possibility. I zipped the tent shut, feeling oddly content.

There were only a handful of people on the beach, just a few scattered tents like ours.

The waves whispered in the dark, and the distant city lights blinked like lazy fireflies.

It was hours until sunrise, so I laid out my bedding and told Michael to wake me up when it was time.

He promised, sitting cross-legged by the tent flap, watching over me like a silent guardian.

But as soon as I drifted off, my stomach twisted in agony.

I woke up sweating, clutching my gut. Not exactly the magical beach night I’d envisioned.

At first, I thought it was just a stomachache, but the pain got worse and worse. I started to suspect it was appendicitis or something equally dramatic.

Every worst-case scenario ran through my head. I started mentally drafting my will—who would get my collection of expired ramen?

Michael, floating outside the tent, heard my groans and drifted in: "What’s wrong?"

His voice was gentle, but his presence made the air drop a few degrees.

The temperature inside dropped two degrees the moment he entered, making me shiver.

I could see my breath in the beam of my phone flashlight. Not helpful.

I was in too much pain to talk, so I just dialed 911 for an ambulance.

My hands shook as I gave them the location. Michael hovered beside me, looking helpless.

At the hospital, a doctor came to examine me. He poked around my belly and asked if it hurt.

His hands were cold, but at least he was alive. Michael hovered in the corner, biting his lip.

I croaked, "Doctor, is it serious?"

I tried to sound brave, but my voice came out as a squeak.

Michael hovered nearby, looking worried—probably because if something happened to me, he’d lose his only wish-fulfiller.

He looked like a kid whose favorite toy was about to be taken away.

Unexpectedly, the doctor glanced at me and said, deadpan, "You haven’t pooped in days, right? It’s nothing serious—just constipation."

He said it so matter-of-factly, I almost missed it. Then it hit me. Oh. My. God.

...

I froze. Mortified, I yanked the blanket over my head, chanting in my mind, ‘No one can see me, no one can see me.’

I could hear the nurses stifling their giggles. Even Michael looked like he was about to lose it.

A few nurses tried to hide their laughter behind their masks, but their eyes were practically sparkling with amusement.

I wanted to sink into the hospital bed and never reemerge. This was worse than any audition disaster.

What a way to die—socially, at least!

If embarrassment could kill, I’d be haunting this hospital by now.

After the staff left, I peeked out and saw Michael struggling not to laugh.

He had his hand over his mouth, but his eyes were crinkled with mischief.

I immediately burrowed back under the covers like an ostrich.

I was never showing my face in this ER again.

What a disgrace to the entire human race!

I mentally prepared a list of excuses for my next therapy session. "Doctor, I’m haunted by my own digestive system."

Outside, Michael’s cheerful voice: "Don’t hide, I won’t laugh at you."

He tried to sound serious, but I could hear the tremor in his voice.

I yanked the blanket off and threatened, "If you dare laugh, I’ll tear up your wish list and you’ll never move on!"

I brandished my phone like a weapon. He immediately zipped it.

Sure enough, Michael immediately zipped it.

He straightened up, put on his best poker face, and nodded solemnly.

Even though I ended up in the hospital, the sunrise wish was still technically fulfilled—because I just sent Michael off to watch it himself. He knew the way by now.

He came back later, describing the sunrise in poetic detail, which almost made up for missing it myself. Almost.

Two wishes down in one night—pretty efficient, if you ask me!

I made a mental note: multitasking is my superpower, even if it lands me in the ER.