Chapter 3: Lights, Camera, Ghostly Action

After a few lazy days at home, I finally saw a casting call in the Maple Heights actors’ group:

"Looking for a female actor for a horror short tomorrow. Playing a ghost. Must be attractive and act well. $100 for the day. DM if interested."

My phone nearly slipped from my hands. I typed out my response in record time.

I pounced, promoted myself, and got the part—my first real acting gig since graduation! The next day, I was giddy with excitement. Michael, bored at home, tagged along.

He insisted on coming, claiming he wanted to "see how the pros do it." I rolled my eyes but let him tag along.

In the makeup room, I got the full ghost makeover. The script called for a female ghost who’d been run over, so the special effects makeup was extra gruesome.

The artist took her time, painting bruises and blood until I barely recognized myself.

Even though it was just two scenes and no lines, the makeup was disturbingly realistic.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and almost jumped. Michael did, too.

How realistic? When I turned to look at Michael, he actually flinched and hid behind someone else.

He ducked behind a wardrobe rack, peeking out with wide eyes.

Wow. Even a real ghost got scared.

I couldn’t resist snapping a selfie, captioning it: "When you scare the actual ghost. #methodacting"

When everyone else left, I couldn’t resist teasing him: "You’re a ghost and you’re scared of ghosts?"

I stuck out my tongue, enjoying his discomfort.

He patted his chest, still shaken: "Ghosts have the right to be scared too!"

He tried to look dignified, but the effect was ruined by his trembling hands.

"Coward."

I grinned, basking in my victory.

The first indoor scene wrapped quickly. There was another outdoor night shoot.

We moved to a wooded area just outside town. The air was thick with fog and anticipation.

Everyone on set was mingling and networking. Even in my terrifying ghost makeup, I managed to add a few new Instagram contacts.

One girl complimented my fake blood, and we swapped tips on horror makeup.

By nightfall, the extras had all become friendly.

We huddled together for warmth, trading stories and snacks. Someone passed around a thermos of hot cocoa.

With the director’s "action!" I went all in. In the end, my ghost character was vanquished by the exorcist’s holy water.

The scene was dramatic, over-the-top, and oddly cathartic. I gave it my all, even if my only audience was a camera and a ghost.

After work, I left with a few girls I’d befriended that afternoon.

We laughed about our fake injuries and promised to keep in touch. The night air was chilly, but my spirits were high.

The set was next to a remote forest. Even though it wasn’t late, it was pitch black and deserted.

Our footsteps crunched on the gravel path. The trees loomed overhead, casting long shadows.

We chatted as we walked toward the main road, but after a while, something felt off.

The path seemed to loop endlessly, and the woods grew thicker. I glanced over my shoulder, unease prickling my skin.

One girl, Cassie, suddenly blurted out, "Didn’t we already pass this broken tree?"

She pointed at a gnarled trunk with three large rocks at its base.

Another girl got spooked: "Don’t scare me. There are lots of broken trees. Maybe it’s not the same one."

She tried to laugh it off, but her voice shook.

But Cassie insisted: "It’s the same! Look, three big rocks by the roots, just like before."

She hugged her jacket tighter, eyes wide.

Now I was starting to get creeped out too. Were we caught in a ghost trap? Instinctively, I looked for Michael, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I scanned the shadows, hoping he’d show up and make a joke about Scooby-Doo.

I was about to call for him when he suddenly floated over, looking serious: "Follow me."

His face was grim, all traces of humor gone. I motioned for the others to follow.

I led the girls after him. At a fork in the path, he stopped, and I felt a chill crawl down my spine.

The air grew colder, and I could see my breath. Michael’s eyes darted around, searching for something.

Michael’s voice was icy: "Move aside."

He stepped forward, hands clenched. The girls huddled behind me, whispering nervously.

Before I could react, he shot forward and started fighting with... something invisible.

It looked like he was wrestling with thin air, but I could sense the tension crackling around us.

So... it really was a ghostly trap!

My heart pounded in my chest. This was way above my pay grade.

I froze, fear clawing at my throat.

My legs felt like jelly. The other girls clung to my arms, eyes wide with terror.

Michael told me to take the left fork and hurry. He’d cover the rear.

He didn’t wait for an argument, just waved us on. I nodded, swallowing my fear.

I mouthed: What about you?

He shook his head, signaling for me to go.

He just said, "Go. Get home. Don’t distract me."

His tone brooked no argument. I grabbed the girls’ hands and ran.

Not wanting to drag him down, I led the girls down the left path.

We stumbled over roots and rocks, desperate to get away.

Sure enough, after a short walk, we reached the main road.

The relief was palpable. We hugged, laughing and crying at the same time.

After saying goodbye, I remembered Michael’s warning and hurried straight home. Only when I got inside did I finally relax.

I locked the door, double-checked the windows, and collapsed on the sofa, heart still racing.

Sitting on the sofa, the room suddenly felt empty.

The silence was deafening. I realized how much I’d come to rely on Michael’s presence.

Normally, I found Michael annoying, but now that he was gone, I felt unsettled.

I kept glancing at the clock, willing him to reappear.

What if he lost? Would he be devoured by other ghosts?

The thought made my stomach twist. I tried to distract myself, but nothing worked.

An hour passed. Still no sign of him.

The minutes dragged by. I paced the apartment, chewing my nails.

The more I thought about it, the more anxious I became.

I stared at the door, half-expecting him to walk through it any second.

Just as I was about to cry, Michael finally floated in.

He looked exhausted, but alive—well, as alive as a ghost could be.

He collapsed on the sofa, looking battered.

His suit was rumpled, his hair a mess. I rushed to his side.

I rushed over: "Are you okay?"

I checked him for injuries, forgetting for a moment that he was, technically, invincible.

He looked exhausted, his ghostly energy weak, but shook his head: "I’m fine."

He tried to smile, but it came out lopsided.

I quickly lit a candle for him. After a few minutes, he looked better.

The flame flickered, casting soft shadows on the wall. Michael straightened up, color returning to his cheeks.

Then, Michael suddenly smiled.

His eyes sparkled, and I felt my heart skip a beat.

I was confused: "Why are you smiling?"

I couldn’t help but smile back, even as I scolded him.

"You were worried about me."

He said it softly, almost shyly.

I made a face. What’s so funny about that?

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks were warm.

But Michael said, alive or dead, few people had ever cared about him.

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I wanted to hug him, but settled for lighting another candle.

He wasn’t trying to play the victim, but his words hit me right in the feels.

I blinked back tears, suddenly grateful for his company.

So... I offered him another candle.

He grinned, accepting it with a bow. "Thank you, milady."

As expected, act cute and you get candy; act pitiful and you get candles.

It was a fair trade, as far as I was concerned.

Once he’d recovered, I sincerely thanked him for saving me.

I squeezed his hand, hoping he could feel my gratitude.

Michael, back to his usual self, just grinned: "You’re welcome."

He winked, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

I figured I should repay him, so I asked what kind of gift he wanted.

I was ready to splurge—within reason. My bank account was still on life support.

He looked hopeful: "Could you burn me a set of clothes? I’ve been wearing the same outfit since I died."

He tugged at his shirt, looking embarrassed.

"Didn’t your family burn you any?"

I regretted the question as soon as I asked it.

His eyes dimmed. "I’m an orphan. No family."

His voice was barely above a whisper. I felt a lump in my throat.

I instantly regretted asking. Just give the gift, why dig up the past?

I changed the subject, determined to make it up to him.

To change the subject, I asked, "What kind of clothes do you want?"

I pulled up Amazon, ready to buy whatever he wanted.

He’d lost interest. "Whatever."

He shrugged, but I could tell he cared.

I opened Amazon and started browsing men’s fashion.

I scrolled through page after page, looking for something that would suit him.

Sportswear? Casual? Something else?

The options were endless. I considered everything from hoodies to tuxedos.

Then I spotted a suit, with the words "suit kneeling" (a meme for a seductive pose in a suit) in the listing.

The model was on one knee, looking like a GQ cover star. My cheeks flushed.

Curious, I clicked in. The suit looked nice—cheap material, but good cut and style.

It was surprisingly affordable, and the reviews were decent.

And every promo photo featured a model kneeling in the suit—so... suggestive!

I bit my lip, wondering if Michael would pull off the look. The answer was obvious.

I glanced at Michael. He was tall, slim, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, with a great butt...

I tried not to stare, but it was impossible not to notice.

With that handsome, melancholy face, he’d put any model to shame!

He looked like he’d stepped out of a noir film—tragic, mysterious, and devastatingly handsome.

I couldn’t help but imagine him in that suit...

The mental image was almost too much. I hit "buy now" before I could chicken out.

Three days later, the package arrived.

I snuck it past my nosy neighbor, heart pounding. The box felt heavier than it should have.

Like a thief, I snuck the clothes into my room.

I locked the door, double-checked the windows, and laid everything out on the bed.

As a gentlemanly ghost, Michael never entered my room without permission. He waited outside, excited for his new clothes, while I nervously unwrapped the package.

He knocked on the door every few minutes, asking if he could come in yet.

Shirt, tie, jacket—the whole ensemble.

I held up each piece, imagining how he’d look.

But for some reason, I felt guilty and didn’t dare bring them out.

My cheeks burned, and I debated hiding the suit under my bed forever.

Michael kept urging me. In the end, the temptation of "suit kneeling" won out. I brought the clothes out and asked nervously, "So... do you like it?"

I tried to sound casual, but my voice wobbled.

He stared at the suit, speechless.

His eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought he might cry.

After a few seconds, he said, "I do like it, but... isn’t it a bit too formal?"

He tugged at the lapel, looking uncertain.

But since I’d already bought it, he had no choice. I found a metal bucket and carefully burned the clothes for him. When he changed into the suit, I almost had a nosebleed.

He emerged from the smoke like a movie star at a red carpet premiere.

The slim-fit suit showed off his figure: broad shoulders, narrow waist, perky butt, long legs.

I tried not to stare, but failed spectacularly.

The black fabric and matching tie added a touch of restrained allure.

He looked like he could run a Fortune 500 company—or break hearts at a jazz club.

Michael asked, a bit embarrassed, "Does it look good?"

He shifted from foot to foot, waiting for my verdict.

It looked so, so, so, so good, I wanted to shake him and ask if he’d kneel for me!

I bit my lip, trying not to blurt out my thoughts.

Such a perfect man, gone too soon—what a loss!

I sighed, wondering if the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

Ever since Michael got his new look, I helped him cross off wishes even faster.

We became a well-oiled team—me planning, him executing (or haunting, as needed).

We got more and more in sync. With just a look, he’d happily cool me down; if he swallowed, I’d know it was time to light a candle for him.

He’d raise an eyebrow, I’d hand him a candle. We barely needed words.

We got along so well it was scary.

My friends started asking if I’d gotten a new roommate. I just smiled and changed the subject.