Chapter 2: Milk, Blood, and Betrayal

Our new place was on the eighth floor, and there was no elevator. The stairwell smelled like boiled peanuts and mildew, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes for days. I went up and down those stairs forty-five times, each trip making my thighs burn and sweat soak through my t-shirt, clinging to my back. Every step felt like punishment, the muggy air pressing against my skin. The banister was sticky beneath my palm, and each time I passed the faded fire-escape sign, I pictured myself dropping everything and running straight back to the street.

By the last trip, my legs gave out and I collapsed in the doorway. My arms shook as I sprawled across the cracked tile, vision swimming. My backpack thudded next to me, spilling open with crumpled school notebooks and a half-eaten granola bar.

The whole time, my stepmom was inside, lounging in the AC. When she saw me, she grabbed my collar and slapped me, hard.

The slap echoed off the plaster walls, sharp and humiliating. My cheek flared hot. I tasted salt and maybe blood, couldn’t tell which. In the background, the ceiling fan hummed, the air cold and stale. Part of me wanted to cry, but another part just went numb, like I’d left my body behind. My hands trembled, but I forced them still.

She snapped, "Who are you trying to fool? You’ve barely done anything and you’re already putting on a show? Your dad’s not home—no matter how much you act, there’s no one here to see it."

Her voice was flat and cruel, so practiced it made my chest tighten. Her words seemed to bounce off the beige-painted walls, rehearsed and ready to cut.

Lila, all pink bows and sharp elbows, watched with a smirk. She wore a floral dress and jelly sandals, delicate from head to toe, but her eyes were mean. She giggled and dumped her entire cup of iced milk over my head. "Big sis is so hot, let’s cool you off."

The milk hit my scalp cold, soaking through my hair and shirt, trickling icy down my neck. I felt sticky and chilled at the same time.

Lila stomped in the spilled milk, splashing it everywhere. The slap of her jelly sandals spread the mess, and the sickly-sweet smell of milk filled the air. Droplets arced through the air, landing in little pools on the linoleum.

She said, "The place is so dirty, big sis. Why don’t you lick it clean?"

Her voice dripped with fake sugar, the kind you know will rot your teeth. Stepmom burst out laughing—high-pitched, mean, and sharp. It cut deeper than her slap. My fists clenched, knuckles white, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

Then my stepmom grabbed my hair and shoved my head hard toward the floor. She yanked so hard my scalp burned. My nose nearly hit the spilled milk, and all I could see was my own reflection, warped and trembling in the mess.

My mouth was about to hit the ground when—

Heavy footsteps sounded at the door.

The sound of worn boots on hardwood made everyone freeze. That heavy, familiar rhythm—Dad was home.

Mother and daughter’s faces changed in an instant. They yanked me up, then both grabbed paper towels, knelt down, and started wiping. Their faces were all fake concern, but their eyes shot daggers at me—like I was the mess they really wanted to wipe away. They scrambled so quickly it was almost darkly funny. The paper towels ripped, the milk just smeared around, but they kept up the frantic act, shooting me warning glances as if daring me to say a word.

Dad came home to see mother and daughter cleaning, while I looked like a total mess. My hair was still wet, shirt stuck to my back, legs shaking. The scene must’ve looked like something out of a bad sitcom—two angels cleaning, me standing there like I’d rolled through a mud puddle.

I clenched my fists, praying he’d stand up for me, just this once. Let me know there’s someone I can count on in this house. But Dad, desperate to please my stepmom—even though he knew they were bullying me on purpose, just putting on a show for him—still raised his hand and slapped me.

His palm landed against my cheek with a crack so loud it made the neighbor’s dog start barking. My chest went hollow. I felt my hands start to shake as I tried not to collapse again.

He barked, "You think you’re too good to help out? Get moving before I really lose my patience."

His voice was loud, but his hand was even heavier. The slap made my ear ring instantly, vision going white. I stumbled, grabbing for the back of a chair, but Dad didn’t even look at me as he turned away.

It was at that moment—

I saw comments floating in the air again. The glowing words drifted past my vision, almost like subtitles in an old YouTube reaction video. This time, they shimmered in orange and green, twisting in the air. No one else seemed to notice the glowing words—just me, standing there like a lunatic. My heart pounded. Was I losing it?

[Isn’t this house haunted? Why would anyone move in?]

[Yeah, at midnight, this is where the parade of a hundred ghosts passes through. Whoever lives here is doomed, right?]

[Not necessarily. Maybe you can escape if you hide in the storage closet. There’s a spirit-trapping charm left by a ghost hunter—ghosts won’t dare come near.]

Watching the comments roll by, I was completely confused. Did I get hit so hard I started hallucinating? I touched my cheek again, half-expecting to wake up on the kitchen floor. Was this just my brain’s way of coping, or was something else at play?

At the same time, my stepmom, with fake tears in her eyes, said to Dad, "Lila has never asked me for anything. This time, moving houses, she said she wanted her own room. But our place only has two bedrooms…"

She trailed off, glancing at Lila.

Lila immediately chimed in, fidgeting and glancing at her mom before she spoke, "It’s fine, I’ll stay in the storage closet. Let big sis have the bigger bedroom. I’m sure she wants her own space too." Her voice rushed out, sugary sweet, but her eyes slid sideways, checking her mom’s reaction.

The two of them acted in perfect sync, back and forth. Dad immediately decided, "Lila’s younger. Living in the bigger bedroom will help her grow. Morgan, you stay in the storage closet." He didn’t ask my opinion, just tossed my luggage into the closet, like I was an afterthought.

Leaving behind: "If you were half as sensible as your sister, I wouldn’t have to worry so much."

He always had a way of making it sound like my fault, no matter what happened.

The comments cheered, swirling around me like confetti at a parade. I tried to focus on breathing, to not get lost in the strangeness of it all.

[Karma for the wicked! The whole family bullies this girl, but the safest place is the storage closet they all look down on.]

[If she can find the spirit-trapping charm in there, that’d be awesome. That charm can command a hundred ghosts—maybe she could even save the whole family.]

[The person above is way too forgiving. After what they’ve done to her, and you want her to save them? Hasn’t her life been bad enough?]

If this really is a haunted house, why not just run instead of looking for a charm? My sneakers squeaked as I shifted on the linoleum, glancing at the door, calculating if I could bolt down the stairs. The comments seemed to read my mind:

[It’s ten at night. All the exits in the apartment are sealed.]

[Before the parade of ghosts, nobody inside can get out.]

Right after, Dad’s voice cursed from the entryway: "Damn it, first day here and the front door’s jammed."

He tossed the trash on the floor. "I’ll take it out tomorrow."

I heard the hollow thunk of the trash bag and the scrape of the broken lock. Dad muttered something about useless landlords and crooked realtors.

Stepmom muttered in the bathroom, "Why won’t this window open?" A moment later, her voice floated from the kitchen: "Why won’t anything open?"

Even the windows, painted shut years ago, wouldn’t budge. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. A chill ran down my spine, even though the air was thick and warm. My hands started to tremble. I darted into the storage closet and slammed the door shut. The click of the latch sounded final—a thin barrier between me and whatever waited outside.

The cramped space was full of junk. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, old paint cans, a broken vacuum cleaner, and a pile of dusty coats pressed in on me. The smell was a mix of mothballs and old sneakers. The comments flashing by left me no time to care.

[Wonder how this family’s gonna die tonight.]

[A week ago, a fitness trainer who wandered in was skinned alive by a doctor ghost. His screams echoed through the whole building.]

[I remember a male YouTuber who came here for views. He was torn apart by a starving ghost less than a minute into his livestream.]

[Oh, and a cheating couple—the ghosts forced them to take 50 Viagra and literally exhausted them to death.]

The stories tumbled through my mind, each more gruesome than the last. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wishing I could disappear. My legs buckled, and I pressed my forehead to my arms, trying to steady my breathing. The smell of dust and cardboard made my nose itch.

This place was bought just so my stepsister could go to a top middle school—Cedar Ridge Academy, the best in the county, with a waitlist a mile long. My stepmom had bragged about it to everyone back in Indiana before we left.

Even though the apartment was old and on the top floor, it was in a great school district. Stepmom told Dad it cost $450,000, all in cash. She’d made a big show of signing the deed in front of the realtor, nails painted bright pink as she clicked the pen. So our family sold our house in Indiana and moved together. Our old house, all brick and white siding, was gone in a weekend estate sale. I still remembered packing up the swing set in the backyard.

But now I realized, to save money, stepmom only spent $15,000 to buy a haunted place. Fifteen grand, for an apartment crawling with ghosts. I almost laughed, but it came out as a shaky sob.

By moonlight, I frantically searched for the spirit-trapping charm mentioned in the comments. I clawed through piles of junk, tossing aside old rain boots and cracked plastic bins, desperate for any sign of something magical—or at least something that might keep me alive.

I can’t die yet. Not until I send the person who killed my mom to prison. My hands shook, but I kept digging. The memory of Mom’s smile haunted me more than any ghost story.

Stepmom can’t die either. She was the only one there when Mom jumped. I still need her to testify in court.

But before I could search much, stepmom yanked open the closet door and sneered, "No one’s had dinner yet. If you don’t cook, are you trying to starve us?" She stood there, arms folded, lips pursed, her silhouette framed by the bare hallway bulb.

I quickly checked my phone. 10:30 PM. An hour and a half until the parade of ghosts. I was sweating with anxiety but didn’t dare say anything—they’d never believe me.

Before I could say more, Dad stormed in, dragged me by the collar to the kitchen. His grip was so tight my shirt collar dug into my neck. My sneakers scuffed against the floor as he yanked me along.

He raged, "Living in the closet makes you mad, so you throw a tantrum? If your mom hadn’t died early, seeing how ungrateful you are now, she’d be rolling in her grave."

At the mention of my mom, my eyes turned red. Three years ago, when Mom was eight months pregnant, she was pushed off a building—killing both her and the baby. Dad insisted Mom was depressed and jumped herself. But I know that’s not true. That morning, Mom took me to school and promised to buy me a strawberry cake for getting a perfect score. How could she suddenly jump? Someone must have pushed her. But no matter how I cried, Dad insisted it was suicide. Then, the next month, he brought stepmom and stepsister home. They moved in without warning, their boxes stacked in the hallway before the funeral flowers had even wilted.

At this moment, my pent-up emotions exploded. I shouted at him, "You’re not worthy to talk about my mom! Just wait—one day I’ll personally send the person who killed her to prison!" My voice cracked, thick with anger and grief. I felt the whole world tilt, my breath coming in sharp bursts. This was the first time since stepmom moved in that I lost my temper. Also the first time I showed I’d go after the truth about Mom’s death.

Dad and stepmom were both stunned. They stared at me like I’d just thrown a grenade into the kitchen. The overhead light flickered as the air turned electric.

Then Dad slapped me hard. The force made blood instantly ooze from my mouth. On the side, stepsister mocked me gleefully. She danced in place, a wicked little smile twisting her lips, relishing my pain.

Her words chilled me to the bone. She said, "You really are stupid. My mom pushed yours, so what?" The confession hung in the air, thick and poisonous.

Stepmom quickly covered her mouth. Her eyes went wide as she looked from me to my dad, panic breaking through her cold composure. Dad frowned and shouted, "What are you talking about!" He’d never yelled at stepsister before. Suddenly losing his temper made her explode.

She screamed, "It was Mom who pushed her! Can’t I tell the truth? You were there too!"

The air fell silent for a moment. The kitchen clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a police siren wailed and faded.

I looked at Dad in disbelief, hoping he’d say something. But he quickly turned his head away, avoiding my gaze.

I broke down instantly. "So you insisted Mom jumped to protect this witch? Is this how you repay everything Mom did for you?" My voice was sharp, almost tearing. Tears poured down my face.

I grabbed my phone. "You two are monsters—I’ll send you both to prison!"

But before I could call, Dad snatched my phone and smashed it on the floor. The crack of the screen was louder than his voice, shards flying like tiny daggers across the linoleum.

He ripped off his belt. He said viciously, "If I don’t teach you a lesson today, I’m not fit to be your dad!" His voice was so cold, I felt my heart drop.

He went all out. At first, I could struggle a little, but in the end, he and stepmom beat me until I couldn’t get up from the floor. Every hit felt like thunder through my bones. I curled up, hands over my head, barely able to breathe. My sobs caught in my throat, and my hands shook so badly I could barely cover my face.

During this, stepsister squatted in front of me, smiling: "See? Even if you know, you can’t do anything to us." She blinked. "Say a word to anyone, and I’ll have Dad cut out your tongue."

Her voice dripped with fake sugar, the kind you know will rot your teeth. I shivered, even though sweat soaked my shirt.

The comments were shocked.

[Wasn’t I watching a haunted house stream? How did it turn into a domestic horror show?]

[Yeah, this family is unreal—killed the mom and now bullies the daughter. God, I wish the ghosts would show up right now and tear them apart!]

I almost laughed, the dark irony not lost on me. Even internet strangers could see how messed up this was.

Mentioning ghosts, I froze all over. Quickly, I looked at the clock on the wall. 11:52. My heart clenched. Just now, anger had filled my mind and I forgot I needed to hide in the storage closet before midnight. Only eight minutes left. Whether the comments were true or not, I had to get into the closet. If they were true…

I looked at Dad and stepmom cooking and laughing in the kitchen. The kitchen reeked of microwaved mac and cheese and burnt toast, the kind of dinner you eat when no one actually cares. Let the vengeful ghosts avenge my mom. If they weren’t, I’d send them to prison myself one day.

But I hurt so much. I lay on the floor, barely able to crawl before the pain made me black out. I reached for the closet door, fingertips brushing the chipped paint, but everything went dark. Before I passed out, I saw a comment: [She’s covered in blood, is she dead?]

In the chaos, I saw Mom smiling and waving at me. She was still so beautiful, wearing her favorite white dress. The breeze lifted her skirt and hair. I ran toward her, full of joy. But before I could reach her, she pushed me away hard. Her determined look startled me awake.

The comments sighed in relief.

[Good, she’s not dead.]

[Sis, hurry—it’s already 11:57, you don’t have much time left!]

My mind spun, panic flooding in. I wasn’t done—not yet. I hurriedly looked up at the clock. Seeing the time, I instinctively crawled toward the storage closet. Every muscle screamed, but I dragged myself inch by inch. My fingernails scratched the floor, leaving tiny crescent marks.

I have to survive. I promised Mom, I would work hard to get—

My vision faded at the edges, but my hand found the closet door. With my last ounce of strength, I crawled into the closet. Let the ghosts come. Tonight, I’d survive for Mom, or I’d haunt them myself.