Chapter 1: Cigarettes for the Dead

I have a bizarre roommate. He freeloads off my food, my drinks—even my sneakers. But it wasn’t until he secretly smoked my cigarettes that I totally lost my cool. I lost it, shouting, but he just brushed me off, acting like I was blowing things out of proportion. What he didn’t know was that those weren’t ordinary smokes—they were soul-guiding cigarettes, the kind you only hear about in old ghost stories. One cigarette summons a soul, two call a ghost, and if you light three, not even the Devil himself can save you. And this guy—he smoked half a pack.

I swear, if there’s a Hall of Fame for freeloaders, Ethan would have his own wing. The dude would use up my coffee, my cologne, even my phone charger, and act like he was doing me a favor. The nerve. Seriously. But this time—this time was different. I kept those Lucky Strikes for a reason, and he just went and helped himself.

"Ethan Miles, did you smoke the cigarettes I left by my bed?" In the dorm, I couldn’t help but turn to Ethan, who was lounging on the top bunk—I’d just torn my bed apart looking for them.

The room still smelled faintly of fried chicken and cheap cologne. Ethan rolled over lazily, one arm dangling off the side. He didn’t even bother to sit up. "Why would I smoke your cigarettes? You don’t keep track of your own stuff and then blame me?" He turned away, coolly pulled out a pack of Marlboros, and took a drag.

I glanced at the trash bag by his bed and saw my cigarette pack peeking out. I grabbed it and spread out the pack in front of him. Everyone went quiet. The other roommates all turned to look. Seeing he couldn’t hide it anymore, Ethan scratched his head and tried to play it off:

His face turned a couple shades of red. Then he just shrugged, trying to play it off. "I saw you weren’t smoking, and there was half a pack of Lucky Strikes by your bed, so I took them. Cigarettes go stale if you leave them too long—would’ve been a waste, right?"

He didn’t sound nearly as confident now. His voice was barely above a mumble.

He was fidgeting, his eyes darting to the side like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Classic Ethan.

"We’re just small-town guys, man. We never get to smoke the good stuff. We’re all under one roof, you don’t mind, do you?"

The other roommates were also from rural towns. When they heard that, I saw a flash of sympathy in their eyes. Chris Parker, another roommate, was the first to stick up for him:

Chris always had a way of siding with whoever was loudest. "Jackson, let it go! Ethan just wanted to try Lucky Strikes. You don’t even smoke. Why let good things go to waste?"

With Chris backing him up, everyone else jumped in too:

"I never even saw Lucky Strikes before college, let alone smoked them. It was already open. Why be so serious?"

I sighed. Might as well be clear. I shouted at Ethan:

"You wear my sneakers, drink my sodas, eat my takeout—I never said a word. But I hid this pack of cigarettes for a reason!"

My voice echoed off the cinderblock walls—not just from anger. There was a knot of worry in my gut. Those cigarettes weren’t for the living, but for the dead—to appease spirits. But here’s the thing: I am a soul guide.

Since old times, people only knew about the Four Grand Exorcists—like the ghostbusters of old legends—not realizing there were soul guides just as important. There’s an old saying: "Six paths of the afterlife." The Exorcists oversee the three good paths: angels, humans, and guardians. Soul guides handle the three evil paths: hell, hungry ghosts, and beasts. I’m a ninth-generation soul guide.

Most folks would laugh if I told them. But in my family, it’s as normal as Sunday service. He taught me everything. The old ways, the rituals, the dangers... all the things most people never see.

He might be a pain, but he was still my classmate. I couldn’t just watch him get into trouble. While I was worrying about how to fix the mess he’d made, Ethan spoke up:

"If it really matters, I’ll pay you back. No need to shout like I owe you a million bucks."

He said it with a smirk. But I caught a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

He actually admitted it. I started to relax.

"Since you say so—"

Before I could finish, Ethan cut me off, mocking:

"But half a pack can’t be replaced. I’m not giving you a whole box. Besides, they tasted weird, not as good as my Marlboros—maybe they were stale. But don’t worry, if anything happens, I won’t blame you. Roommates, right? I’m loyal like that."

That was it. Sympathy gone.

He used my stuff without permission, and when I tried to let him off, he mocked me. Like they say, kindness gets mistaken for weakness.

Before I could say anything, Chris jumped in, sarcastic:

"Half a pack and you want a whole box? That’s ridiculous. That half pack was just sitting by your bed—if it fell on the floor, no one would even pick it up. Who smokes random cigarettes? And you want Ethan to pay a whole box? Why not ask for a whole carton!"

Chris raised his voice, trying to rile everyone up. Sure enough, a few clueless roommates joined in:

"Yeah! Who does that? Half a pack for a whole box? That’s just taking advantage."

"Fine! Keep twisting things, I can’t be bothered!"

I didn’t look back. Just stormed out.

I slammed the door behind me, letting the echo carry my frustration down the hall. Sometimes, you just have to get out before you say something you’ll regret.

Ethan, I tried to let you off easy. But you just had to walk into the devil’s den. You caused trouble and refuse to make amends—truly asking for it.

In class, the professor was reading out the list of financial aid grants. I saw Ethan grinning, so I knew he’d made the list again. The back row was buzzing. I turned. A few classmates were whispering behind me:

"I heard Jackson wants Ethan to pay a whole carton for half a pack. That’s a setup. Jackson never smokes—maybe he stole the cigarettes himself?"

"Who leaves opened cigarettes by their bed? He did it on purpose. Half a pack for a whole carton, that’s so shady!"

"We always share cigarettes in the dorm, and he acts like this over half a pack!"

"I heard it was Lucky Strikes. His family is rich, not like us from small towns, relying on grants for tuition."

Figures. Ethan must’ve complained first.

Not far away, Ethan was putting on a show.

"Who spread this? I did smoke the cigarettes, it was my fault. Lucky Strikes aren’t for people like us. If Jackson really insists, I’ll pay."

He even made himself look like the victim. Classic.

Watching his performance, I almost lost it. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched Ethan play dumb.

When I got into college, my parents bought me the latest Air Jordans as a reward. I cherished them, barely wore them. One day, while I was out, Ethan wore them to play basketball without asking. When I got back, they reeked of sweat, the soles were worn, the uppers filthy. I just stared. My heart actually hurt.

Ethan strolled in. I threw the shoes at him and asked why he used them without permission. He acted like it was nothing, saying he was in a hurry, just grabbed a pair from under the bed, and that shoes don’t get ruined that easy. He didn’t apologize, and even accused me of looking down on rural roommates, then got everyone else riled up too. Chris agreed, saying I should be more generous as a man! Watching them echo each other, I really wanted to slap them with the shoes. I swear.

Every time I remembered these things, I couldn’t help but loathe Ethan. It was like finding a cockroach in your mac and cheese—you can’t eat it, can’t spit it out, and you just feel sick.