Chapter 2: Possessed at Midnight

Ethan was in a great mood, chatting with the back row. But I saw a faint black aura of resentment on his brow, and I stopped frowning. I stood up, pointed at Ethan, and said with disdain:

"You’re not far from death, Ethan. It’s already inside you!"

As soon as I said that, everyone in the back row looked at me. Chris slammed his desk and cursed:

"Be a man! Don’t you know loyalty? It’s just half a pack—no need to curse someone like that. With the way you act, Ethan should stub his cigarette out on your bed!"

Chris was furious, like a raging gorilla. I didn’t even bother explaining that ghost resentment was already filling Ethan’s body and putting him in danger.

Ethan and Chris had one thing in common—they were both pros at guilt-tripping.

Like Ethan: every time he saw me eating takeout, he’d ask, "Is it good?"

If I said, "Yeah, it’s good," he’d say, "Let me try!"

If I said, "Not really," he’d still say, "Let me try!"

If you got annoyed, he’d gently say, "I just want a taste, no need to get so worked up!"

No way to win.

Ethan always tried to guilt-trip me, but he got grants, pretended to be poor, freeloaded, and changed girlfriends more than anyone!

Just thinking about Ethan’s shamelessness gave me a headache. He brought this on himself. Honestly, I didn’t even want to save him.

I turned and left. As soon as I stepped out, I felt a surge of black ghost resentment rushing down the corridor toward Ethan. It was so strong, I knew he wouldn’t end well. Even after years with my granddad, I’d never seen such powerful ghost resentment. I could only watch as the silent black energy poured into Ethan.

The resentment was set—I was powerless.

We soul guides only light one cigarette at a time. For fierce ghosts, the cigarette traps them, keeping their resentment from leaking, then we slowly exorcise them. I guessed Ethan smoked several at once—and since he’s alive, the ghosts must’ve felt like it was rain after a drought. Grandpa always said, once a living person is possessed by a fierce ghost, even crucifixes can’t calm it.

That night, Ethan came back to the dorm pale as a corpse, collapsed into bed, and started muttering in his sleep. I checked his eyes—bloodshot and terrifying. Looking at him snoring above, I scratched my head in frustration. What else could I do? Forget it, I’ll sleep first and deal with it tomorrow.

In the middle of the night, violent kicking woke us up. I sat up, turned on the light, and saw Ethan shaking all over, hands clutching his neck, head swollen like a balloon, veins bulging, as if being strangled. His feet pounded the bed, thumping so loud it made the whole room jump. The others thought he was having a nightmare and slapped his face to wake him. Chris, always close to Ethan, pried open his mouth:

"Does Ethan have epilepsy? Ethan, wake up! Jackson, why are you just standing there? Check if he has any medicine by his bed!" Chris’s voice was panicked, rising with every word.

Suddenly, Ethan’s eyes snapped open. His face twisted.

He flipped over, pinned Chris down, and started choking him:

"Die! All of you must die!"

Ethan’s grip tightened around Chris’s neck. Chris’s tongue stuck out, his face twisted, skin turning dark purple. His eyes rolled back. He looked like he was about to die. The others tried to pry Ethan’s hands away, but it was useless. Watching their struggle, I sighed, formed a hand seal, and chanted:

"Wind, rain, thunder, lightning—all spirits line up before me!"

With a final shout:

"Break!"

Ethan instantly stood up like a zombie, motionless by the bed. He didn’t move.

"What are you waiting for? Call 911!"

My shout snapped the others out of it. "Okay! Okay!" they stammered, scrambling for their phones.

Ethan slumped by the wall, his nails turning black, his body going from swollen to withered. As I watched, his eyes suddenly opened, blood-red and glowing, and he grinned at me. Then his limbs bent backward, like a four-legged spider, and he clung to the ceiling. What the hell was that?

The room went dead quiet. Someone whimpered in the corner.

I gritted my teeth and barked, "You monster between heaven and hell, dare to challenge me—think I’m Hello Kitty?!"

As a soul guide, I was instantly enraged. I pulled out a soul-guiding cigarette, took two deep puffs, and blew the smoke into the air, shaping it into a spell—a swirling, silvery pattern that shimmered for a second—then with a sweep of my hands, the spell shot at Ethan on the ceiling.

"Bang!"

Ethan crashed to the floor. The roommates by Chris turned to look, seeing Ethan lying on the ground, back to normal for now.

"Is Chris awake yet?"

I quickly changed the subject. Just then, Chris on the floor gasped for air, sat up, and shouted:

"Damn, I saw my great-granddad waving at me!"

The others filled him in.

"Chris, your tongue was out, eyes rolled back—you looked like you were a goner. Ethan was terrifying, veins bulging, using all his strength to strangle you. Luckily, Jackson chanted a spell, Ethan let go and saved you."

"What? Spell?"

Chris looked at me, then at Ethan on the ground, and suddenly turned on me:

"Jackson, did you do this? Did you cast a spell or use voodoo, or drug us or something?"

He started searching me. Chris was relentless—I’d saved them, but all he heard was the word "spell."

I didn’t want to argue with someone so hostile. Seeing me silent, Chris assumed I was guilty and pointed at me, scolding:

"Admit it! Because Ethan smoked your cigarettes and I spoke up, you couldn’t blackmail us, so you tried to harm us. How can a man be so petty, scheming over nothing!"

"It’s not me, it’s the ghosts."

I looked at the furious Chris and shook my head. Ghost resentment brings out the worst in people.

I saw black handprints on Chris’s neck, took out a soul-guiding cigarette, lit it, and blew smoke into his face, letting it enter his nose and mouth. Then I dabbed some ash on his brow, ready to save him.

"Ninth-generation soul guide Jackson Grant is here, owl god appear..."

Before I could finish, Chris lunged at me:

"Why did the smoke go into me? Are you trying to hurt me? Jackson, you’re a demon!"

I couldn’t stand Chris anymore, so I stopped everything, dodged to the side, and whispered in his ear: