Chapter 1: Queen of Chaos, Daughter of Spirits

So, picture this—appearing on a reality show with my nemesis, Savannah Monroe.

To humiliate me, she flat-out tripped me—emphasis on the drama—right before I went on stage.

But she never expected that with just one little trip—

Thud.

My whole body fell apart.

I stared at my shattered limbs, and suddenly, I burst into a manic laugh. "Heh-heh-heh. Savannah, it’s payback time."

For a split second, the chaos in the room froze—honestly, you could’ve heard a pin drop. My head—still attached to my torso, at least for now—let out a laugh that echoed off the studio walls, the kind of sound you’d hear in a midnight horror flick. The cameras, the crew, Savannah’s stunned face—none of it mattered. This was my moment. I was about to make it count.

I'm the daughter of the King of Spirits—invisible and scentless since childhood. Sometimes, if I didn’t spray perfume, even my dad couldn’t find me when he was standing right next to me.

Growing up like that was weird, honestly. I could walk through a packed mall, drift right past Cinnabon, smell the sugar and butter, and not a single soul would notice me—except for the occasional cat, but they always see things people don’t. My dad used to joke I was the original ghost in the machine, which, coming from the literal King of Spirits, was either a compliment or an insult—I never figured out which.

Truth is, I could've spent eternity loafing around in the afterlife. That is, until one day, my father—who hadn’t spoken to me in two centuries—suddenly showed up.

He just materialized in my cloud of nothingness, wearing his favorite Hawaiian shirt (because of course he did—he picked up the look after haunting a resort in Maui for a decade), and started pacing around like he was about to deliver bad news. Which, obviously, he was.

He sniffed the air around me, then started sobbing and whining that the afterlife was running low on spirit energy. My two older sisters had already transformed into beauties and gone off to different corners of the living world to collect it.

He made such a show of it, clutching his handkerchief, lamenting about the spirit economy tanking, like he was the CEO of some failing start-up. My sisters, always the overachievers, had already made their mark in the living world, but apparently, it wasn’t enough.

But for the vast afterlife, the energy my sisters gathered wasn't nearly enough to meet daily demand.

According to Dad, the afterlife had started rationing Wi-Fi, replacing coffee with decaf, and even threatened to make Mondays longer. Spirits were getting restless. If things kept up, he said, even the annual Poltergeist Parade might be canceled. That got my attention.

Of course he turned to me.

He looked at me with those watery eyes, the kind only a dad can pull off when he wants something. "Lucy," he pleaded, "help your old man out."

I said yes on the spot.

Honestly, I’d been slacking off for centuries. Maybe it was time to get off my ethereal butt and do something for the family business. Besides, I missed the thrill of the living world. TikTok didn’t exist in the afterlife, and I was bored out of my mind.

I shrugged and said, “Sure, Dad. What’s the worst that could happen?” Famous last words, right?

As soon as I agreed, my father whipped out a human body from behind him.

It was like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, except way creepier. The body was fresh, looked like it belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, and was wearing a sequined tracksuit. Classic Dad—always with the flair.

He slapped the body onto my formless soul, then drop-kicked me straight into the living world.

No warning. No manual. Just a literal boot to the butt and a one-way ticket to chaos. I landed with a thud, blinking up at the harsh glow of LED lights and the faint smell of hairspray.

I've been here for three years now.

Anyway—three years of reality TV, social media scandals, and more drama than a Thanksgiving dinner at the Whitaker house. Sometimes I still miss the afterlife’s unlimited ice cream, but hey, you can’t have everything.

[u/TeaSpiller92: That laugh is so fake. Sometimes I feel like Lila Whitaker isn’t even human.]

[u/RealityCheck_101: That smile is so forced. If you can’t smile, don’t bother—it’s painful to watch.]

[u/LilaWatchdog: Wait, it’s the red carpet. Why is she pulling out a folding chair? No way, is she actually sitting down?]

[u/StanSavannah😭: God, is she nuts? Slacking off in public at the Golden Eagle Awards? Look at Savannah Monroe walking behind her—she looks furious.]

In the green room, I looked at all the negative comments about me and felt weirdly delighted.

I scrolled through the hate with a grin, sipping a Diet Coke and propping my feet up on the armrest. The more they roasted me, the more I felt like I was winning. It was a weird kind of high—one only a true chaos gremlin could appreciate.

Just now, during the live red-carpet pre-show, I walked right up to the camera, pulled out a folding chair, and started posing—yet another way to get roasted.

The camera guy almost dropped his rig, and the publicist looked like she was about to faint. I winked at the nearest reporter and kicked my heels off right in front of the step-and-repeat. Let them talk.

That’s right: in the past three years in the living world, I became a reality TV celebrity—the kind who specializes in courting disaster.

You know the type: always trending, never for the right reasons. I was the girl your mom warned you about, the one who’d show up at a charity gala in pajamas and then go viral for it. My DMs were a dumpster fire, and I loved every second.

Believe it or not, the afterlife’s spirit energy is fueled by resentment from the living world; the stronger the resentment, the more energy the afterlife gets.

Petty? Maybe. But it’s eco-friendly. My job was basically to be the human version of a Twitter feud, and the afterlife was thriving on the drama. Resentment is the new renewable energy, who knew?

But lately, as people’s lives have gotten easier, resentment has dried up.

Turns out, when folks are happy, they don’t stew in rage online. Streaming services, therapy apps, oat milk lattes—modern life was putting us out of business. Even the afterlife started running PSAs: "Please, hate responsibly."

For the sake of energy, my two sisters—one became a notorious internet troll, the other a prank vlogger—but even then, the spirit energy they collected wasn’t much.

They tried, bless their souls. My oldest sister set up a burner account and went full troll-mode, while the other pranked her way through every TikTok trend. But nice girls just don’t have the edge.

Because they’re just too nice.

Honestly, they’re like golden retrievers with WiFi. Even their meanest comments sounded like something you’d find on a Hallmark card.

My oldest sister, as a troll, only leaves comments like:

[You’re like SpongeBob—so annoying.]

[You’re a watermelon—so chubby!]

[Is your mom okay?]

She insults people like that, and not only does no one feel bad, they actually call her adorable.

Her DMs were full of people asking for advice or sending her memes. Not exactly the soul-crushing negativity we needed.

My second sister, as a prank vlogger, only steals people’s trash.

Her videos: "Watch me swap out my neighbor’s recycling bin!" or "I stole Greg’s empty pizza box—again!" The comments section? Nothing but heart emojis.

As a result, not only is she not roasted, people online even call her the “trash fairy.”

She trended for being wholesome. I mean, come on.

Only I saw the business opportunity.

Where they zigged, I zagged. The world didn’t need another wholesome influencer. It needed a villainess, and I was happy to oblige.

Be a drama-queen actress. Obviously.

I leaned into the persona: the messy, dramatic, can’t-look-away trainwreck. If there was a line, I crossed it in heels.

Young people today all want to be the strong female lead, but I go the opposite way—I just play the ditzy, pick-me girl who does nothing but dumb stuff.

I made ditzy cool again. My character was a masterclass in chaos: dumb on purpose, sweet when it suited me, and always just a little bit off.

On competitive reality shows, after dragging my teammates down, I blame them for not knowing how to play.

I’d purposely flub the easiest challenges, then look straight into the camera and say, “Guess not everyone can be a winner, huh?” The internet lost its mind.

On lifestyle shows, I sneak into male celebs’ rooms to wear their pajamas, then ask if I look cute.

I’d stroll out in plaid flannel and bunny slippers, mug for the camera, and ask, “How’s my fit?” Cue the outrage. Cue the memes.

On the red carpet, halfway through I take off my high heels, pull out a folding chair, and whine that the carpet is too long and I’m exhausted.

Security tried to move me along. I just pouted, put on sunglasses, and said, “Wake me up when we get to the good part.”

Just like that, with my constant antics, I became the most hated person online.

Mission accomplished.

And single-handedly brought the afterlife’s spirit energy back to its peak.

Dad sent me a congratulatory fruit basket—ghost apples, of course. The afterlife was partying like it was 1999 again, all thanks to me.

"Lila, are you out of your mind? I admit, the bad-girl routine worked at first, but now you’re famous enough. It’s time to clean up your image! Do you even know what that means?"

My agent, Aunt Karen, stormed into the green room and plopped down in front of me, fuming.

She had that look—the one she used when I snuck out of her house at sixteen to crash a frat party. Her lipstick was crooked, her heels were in her hand, and her patience was gone.

I sat up from the couch and muttered under my breath:

"Clean up my image? What’ll happen to the spirit energy if I do that?"

I tried to sound casual, but my eyes flicked to the spirit meter app on my phone. The numbers were still climbing. I needed that resentment like a plant needs sunlight.

"What are you mumbling about? Look at Savannah Monroe—she was just as controversial as you, but now she’s America’s sweetheart."

Aunt Karen pointed at her phone, pulling up Savannah’s latest People cover. Savannah, all dewy-eyed and wholesome, holding a puppy. Gag.

"By the way, I got you onto that hot new live reality show. Filming starts next Monday. Get your act together and try to clean up your image."