Chapter 8: Welcome to Being My Offering

"No, you come with me—hide at my place for a couple days. That female ghost will come for you. If you can’t explain yourself next time, you’ll die by her hand."

Fake Rick’s voice was urgent, eyes darting, lips thin. He sounded just like Rick, but the edge was wrong—too sharp, too eager.

Rick was pacing anxiously.

His boots left muddy prints on the tile. He wrung his hands, agitated, like he was barely holding it together.

I felt my pocket—luckily I still had two protective charms.

I thumbed the old paper talismans my grandma used to tape above the door—just in case. They were worn, but I clung to them like a lifeline.

I quietly took one out and slapped it onto Rick’s face. He was stunned, and before I could recite a prayer, he tore it off.

For a moment, his face twisted, shifting between anger and fear. He glared, then yanked the charm away with an unnatural snarl.

He looked at the charm, then at me, eyes wide, and then, like melting ice cream, he gradually faded away before my eyes.

His features blurred, then dissolved. I watched in horror as he vanished, leaving the air cold and thick with dread.

When "Rick" disappeared, a note was left on the ground.

It fluttered down, yellowed and creased, landing at my feet with a soft whisper.

I picked it up and opened it. It read: "Welcome to being my offering."

The handwriting crawled across the page, spidery and black. I dropped it like it burned.

A chill shot through my fingers and I jumped in fright. Instinctively, I threw the note away, bit my index finger, and quickly drew a protective sign in the air, pushing it out with all my strength.

The old ritual came back to me—draw, press, breathe. My heart hammered as the sign glowed for a brief second, then faded.

This was the only charm my mentor had taught me when I started learning tattoos. She said every master in our line must teach their apprentice a life-saving move. This is the last resort—unless it’s absolutely necessary, never use it. Use it too often, and it won’t save you anymore.

I remembered her voice, soft but firm: "Save it for when it matters, Sam."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Something shattered.

The windows rattled, lightbulbs flickered, and something unseen crashed in the back room. My heart leapt into my throat.

All the illusions vanished. I looked around—I was still in my shop’s main hall. I hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

My breath came in ragged gasps. The neon sign outside buzzed. For a second, I wondered if I’d finally lost my mind.

Damn, I’d been cursed and hadn’t even realized when it happened.

I muttered a shaky prayer, clutching my lucky coin. My grandma always said, "When in doubt, pray harder."

"Hehehe... heehee..."

The laughter started as a whisper, then grew, echoing around the room. It was the sound of a dozen voices, all mocking, all inhuman.

A series of eerie laughs echoed in my ears, as if several people were laughing at once.

They danced in the shadows—faces half-glimpsed, flickering in and out of existence. I shut my eyes, willing it to stop.

A few pale faces flashed past the door and disappeared.

I glimpsed Lillian’s twisted smile, Eli’s cold stare, strangers with empty eyes. They slipped past like ghosts in the morning fog.

At that moment, a sliver of dawn appeared on the horizon. The sun was about to rise.

The first golden light crept through the blinds, chasing the darkness into corners. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, letting the warmth chase away the chill.

But as the sun crept over the horizon, I knew the night wasn’t done with me yet.