Chapter 5: The Living and the Dead

"Summoning souls—questioning spirits!"

I shook the bell, walking around the spot with the worst energy in the house.

"By ancestral command, with angels at my side, I call the spirits from afar—show yourselves!"

I closed my eyes, shutting out the world.

Noise filled my ears—mostly children’s laughter, sharp and piercing, sometimes close, sometimes distant.

"Who comes?"

"Riley Quinn, 136th generation of the Silver Hollow Occult Society."

"What do you want? Why block us?"

"To ask Mason Blackwell about cause and effect."

After that, the wind howled, the laughter grew wild.

"The Blackwell family deserves death!"

"Which of them is innocent!"

...

The world spun, my bell shaking violently.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital delivery room.

A woman on the table panted, gripping the rails, in labor.

"Mrs. Blackwell, stop screaming, push!"

Doctors and nurses hovered, faces grim.

I was invisible, a ghost in the past.

This was over twenty years ago—Mrs. Blackwell’s first difficult labor, an all-night ordeal.

I thought she’d get love and sympathy after surviving, but I was wrong.

When Old Mrs. Blackwell heard it was a girl, her face fell. "A girl! The psychic said it was a boy! You must have switched my grandson!

"Give me back my grandson! Did you swap him?"

Mr. Blackwell, seeing his wife wheeled out, barely looked at her.

"I have a meeting. I’m leaving."

Mrs. Blackwell, half-conscious, reached for him. "James..."

"You dare call me! Useless woman!" Old Mrs. Blackwell rapped her hand with a cane.

I bit my lip, eyes full of pity.

Who would have thought—the glamorous Mrs. Blackwell was nothing more than a brood mare to the family.

She named her baby girl herself.

Her first time as a mom—she was disappointed, but still loved her.

The Blackwells didn’t hire a nurse, so she did everything herself.

"Sweetie, sweetie."

Soon, Mrs. Blackwell’s family arrived—a big group.

I thought they’d be on her side. Wrong again.

The loud old lady was her mother.

"Oh, you only had a girl? As the Blackwell daughter-in-law, can’t you do better!"

Mrs. Blackwell hushed her crying daughter and pleaded, "Mom, please, I just got her to sleep."

Her mother looked at her, disappointed.

"If you can’t give them a boy, the Blackwells won’t help us. Your uncles and aunts are your real family, so don’t be selfish!"

The others piled on:

"Yeah, Emma, you had a girl and the Blackwells don’t even visit. In the end, it’s us."

"If you don’t win James’s heart, plenty of women want his bed."

That was the last straw.

After they left, I saw her mother secretly hand her a slip of paper. "Before your wedding, a psychic said you were doomed to be childless."

Mrs. Blackwell was shocked.

"Don’t worry, I got you a fix. It’s cruel, but to keep the Blackwells’ favor, you have no choice."

She glanced at it and recoiled. "Mom! No!"

Her mother glared. "While you’re recovering, your mother-in-law’s having tea with the country club ladies."

The new mom nearly collapsed, pale and lost.

In those days, son preference was strong, especially in old-money families. (If you think this is old-school, trust me, it still happens in some places.)

I guessed the fix was some kind of forbidden ritual.

Desperate, Mrs. Blackwell turned on her daughter. I burned with anger and helplessness.

The next year, she got pregnant again—another girl.

She died "unexpectedly" at one month old.

Her third pregnancy was twins. Seeing her twin daughters, she broke down in tears, regret finally catching up to her.

She told her mother-in-law she was done.

But things weren’t that simple.

Sure enough, when the twins learned to walk, Mrs. Blackwell caught Mr. Blackwell’s mistress in a nearby condo.

They’d been together a long time, and seeing the mistress’s pregnant belly, she lost it.

She muttered, "Why is everyone but me happy?"

I sighed.

Even if she turned back, there was no escape.

She killed her two daughters at their graves, then killed the pregnant mistress.

The mistress’s unborn child was also a girl.

Five baby girls—she took their bones, burned them for 49 days, made a ritual broth, and drank it.

The next year, Mrs. Blackwell finally had a boy, delivered safely—Mason.

When Mason was ten, he was cursed, nearly died.

Mrs. Blackwell’s mother found another fix—a forbidden ritual.

The occultist who performed it wore a black robe and silver mask. I couldn’t see his face or use any magic.

They dug up the baby girls’ bones, took their hands, feet, skulls, ground them…

Cruel magic—I’d never seen anything like it.

The bell rang, the rooster crowed.

I snapped back to the present.

Mason looked at me, nervous. "Ms. Quinn, what happened?"

I avoided his hand, stood firm, my eyes conflicted.

"Mason."

"Where’s your family plot?"

He gave me the address, asking why.

I sighed, "When the time comes, pay your respects."

Mrs. Blackwell had been unwell, refusing to stay in the hospital.

Because she was scared.

Hearing I was summoning spirits, she rushed over.

I greeted her, "Mrs. Blackwell."

"Ms. Quinn, did it work?"

She was nervous—probably just realized I had real skills.

I smiled, "Not bad. So, will you confess, or go to the police?"

Mrs. Blackwell forced a smile.

"What are you talking about? I don’t understand."

Mason echoed, "Yeah, what’s going on?"

I tilted my head, cold smile, pointing at the mansion.

"If I’m right, the mother and daughter’s bodies are buried underneath, aren’t they?"

Big news in the state—the missing persons case from over twenty years ago was solved.

Mr. Blackwell arrived that night, crossed the police tape, and went pale at the unearthed bones. Seeing his wife, he didn’t dare approach.

"You’re terrifying."

"James Blackwell! You’re the last person who can say that!" Mrs. Blackwell, handcuffed, eyes red.

"I wanted her buried here, to watch my son live in glory!

"Living on her bones!

"Hahahaha!"

Mason was in shock, frozen.

I didn’t want to meddle in the Blackwell family’s mess, but the spirits in the mansion had to be dealt with.

Because when the bones were dug up, I felt the energy shift.

Mr. Blackwell’s mistress had become a vengeful ghost.

"Mason, I need you to do something."

He was in bad shape. If the vengeful ghost and spirit infants weren’t dealt with tonight, after the seventh day, he’d never wake up.

Midnight.

Mason pushed open the door, took one step, and froze.

A woman in a dress—couldn’t tell if it was white or red—stood in the living room, head bowed, hair dragging on the floor, feet with no shadow.

Mason tried to bolt, but I stopped him with a whisper spell.

"Young man, since you’re here, don’t run."

He turned pale, looked back.

Five little girls had appeared behind him, blood streaming from their eyes and mouths, eyes black and empty, staring at him.

They grinned, drooling.

"Ahhh! Ghosts! Stay away!"

The spirit infants teased him like a toy, clapping and giggling as they chased him.

I told him to stay calm.

Mason ran around the mansion in a panic. "All ghosts! If I don’t run, they’ll kill me!"

"What are you scared of? You’ve got a protection charm."

"If you make the vengeful ghost mad—"

"Ms. Quinn," Mason’s voice shook, "it’s too late."

He opened his eyes wide as the previously limp ghost suddenly snapped upright, raising her head, tilting it to look at him.

"Finally found you.

"She killed me and my daughter, so I’ll take your life, hahaha!"

I shouted, "Draw her out!"

Mason followed my plan, jumped out the window, running for his life.

The vengeful ghost was fast, hair flying, fingers like claws.

"Ms. Quinn, help!"

Mason, exhausted, dropped to his knees, eyes squeezed shut in despair.

The smell of rot closed in, the ghost grinning, face twisted.

The soul trap was ready!

I kicked up my maple baton, slapped on a yellow charm, and shouted: "...Banish evil, subdue monsters, strike down vengeful spirits, leave no restless soul. By the power of Saint Michael, let it be done!"

The baton spun in the air, glowing gold, charging with holy power.

The ghost was about to laugh, but the next second, everyone heard a whoosh.

The baton, like a bolt of lightning, shot straight for her head.

The ghost sensed danger, tried to flee.

"Where you going?" I sneered, freezing her with a binding spell.

"Damn witch! Let me go! I’ll kill you! You’ll die horribly!

"Die horribly!

"No!"

I activated the trap, hands flying in complex signs: "Strike!"

The ghost was stabbed through the head by the baton, shrieking, then turning to ash.

The baton dropped, the ghost gone, silence falling.

It was the wildest thing Mason had ever seen—he just gaped at me, speechless.

I exhaled, sitting down to catch my breath.

"Wait, Ms. Quinn, there are still a few girl ghosts in there. Can you help them too?"

I frowned. "Sorry, I can’t.

"I had a reason for taking care of the vengeful ghost.

"She was your father’s mistress twenty years ago. She knew your dad was married but still schemed to get pregnant, deliberately let your mom find out, pushing her over the edge.

"On the surface, your mom poisoned her, but actually, the poison was meant for your mom.

"Vengeful ghosts can’t be saved. If you don’t stop them, they’ll destroy everything."

Mason mumbled, "So if my mom hadn’t acted first, she’d have died? So my mom’s innocent!"

I didn’t nod.

Nobody here is innocent.

The only innocents were the five girls who died for nothing.

"Mason, four of them are your full sisters, one is your half-sister.

"Your life was borrowed from them."

He stiffened, gave a bitter laugh. "Ms. Quinn, what are you talking about? Are you possessed?"

I shook my head, serious.

"I’m telling the truth.

"Your name wasn’t in the Book of Life. Your mom used forbidden magic, with five baby girls, to bring you here.

"You should’ve died at ten, but your mom used dark magic again, dug up their bones, ground them to dust.

"Why could you see things others couldn’t?

"Because you don’t belong in the world of the living—you were forced to stay."

The ritual was supposed to be unsolvable, but after Mason fell in the river and got hurt, the spirits finally found their chance.

Mason was stunned, disbelief written all over his face.

He looked like he’d just been punched in the gut by a truth he never asked for.

"How could this be..."

I remembered what I saw during the summoning, heart heavy.

He was silent, body cold as ice, fists clenched, shaking.

He found it absurd.

How could such things exist in this world?

Even he... even his own birth was a crime.

But he didn’t know who to blame, or if he even had the right.

For the first time, he hated himself.

He walked slowly toward the mansion, his thin figure radiating loneliness.

Near the door, he heard sinister laughter inside.

The voices he’d always feared now tore him apart.

He knelt, hunched over, head bowed.

After a while, tears streamed down.

"I’m sorry..."

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry..."

"I really didn’t know..."

With every word, he banged his head on the floor, hard.

The house echoed with the sound, each thud heavy with regret and old pain. Sometimes, the worst hauntings are the ones you carry inside.

- The End -