Chapter 5: The Actress Who Died Twice

Don’t take every job just for the money!

Sometimes, a paycheck isn’t worth your soul.

Who knows, tomorrow you might see me possessed by a female ghost.

I tried to laugh, but the sound was hollow. The possibility was all too real.

"My rosary beads can help prevent possession, but they’ve been with me since I was a kid—they’re kind of bonded to me. If anyone else wears them, it could backfire."

He held up the beads, the golden light flickering. I reached out, but he gently pulled them back.

Julian changed the subject. "So from now on, stick with me. With the beads, the ghosts won’t come near you."

He smiled, reassuring. I nodded, feeling a little better.

"But, I…" Oh no. Maybe because I’m too nervous, I really need to use the bathroom.

I squirmed, embarrassed. Of all the times for biology to kick in.

Julian saw right through me: "Need to use the bathroom?"

His lips twitched, trying not to laugh. I nodded, mortified.

"Yes." I nodded helplessly. I needed to pee.

The tension broke, just a little. He stood, grabbing a small charm from his bag.

"Wait, I’ll get you a charm." Julian took a charm from his pocket and stuck it on my forehead.

The paper felt cool, the ink tingling against my skin. I tried not to look ridiculous.

"With this on your forehead, ghosts won’t come near. Be quick." Julian lit a candle and led me to the bathroom door.

His voice was gentle, but firm. I clung to the candle like a lifeline.

We were in the master suite, which had its own bathroom.

The room was spacious, the tiles cold under my feet. The mirror was streaked, the air heavy with the scent of old perfume.

He handed me the candle: "I’ll wait outside."

He leaned against the door, arms crossed. I nodded, grateful for the privacy.

"Okay." I took the candle in.

The flame flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls. I tried not to look in the mirror.

The bathroom was fairly clean, but there was a lingering smell of blood.

It clung to the air, metallic and sharp. I tried to ignore it, focusing on the task at hand.

Maybe it was just my imagination.

I’d watched too many horror movies. Still, I hurried.

The window wasn’t fully closed, leaving a gap.

A draft snuck in, making the candle flame dance. I shivered, pulling my sweater tighter.

I just wanted to finish quickly, not daring to close it.

No way was I turning my back on that window. I kept one eye on it the whole time.

I set the candle on the sink and got started.

My hands shook, the candlelight casting eerie shapes on the walls. I tried to move quickly, heart pounding.

As I stood up, a cold wind blew in, snuffing out the candle and blowing off the charm.

The room plunged into darkness. I froze, panic rising. The charm fluttered to the floor, landing at my feet.

I felt a chill on my neck, like something was right behind me. My scalp tingled, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I could feel a presence, cold breath on my skin. My knees locked, fear rooting me in place.

My mind went blank. I stood there as if my body wasn’t mine.

Time seemed to stretch, every second an eternity. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Until Julian knocked: "Savannah, are you done?"

His voice cut through the fog, snapping me back to reality. I gasped, stumbling toward the door.

I snapped out of it, grabbed the handle, and rushed out.

I nearly collided with him, my breath coming in ragged gasps. He caught me, concern etched on his face.

Julian grabbed my hand: "Are you alright? Why did the candle go out?"

His eyes searched mine, worry clear. I forced a shaky smile.

I instinctively pulled my hand away: "I’m fine, the wind blew it out."

I tried to sound casual, but my voice trembled. He didn’t press, just nodded.

I walked to the bed. Julian followed.

The room felt safer with him close. I crawled under the covers, pulling them up to my chin.

We got under the covers. By the moonlight, he saw the charm was gone from my forehead.

He frowned, reaching out to brush my hair aside. His touch was gentle, reassuring.

He asked worriedly, "Are you sure you’re okay?"

His tone was soft, but insistent. I nodded, trying to convince myself as much as him.

"Really, I’m just a bit sleepy. I’m going to sleep now." My head was fuzzy, I just wanted to sleep, not as scared anymore.

The exhaustion hit me all at once, dragging me under. I closed my eyes, letting sleep take me.

I quickly fell asleep and had a bizarre dream.

It was vivid, more real than any dream I’d ever had. The colors were brighter, the sounds sharper. I knew, deep down, that something important was about to happen.

In the dream, I had a different identity. My name was Mariah Ellis, once a famous actress.

The world felt familiar, but different. I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger’s face—beautiful, haunted.

I had a sugar daddy named Charles Benson.

He was powerful, dangerous. The kind of man who could make or break careers with a single phone call. I felt trapped, suffocated by his presence.

He kept me in this mansion like a canary in a gilded cage, investing in my films, making me a top actress, and laundering dirty money through me.

Every corner of the house felt tainted, stained with secrets. I wanted out, but the walls closed in, keeping me prisoner.

Our lives—and our secrets—were hopelessly tangled.

I couldn’t leave, not without risking everything—my career, my family, my life.

That night, I returned from filming, and Mr. Benson was waiting in the living room.

He sat in the shadows, cigarette smoke curling around him. His eyes were cold, calculating.

He threw a stack of photos on the table and raised an eyebrow: "Mariah, after all I’ve invested in you, you go date another actor?"

The photos spilled across the table, faces frozen in time. My heart pounded as I recognized myself, arm in arm with Gabriel Scott.

The photos showed me and actor Gabriel Scott together.

We looked happy, carefree. I remembered the way he made me laugh, the hope he gave me. Now, it all felt like a distant dream.

Recently, we’d been working on a movie, and he was pursuing me. I was tempted.

He was kind, gentle—a stark contrast to Mr. Benson’s cruelty. For a moment, I thought I could escape.

I didn’t expect Mr. Benson to find out so quickly.

He always did. There was no hiding from him. My hands shook as I faced him.

I took a deep breath: "Mr. Benson, I’ve been with you for years, made you a lot of money. You have a family. I don’t want this relationship anymore. Can we end it?"

My voice was steady, but my heart raced. I prayed he’d let me go, just this once.

Mr. Benson sneered: "End it? I’m not tired yet. What right do you have to end it?"

His words were cold, final. I felt the walls close in, my hope slipping away.

"But I’m tired. A woman’s youth is short. I want stability, not to be your canary anymore. You can find someone younger and prettier."

I tried to appeal to his vanity, hoping he’d move on. My voice trembled, but I held his gaze.

He lit a cigarette, glanced at my sister Melanie eavesdropping on the spiral stairs, and said meaningfully, "Your sister is indeed younger and prettier."

His eyes lingered on her, and my blood ran cold. I rushed to protect her, fear overriding everything else.

My heart jumped. I quickly waved at my sister: "Melanie, go back to your room, don’t come out."

She hesitated, glancing between us. I pleaded with my eyes, desperate to keep her safe.

"Oh, okay." Melanie obediently went upstairs.

Her footsteps echoed on the stairs, fading into silence. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

Melanie was my real sister, three years younger, and looked a lot like me.

She was my only family in the city, my confidante. I’d always tried to protect her, but now I wondered if I could.

After graduating college, she came to my city for work and stayed with me.

We shared everything—clothes, secrets, dreams. I never imagined she’d become part of this nightmare.

I lived on the second floor, she on the third. Whenever Mr. Benson came, I told her to stay upstairs.

It was the only way I could keep her out of his reach, or so I thought.

Mr. Benson was a monster, plain and simple.

That was putting it mildly. He was a monster, hiding behind a mask of charm and power.

I turned to him: "There are plenty of girls younger and prettier than my sister. Please let us go."

My voice was desperate, pleading. I’d do anything to protect Melanie.

He was calmer than I expected: "You know my taste. I like your type. If you won’t be my lover anymore, let your sister do it."

His words were a knife, twisting in my gut. I fought back tears, refusing to let him see me break.

He stubbed out his cigarette and headed upstairs.

Panic surged. I lunged for him, but he brushed me aside like I was nothing.

I chased after him but was blocked by his two bodyguards, Roy and Steve.

They were loyal to him, their faces blank. I begged, but they didn’t move.

I pushed past them and hugged Mr. Benson’s leg: "Please, don’t touch my sister. I take back what I said."

I was on my knees, dignity forgotten. I’d do anything to save Melanie.

He kicked me away: "Too late, Mariah. This is your punishment for betrayal."

His eyes were cold, merciless. I hit the floor, pain radiating through my body.

The bodyguards pinned me down. I saw Mr. Benson drag my sister by her hair into the master bedroom—my room.

Her screams echoed down the hall, each one a dagger to my heart. I fought, but the guards held me fast.

I heard Melanie scream: "Sis, help me!"

Her voice broke, raw with terror. I sobbed, helpless.

"Mr. Benson, please, I was wrong, I won’t dare again, let Melanie go…" I begged.

My voice cracked, but he ignored me, slamming the door in my face.

The sound echoed in my ears, final and unforgiving. I collapsed, sobbing.

I tried to save Melanie but was beaten and tied to a chair.

My wrists burned, ropes digging into my skin. I struggled, but it was useless.

Normally, Roy and Steve wouldn’t dare touch me. They must have had Mr. Benson’s orders.

Their faces were blank, eyes cold. I realized then how truly alone I was.

From the master bedroom came Melanie’s sobs. My heart bled with guilt.

I wanted to tear down the door, to save her. But I was powerless, trapped.

Sorry, Melanie, I hurt you.

The guilt was overwhelming, crushing me. I wept, praying for forgiveness.

Half an hour later, Mr. Benson came out.

He looked satisfied, adjusting his cuffs. I glared at him, hatred burning in my chest.

He stood on the second-floor corridor, straightening his sleeves, eyes full of amusement and revenge.

He looked down at me, a cruel smile playing on his lips. I wanted to scream, to claw his eyes out.

He was a devil.

There was no other word for it. He thrived on our pain.

He came downstairs, grabbed my chin: "Your sister is more to my taste. From now on, she’s the mistress of this mansion. As for you, even if I tire of you, don’t dream of finding another man."

His grip was bruising, his breath foul. I jerked away, tears streaming down my face.

I cried: "Mr. Benson, what will it take to let us go?"

I was desperate, willing to bargain with the devil himself.

"I’m the rule maker. Only I can end this game, and when depends on my mood." He left the mansion.

His laughter echoed down the hall, leaving me in darkness. I slumped, defeated.

I went to see Melanie in the bedroom. She was disheveled, crying.

Her face was red, eyes swollen. I hugged her, guilt and love warring inside me.

At that moment, my guilt peaked.

I realized how badly I’d failed her. I vowed to make it right, somehow.

I hugged her: "Sorry, Melanie, it’s my fault."

We cried together, clinging to each other in the darkness. For a moment, we were just sisters again.

The next day, I wore sunglasses and a mask to the set.

I couldn’t let anyone see the bruises, the shame. I pasted on a smile, pretending everything was fine.

The makeup artist saw the scar on my face and asked what happened.

She was gentle, her hands soft as she dabbed concealer on my cheek. I lied, because the truth was too ugly.

I told her it was nothing, asked her to cover it up so it wouldn’t affect filming.

She nodded, sympathy in her eyes. I looked away, ashamed.

This scene was with the second male lead, Gabriel Scott. During filming, he noticed my injuries: "Mariah, who hurt you? Tell me, I’ll get justice."

His voice was fierce, protective. For a moment, I wanted to tell him everything.

"I accidentally hurt myself, don’t worry." I avoided the topic.

I forced a laugh, brushing him off. He frowned, but didn’t push.

I didn’t want Gabriel to know I had a sugar daddy, or about my troubles.

I couldn’t drag him into my mess. It was safer this way.

That day, I was off, so the director let me rest.

I went home early, hoping for a few hours of peace. But peace was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

When I returned, Gabriel had been kicked off the set.