SPECTRAL.

† T W E N T Y T W O †

     He glanced toward the silent row of ghosts, his posture utterly unshaken by their presence. I followed his gaze, and together we regarded the dead—motionless, expressionless, but there. Always there.

     "You can really see them," I whispered, still half in disbelief.

     "We can." His smile deepened, though faintly. "And so can you. That makes us more alike than you might think."

     There was something strange in the way he said us. Something plural, deliberate. It struck me, unsettling but oddly familiar.

     "Who… are you?" I asked.

     "Pete," he said simply, extending his hand as if we were meeting under ordinary circumstances. "Pete. And we are not like the others."

     The phrasing tightened something inside me. I thought of Bella, the way she had revealed herself to be both human and demon, and my throat went dry.

     "You're… a demon," I said cautiously, the word dragging itself out like it weighed a hundred pounds.

     He didn't flinch. Instead, his smile turned almost amused, though a flicker of shadow passed behind his eyes. "So you can tell. Interesting. Most humans can't distinguish between us. That means," he leaned in slightly, "you must be one of us."

     "I'm not one of you," I shot back instinctively, the denial spilling from me before I could temper it.

     Pete's expression didn't falter. He only nodded, as if he had expected my rejection. "It's alright. Denial is often the first step. You'll come to terms with it when you're ready."

     I turned away from him for a moment, my eyes catching on the ghosts again. Their faces struck me differently this time. They didn't seem monstrous. They weren't snarling or clawing or dripping in grotesque decay. No, their expressions were heavier than that—sorrowful, broken, fragmented by a sadness so profound it seemed to seep into the air around them. They looked lost, yes, but also burdened by something deeper, rage buried under grief, vengeance beneath despair. They were more tragic than terrifying.

     "Why don't they follow me?" I asked, still staring at their still forms. My voice came out low, almost to myself. "Why don't they torment me like they should?"

     Pete's tone shifted, soft but deliberate. "Because they see you as one of them. They don't chase what they already recognize."

     His words sent a cold tremor down my spine. One of them? My throat tightened, but my eyes stayed on the ghosts. The longer I looked, the more I felt it, their sadness, their weight pressing silently against the night.

     "How did they die?" I murmured, almost without realizing I'd spoken aloud. "Did they all jump?"

     Pete's head snapped toward me, his brows furrowed. "How do you know about that?"

     I turned back to him, meeting his stare. "I did some research," I admitted. "About the women… the ones who threw themselves from the building."

     Something shifted in his expression. The casual calm faltered, replaced by a shadow of seriousness. He studied me for a long moment before speaking again.

     "Then you must know about her. The one even the dead fear. The ghost of vengeance."

     My heart skipped. "Who are you talking about?"

     He lowered his voice, each word weighted with gravity. "The ghost of death. A spirit that doesn't just haunt, but consumes. She feeds on sorrow, vengeance, rage, sadness—all at once. She devours the lives of women, twisting them into echoes of herself."

     My mind flashed instantly to her, the ghost in the mirror. That chilling face, those eyes that seemed to know me. A dreadful curiosity filled me, and before I could stop myself, the question escaped.

     "What do you know about the ghost in the mirror?"

     Pete's gaze locked onto mine, holding it with unnerving intensity. He didn't answer right away, and the silence stretched until it grew unbearable.

     "Why are you staring at me like that?" I finally asked, uneasy.

     He leaned closer, his eyes unblinking. "Tell me you haven't looked into her face."

     I swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

     His expression shifted, concern flickering across it. "And you didn't… speak to her, did you?"

     A chill slid down my spine. "Why are you asking me this?"

     "Because it would be best if you hadn't." His voice carried a warning, sharp and edged.

     "You know her, don't you?" I pressed.

     Pete's jaw clenched. "That spirit has been here for decades. Since the 1980s, she's taken souls. And she won't stop. If you speak to her after seeing her face, you invite her in. And once she's in, there are consequences you can't escape."

     My throat felt dry. "How… did she come to exist?"

     "That," Pete said darkly, "is a mystery no one has solved."

     "So she's always been taking souls?"

     "Yes." His gaze dropped, almost reluctantly. "And the one she's taken now, the one wearing her shadow, is named Laura. Laura Haskins. She was a cheerleader at Oregon University once. Bright. Ambitious. Too alive for this world, maybe. She had dark hair that caught the sun when she danced, and a laugh that could break tension in any room. She was loved by many, envied by some. And then, one day… she vanished into the silence of the mirror."

     I stared at him, stunned by the detail in his words. "How do you know so much about her?"

     He went quiet, his jaw tightening. Seconds stretched. Then finally, he spoke, his voice breaking ever so slightly.

     "Because Laura was our daughter."

     The weight of his words slammed into me, dizzying. I staggered under the realization. Laura—this spirit of vengeance, this devourer of souls—had once been his child. And here he stood before me, a man who was no longer fully human himself. It felt grotesquely ironic, as though fate had orchestrated this meeting to mock both of us.

     "How?" I asked, my voice trembling. "How did it happen? How did she die—and how did you become… what you are?"

     His lips parted, but before he could answer, I heard my name.

     "Summer!"

     I turned. McKayla was across the courtyard, waving with her usual bright smile, beckoning me toward her like none of the world's shadows existed.

     When I looked back at Pete, he had already stepped away. "We'll take our leave," he said quietly.

     A surprising pang hit me—regret. I had spent so long running from human-demons, branding them as dangerous, other, something to be avoided. Yet here I was, wishing he'd stay, wishing I could drag more truths from his haunted chest.

     "Wait," I said quickly. "Stay. Please."

     But he shook his head, nodding toward McKayla. "Your friend waits for you. Go to her."

     And just like that, he turned and walked away. His silhouette dissolved into the dimness, and I stood rooted, still reeling from everything he had told me, my mind heavy with ghosts and daughters and vengeance.