Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
PAST
The woman wasn’t supposed to be here. She knew that. If her boss found out, then she’d be in trouble. That was an understatement. She would probably be “taken care of.” The way she had taken care of so many people for her boss.
She had accepted that there was something pathological about her. A sensitivity chip that the higher power had forgotten to bestow her with. And then a switch flipped. A burst of energy surged through her, infusing her cells with an emotion she had never experienced before.
Guilt.
With a trembling hand, she knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman with shoulder-length hair and skin sagging from the bones opened the door. Her eyes were dead. It sent chills down her spine.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Celina,” the woman replied. “I knew Michael. May I come in?”
She looked inconvenienced but still let her in.
Stepping inside, Celina breathed in the stale air.
It was a big house with dark wood paneling, ornate ceiling trims, and crown molding.
An entire wall was covered in pictures of Michael and his mother, tracking his journey from when he was brought home from the hospital to his last birthday—two weeks before he died.
Celina’s breath stuck in her throat as she stared at his picture. His face was always in the forefront of her mind. His ghost always in her periphery.
“How did you know Michael?” His mother frowned.
“School. I was a substitute teacher.” Another lie.
The silence was suffocating. What was she thinking of, coming here? She never cared to visit the carcass she left behind.
“Thank you for coming.” The mother’s voice cracked.
“Michael was always a lonely boy. He didn’t have many friends.
I… I was surprised when he decided to go that night to the carnival.
But I was so happy.” Tears shimmered in her eyes.
“I thought he was making friends finally. I w-wish I-I had stopped him.”
Words choked inside her. “He was a very kind boy. He didn’t deserve this. None of them did.”
She nodded faintly. There was a sound, and a young girl, around eight years old, dawdled down the stairs. “Sweetie, why don’t you go back to your room?”
“I want pancakes,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“I’ll make you some in a few minutes, honey.” The mother wiped away a stray tear. The little girl looked at the woman. When the woman gave her a little wave, she ran back up the stairs scared. The kid had a better instinct than Michael.
Suddenly, Celina shot up from the chair fighting tears. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I came because… I wanted to offer my condolences. I will leave you now.”
She shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t just Michael’s ghost that would haunt her—now it was also the mother’s empty eyes that would keep her awake.
His mother kept calling after her but the woman stumbled out of the house, almost wheezing as guilt choked her and Michael’s ghost followed her.
Some ghosts were real. Some were just memory. And sometimes, there was no difference.
She was quitting. She was done being the exterminator. But the question was—would she be allowed to?