Chapter 2: The Red Thread Warning

I barely slept after my shift, replaying every second in my head. By morning, I felt hungover on adrenaline and doubt. I dragged myself to the Speedway for a coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich, hoping to shake off the weirdness.

That’s when a scruffy old man grabbed my arm outside the gas station and growled, "You've been possessed by a ghost."

"And not just any ghost—the most vicious kind." He smelled like motor oil and stale whiskey, his grip rough as sandpaper. For a second, I thought he was just another drifter, but he looked at me with eyes that’d seen things you couldn’t explain away. The whole thing felt like a bad joke, but he didn’t blink.

I'm an atheist. I mean, I was raised Methodist, but somewhere along the way, faith got lost between late-night shifts and overdue rent. Ghosts weren’t something I worried about—not in Maple Heights, not anywhere.

I tried to shake his hand off and walk away. The parking lot was already sticky with summer heat, and all I wanted was a cold Coke and a little peace. But this wiry old man had an iron grip—his knuckles pale and bony against my skin, holding on like he’d never let go.

He looked me up and down, then chuckled. "Son, listen to an old man's advice. Otherwise, when you regret it in the afterlife, it'll be far too late." His voice was the kind you hear at the end of a bar, warning you about black ice or bad luck—flat and heavy, like he’d lived through worse.

My heart thudded, but I tried to keep my face hard. It was easier to act tough than admit the cold prickle crawling up my spine.

Just as I opened my mouth to tell him off, he rolled up my sleeve with surprising speed. His hands were quick, steady in a way that felt practiced. He pointed at my arm.

Where my skin should have been smooth and pale, there was a faint red line. You wouldn’t notice it unless you looked close. It wound around my forearm, just below the elbow, thin as thread, almost glowing in the harsh sunlight bouncing off the gas pumps.

My hands shook as I rubbed at the line, my stomach flipping like I’d just chugged bad gas station coffee. Sweat broke out on my temple. Maybe it was a weird rash, or a mark from last night. I didn’t remember hurting myself.

But the red line stayed—it wasn’t drawn on. No matter how hard I scrubbed, it clung stubbornly to my skin, cold and alien.

The old man stared at me. "This is called a ghost's red thread. Tonight, she'll come for you again. She'll come for you seven nights in a row, and the red line will get deeper and deeper. By the seventh night, she'll skin you alive along that line." He said it like he was warning me about black ice—matter-of-fact, inescapable, terrifyingly real.

A chill shot from the soles of my feet right to the top of my head. My skin prickled, and I suddenly felt exposed, like someone had ripped the roof off my world and let the night pour in.

I was starting to get scared. My breath caught in my throat, and I glanced around for backup, but it was just me, the old man, and the low hum of traffic rolling down the interstate.

Still, I tried to stay stubborn. "I probably just scratched myself." My voice wavered, but I forced a laugh, hoping he’d see I wasn’t buying it.

"Look, buddy, if you’re hoping I’ll hand over my wallet for some ghost insurance, you picked the wrong cabbie." I jammed my hands in my pockets, staring him down with all the bravado I could muster, even though my knees felt like Jell-O.