Chapter 3: The Witch’s Shadow

The pieces clicked into place. The answer was as clear as day, and just as ugly. Changing direction, I went to watch the show. I slipped into the parlor, settling in to watch the drama unfold. The Whitakers never disappointed. Downstairs, Savannah was restless, distracted the whole time. She fidgeted with her napkin, eyes darting around the room. Her father glared, but said nothing. The bald man was dissatisfied with her, but because of the guest, he smiled and said, "My daughter has never had a boyfriend, very pure." His voice was slick, oily. The guest nodded politely, but his eyes were cold, calculating.

The guest smiled without saying a word. He sipped his tea, watching Savannah like a hawk. From tea to dinner, the bald man wouldn't let the staff interfere, making Savannah serve the guest herself. She poured wine, refilled plates, her hands shaking. The tension was palpable, thick as molasses. She dared not stop smiling, doing everything perfectly. Her smile was brittle, ready to crack. I wondered how long she could keep it up. Only after the guest left did she show her true self. She slumped in a chair, face pale, hands trembling. The mask slipped, revealing the fear beneath. "I don't want to!" Her voice was raw, desperate. The words echoed in the empty room.

The bald man calmly slapped her. "What right do you have? In what capacity do you refuse? A useless second daughter? Or an unqualified defective product?" His hand left a red mark on her cheek. She flinched, but didn't cry. The words cut deeper than any slap.

I lay on the second-floor railing, watching the always proud Savannah freeze in place as if struck. She stood motionless, eyes wide. For the first time, she looked truly broken.

In the days that followed, Savannah became silent. She drifted through the house like a ghost, eyes empty. The servants watched her, whispering behind her back. The servants who once said she was crazy changed their tune:

"Miss Savannah seems possessed."

"That's right, don't you feel she's changed these days? Even when I left water on the floor several times, she didn't scold anyone."

"Possessed is fine, but I feel like someone else lives in her body. Haven't you noticed some of her habits are different?"

"Don't you think she resembles the Miss who disappeared a few years ago?"

"......"

Their voices dropped, eyes darting around. The fear was contagious, spreading like wildfire. The conversation grew stranger, everyone looking like they had more to say but fell silent.

The silence was heavy, suffocating. Secrets hung in the air, thick as smoke. I took the meal from the chef and, dragging my chain, walked step by step to Savannah's room. The chain rattled, echoing down the hall. I balanced the tray, careful not to spill. These days her mental state was listless, as if two souls were fighting for control.

She sat by the window, staring out at nothing. Her hands trembled, her eyes unfocused. "Miss, time to eat." I set the tray down, voice soft. She didn’t respond, lost in her own world. She sat on the balcony, five stories high, not afraid of falling. The wind tugged at her hair, the city lights twinkling below. She looked fragile, almost weightless.

After putting down the food, I left as usual, but couldn't help glancing back as I closed the door. Something about her posture—defiant, yet defeated—made me pause. I wondered if she even noticed me anymore.

Obsessed with looking at her—or rather, her body. Her body was perfect, unmarked. I envied her, resented her, wanted to be her. I licked my lips.

It's perfect for me. The thought was sharp, electric. I smiled, the plan forming in my mind.

The bald man came at night, but someone else followed him. Footsteps creaked on the stairs, voices low. I pressed myself against the wall, listening. It was the guest from before. He wore a tailored suit, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. He moved with purpose, every step measured. Dressed formally, even his hair styled, leaning on a cane. The cane tapped on the floor, steady and rhythmic. He exuded confidence, arrogance.

Savannah's singing drifted from the room, unaware of what was about to happen. Her voice was soft, almost sweet. She had no idea what waited for her on the other side of the door. I couldn't bear it and blocked the door. "Sir, Miss Savannah has been emotionally unstable these days, maybe..."

My words were cut short by a sharp blow. The whip cracked, slicing into my arm. Blood welled up, hot and sticky. A whip lashed my arm, blood instantly pooling on the ground. Pain flared, but I bit my lip, refusing to cry out. The guest watched, amused.

The man slowly coiled the whip. "Is it your turn to speak?" His voice was soft, dangerous. I shrank back, eyes down. The guest chuckled. "Why hit a servant? So unlucky."

He smirked, eyes cold. I glared at him, hate burning in my chest. I was scolded away. I backed down the hall, clutching my bleeding arm. The pain was nothing compared to the anger simmering inside me. Looking back every few steps, I saw the bald man open the door. The singing stopped, then the guest entered, and Savannah's panicked voice was cut off by the closing door. The door shut with a soft click. I pressed my ear to the wood, listening to the muffled voices, the sharp cries. My fists clenched.

He stood guard outside, checking the time. He glanced at his watch, face impassive. I shivered, the air growing colder. The lighting there was poor, and standing there always felt chilly. The weak light cast shadows on his face, like countless holes. His eyes were hollow, haunted. I wondered what secrets he carried, what ghosts haunted his dreams. I shivered.

He was even more emaciated than before. His skin stretched tight over bone, eyes sunken. He looked like a man already half-dead. I felt a chill run down my spine.

I just felt scared and shook my head, leaving. I hurried down the hall, heart racing. I didn’t want to see what happened next. Afterwards, the Whitaker family announced good news: Savannah was to be married abroad. The announcement was grand—champagne, toasts, fake smiles all around. The whole town was invited, the press snapping photos. On stage, the bald man's face showed genuine happiness and reluctance:

He wiped a tear, voice trembling. The crowd clapped, none the wiser. "Savannah, this is all your father can give you." He hugged her, stiff and awkward. She barely moved, her eyes distant.

Savannah had lost much weight, her face deathly pale. She covered her slightly swollen belly, smiling without speaking. Her dress hung loose, her cheeks hollow. The bump under her hand was obvious, but no one dared mention it. Miss Savannah had become obedient—everyone said so. The staff whispered, marveling at her transformation. No more tantrums, no more screams—just silence. Even the butler was all smiles. "Miss's good fortune is here, and ours too." He grinned, rubbing his hands together. The promise of money, of security, made him giddy.

At night, there was a cracking sound in the cage. The sound was sharp, wet. I sat up, heart pounding. I looked regretfully at the almost-rotting arm on the ground. The flesh was gray, mottled. I poked it with a stick, sighing. Perhaps the bald man didn't expect that one whip would make me too lazy to use my healing ability anymore. The wound on my arm festered, the skin puckering. I let it rot, a small act of rebellion. What a waste.

I shook my head, smiling. Waste was a luxury I could afford. Actually, I was reluctant to give up this body. I ran my hands over my skin, feeling the bones beneath. I’d grown attached to this shell, despite everything. I've used it for hundreds of years, grown used to it. The memories clung to me, sticky and hard to shake. I wondered if the next body would feel the same.

But the deadline was approaching, which meant I needed to find another one. Time was running out. I could feel it in my bones, in the way the world tilted around me. The good news is, I've already found it. I smiled, sharp and hungry. The game was almost over. The bad news is, it's a bit troublesome. Nothing worth having ever comes easy. I rolled my shoulders, ready for the fight.

After Savannah became pregnant, her eating habits returned to normal. She devoured everything in sight, her hunger insatiable. The staff whispered, eyes wide with fear. I was quite pleased with the food, but she grabbed my hand:

Her grip was tight, desperate. I looked at her, surprised. "Eden, I'm scared. Stay here and eat with me." Her voice trembled, her eyes pleading. I nodded, sitting beside her. I could only stand there and watch. I watched her eat, watched her hands shake. She barely tasted the food, chewing mechanically. She held her fork, hesitating to pick up food, looking at the table full of dishes with difficulty swallowing. Her lips trembled, her eyes darting to mine. I reached out, but she pulled away, shivering. Suddenly, her face changed, and she vomited all over the table.

The retching was violent, her body convulsing. The smell was sharp, acidic. When I saw what came out, I was stunned with fear. Bugs. Dozens, maybe hundreds, wriggling across the table. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat. Out of her mouth poured countless thumb-sized bugs, clattering, as if endless. They crawled over the plates, the silverware, the tablecloth. I stumbled back, eyes wide. No wonder.

The pieces fit together. The truth was uglier than I’d imagined. No wonder she was a witch, yet I never saw any bugs. They’d been inside her all along, hidden in plain sight. I shuddered, skin crawling. Turns out, the bugs were raised inside her body. I gagged, turning away. The knowledge settled in my gut, heavy and cold.

"What did you see?" Her voice was sharp, accusing. I froze, fear prickling down my spine. I dared not speak, quickly knelt down and lowered my head. My knees hit the floor, hands trembling. I kept my eyes down, silent. Footsteps approached. Just as I was about to look up, a greenish face hung upside down, right in front of me. The face grinned, teeth sharp and yellow. I bit back a scream, heart pounding. The sound of a ball bouncing on the floor. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed, growing louder. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it all away.

I suddenly opened my eyes, my hair standing on end. The room was empty, silent. My heart raced, sweat beading on my forehead. It was a dream. Relief flooded me, but the fear lingered. Dreams had a way of bleeding into reality. At midnight, that thing came out again. The clock chimed, the air grew cold. I sat up, listening. A flash of white at the door. I picked up the broken arm on the ground, stuck it into my shoulder, but because the flesh was rotting, it fell off again. So I simply used the bone as a connector. The bone clicked into place, the flesh hanging loose. I flexed my fingers, testing the fit.

After being around Savannah for so long, I naturally picked up her scent, so no one noticed anything strange about me. Her perfume clung to my skin, masking the rot. I moved through the house unnoticed, invisible. This time, I followed closely. My footsteps were silent, my breath shallow. I watched, waiting. But the woman in white didn't go to the black room, but to Savannah's room. She drifted through the door, her head cradled in her arms. I pressed my ear to the wood, listening. I wasn't afraid of being discovered, because I had no living aura. The dead can’t see the dead. I was safe, for now. She passed through the door. I touched it, and with my palm, I could see everything in the room.

The vision blurred, then sharpened. I saw Savannah, curled on the bed, shivering. The ghost woman wandered by the bed. Her bare feet left no prints, her dress fluttering in the breeze. She watched Savannah, her eyes sewn shut. I thought she was here for revenge, but she just silently watched Savannah on the bed. She reached out, her hand hovering over Savannah’s belly. Her touch was gentle, almost loving. Then, she put her hand on Savannah's belly, trying to say something, but with her mouth sewn shut, she could only mumble unintelligibly. The sound was muffled, desperate. I leaned closer, straining to hear.

I leaned in to listen more closely. The ghost suddenly turned her head—ah! No, turned her body. Her head snapped around, empty eyes staring right at me. I froze, caught in her gaze. She noticed me. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I shivered, goosebumps rising on my arms. Almost forgot, I'm a ghost magnet. Wherever I went, the dead followed. It was my curse, my gift.

Savannah went mad, this time completely. She tore at her hair, screaming. Her eyes were wild, her laughter sharp and broken. She crawled on the ground barking like a dog, stood on the high balcony saying she was looking for her sister, refused to eat, giggled while picking up a knife to stab her own belly. The staff watched in horror, whispering prayers under their breath. No one dared approach her. "I won't eat, let it eat, let it eat..." Her voice was high, desperate. She rocked back and forth, clutching her stomach.

The bald man scowled, ordering the butler to lock her up. If she wouldn't eat, force-feed her: His face was red, veins bulging. The butler nodded, eyes down. "I don't care what you do. If she dies, fine, but the thing in her belly must not be harmed." His words were cold, final. The staff scattered, eager to escape his wrath. He didn't seem surprised at all by her madness, as if used to it. He lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly. His eyes were empty, dead. If there was no other possibility, there was only one: it had happened before. The realization settled over me, heavy as a shroud. The cycle would never end—not until someone broke it.

Though mad, Savannah still went to the black room as usual. Her steps were slow, measured. The door creaked open, swallowing her whole. This time, the strange scent in the black room had faded, replaced by the stench of rot. The air was thick, suffocating. I covered my nose, gagging. The bald man coaxed his daughter carefully: His voice was soft, almost gentle. He stroked her hair, whispering promises. "Good girl, do you remember what I taught you?" She nodded, eyes blank. He smiled, satisfied.

I deliberately peeked inside. Last time, the human livestock was normal, its head unmoving, as if what I saw before was an illusion. The jars were still, the faces inside blank. I shivered, remembering the way they’d looked at me. I no longer needed to stay in the cage, now tasked to guard Savannah twenty-four hours a day. I slept on the floor outside her door, always alert. The chain was gone, but the feeling of captivity lingered. Many times, when I woke up, I opened my eyes to see a knife pointed at me, Savannah expressionless, but the next second, she would smile: Her smile was wide, empty. The knife trembled in her hand.

"Eden, Eden, I want to eat." Her voice was sing-song, childish. I nodded, rising to fetch her food. I went to get her food as usual. The kitchen was quiet, the staff avoiding my gaze. I loaded the tray, hands steady. "Eden, Eden, I want to see you cry." She started hitting me again. Her blows were weak, half-hearted. I let her hit me, tears welling in my eyes. I cried pitifully, but not too hard, afraid my eyeballs might fall out. I sniffled, wiping my nose on my sleeve. She clapped, delighted. She clapped her hands and laughed happily: Her laughter was sharp, bright. I forced a smile, playing along.

"Eden, Eden, let's play a game. Let's play the life-exchange game." Her eyes sparkled, mischief lurking beneath the madness. I nodded, heart pounding. I smiled and nodded. My smile was tight, forced. I wondered what she’d do if I refused. Then, that night, amid her screams, I picked up the big cleaver from the kitchen used for chopping bones and brought it down swiftly. The blade was heavy, the handle slick with sweat. I hesitated only a moment, then swung. The flickering light danced on the wall, blood splattering and slowly sliding down. The blood was hot, sticky. I watched it pool on the floor, my hands shaking. I stared at the head rolling to my feet: Her eyes were wide, mouth open in a silent scream. I bent down, picking it up.

"It's an exchange, so it has to be this way." My voice was calm, steady. I felt nothing—no guilt, no regret. I become you, you become me. The words echoed in the empty room. I smiled, sharp and cold.

"Oh." As if remembering something, I dropped the knife in fright, touching those unwilling eyes: "Forgot to say, I'm not human." I grinned, baring my teeth. The truth felt good on my tongue. "Be a good ghost." I patted her face, grinning: "Remember, don't go to hell." Her skin was cold, waxy. I pressed my lips to her forehead, a mock blessing.

There was a large mirror opposite the bed. The glass was cracked, spiderwebbed. I stared at my reflection, heart pounding. In the mirror, I picked up Savannah's head, attached it to my neck. The seam between head and neck quickly fused, thinning into a line of blood, then the body began to change, the belly swelling, becoming exactly like Savannah. The transformation was quick, painless. I watched, fascinated, as my features shifted, my belly growing round.

The 'me' on the ground had long since lost all life. After I left that body, it decayed rapidly, stinking. The smell was sharp, overpowering. I wrinkled my nose, turning away. A worm crawled out of the eye. With the host dead, it naturally sought a new place. I stomped on it, grinding it into the floor. The crunch was satisfying. I excitedly stepped on it, crushing it. A small victory, but a sweet one. I smiled, savoring the moment.

Looking in the mirror, one hand on my waist, one hand on my belly. My reflection grinned back, eyes bright. I patted my stomach, humming softly. There was a "good treasure" in this belly. The words tasted sweet, full of promise. I wondered what would happen next. So the bald man wanted this. His greed was palpable, choking. I smiled, sharp and cruel.

The Eden who was captured and tortured by the Whitaker family was dead. I was free, at last. The past burned away, leaving only ash. The butler was only slightly surprised, because besides the Whitakers, only he knew Eden was a monster—undying, immortal, healing rapidly from any injury—yet died just like that? His eyes widened, but he said nothing. Secrets were the only currency that mattered here.

I lay on the balcony, sunbathing: "Uncle Ray, is today the day to go to the black room?" The sun was warm on my skin, the breeze gentle. I stretched, savoring the peace. One sentence, and he broke out in a cold sweat. His face went pale, hands trembling. He stared at me, fear in his eyes. Because the real Savannah would never call him Uncle Ray, nor mention the black room on her own. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I smiled, enjoying his discomfort.

"You... who are you really?" His voice was a whisper, full of dread. I deliberately tilted my head and smiled: "Guess." I winked, my smile wide and bright. He flinched, stepping back. In the next second, my face changed to someone very familiar to him, giggling. His eyes widened, mouth dropping open. I laughed, the sound sharp and bright. "Ah..." He panicked and fell to the ground, scrambling away, even using his hands—he was truly terrified. He crawled backward, legs kicking. I watched, amused. Watching his fleeing figure, his limp gone, I smiled happily:

The irony was delicious. I hugged my knees, rocking with laughter. "So much fun." The words tasted sweet, full of promise. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this alive. A stray lock of hair fluttered by my ear. I put away my smile, voice cold: "Why panic? I'm not done playing yet." The air stilled, the world holding its breath. I grinned, baring my teeth. No one answered, but the wind stopped. The silence was thick, heavy. I closed my eyes, savoring it.

At night, on schedule, I went to the black room. The door creaked, the darkness inside thick as tar. I stepped inside, heart pounding. The bald man was already waiting. He stood by the window, hands clasped. His eyes were wild, desperate. This time, I was truly in the thick of things. There was no turning back. The game was afoot. Red urns filled the room, filth accumulating, suffocatingly terrifying. The air was thick, hard to breathe. I covered my mouth, gagging. From the moment I entered, I didn't know if it was my imagination, but they all seemed to be watching me. The faces in the jars turned, eyes following my every move. I shivered, skin crawling. Yellow sigils were taped to the urns, red strings threaded with coins wrapped around them, to prevent the dead from becoming vengeful ghosts. The symbols glowed faintly, the coins clinking in the breeze. The magic was old, powerful.

But that wasn't all. In the center, suspended in midair by iron chains, were my parents. Their bodies hung limp, heads stitched crudely to their necks. I bit my lip, rage simmering. Their heads were crooked, crudely stitched to their bodies, indescribably strange. The stitches were thick, ugly. Blood oozed from the wounds, staining the floor. "Good child, try one last time. Put your bugs on them and revive them. As long as it works this time, the blood spell will be foolproof later."

His voice was eager, trembling. I glared at him, hatred burning in my chest. The bald man was barely containing his excitement, urging me repeatedly. He paced, hands wringing. His eyes never left my belly. I frowned slightly, finally turning my gaze to him. My patience was thin, my anger sharp. I waited, letting the silence stretch. Blood spell? The words echoed in my mind, heavy with meaning. I’d heard them before, in stories whispered in the dark. Blood for blood, body for worm. When the bug leaves, the person dies, and the soul goes to hell. The rules were simple, brutal. I shuddered, remembering the pain.

He was trying to make blood puppets. The thought made my skin crawl. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. According to legend, there are two ways to make a blood puppet: one is bloodline inheritance, the other is to hatch bug eggs in a virgin's body, drain her energy, then place them in an adult woman's body for further nurturing. The woman must be born in a certain year and month, and at the right time, the living person's belly is cut open to take out the bug. The blood spell is complete only if taken while the person is still alive. The ritual was old, cruel. I wondered how many had died for his ambition. Such a vicious method. The words tasted bitter, full of regret. I clenched my jaw, refusing to look away.

He was using his own daughter. The realization hit me like a punch. I stared at him, disgusted. The lure of immortality in a blood puppet was well known, but I didn't expect anyone would actually do it, all for an elusive rumor. His greed was bottomless, his soul rotten. I shook my head, pity and hatred warring inside me.

A voice only I could hear whispered in my ear. The words were soft, mournful. I shivered, listening. "See? He's so cruel. He killed me, afraid I'd seek revenge, sewed up my eyes, nose, mouth, buried my coffin under this black room, using evil to suppress evil, denying me peace. He didn't spare my sister either. Right in front of her, he chopped off my head. Since you've taken my sister's body, you should avenge her." The plea was desperate, raw. I clenched my fists, anger simmering.

The woman's sobbing hurt my ears. I snapped, annoyed: "Shut up!" My voice was sharp, angry. The ghost flinched, shrinking away. The ghost pouted, covering her mouth in grievance. Her eyes were wide, lips trembling. I rolled my eyes, impatient.

The bald man, seeing me hesitate, turned cold: "You still haven't learned, have you?" His voice was hard, threatening. I glared at him, daring him to try. "How could I? Father, how could I disappoint you?" My smile was wide, mocking. He stepped back, eyes wide. My smiling eyes truly startled him. He stammered, hands shaking. I grinned, enjoying his fear. Because every time Savannah entered this black room, she either cried or made a scene, like a lunatic. He was used to her weakness, her madness. My calm unsettled him.

I looked up at my parents. Actually, it wasn't Savannah's fault she couldn't revive them. I sighed, regretful. The blame lay elsewhere—always had. Because, they were long gone from these bodies. Their souls had moved on, leaving only empty shells. I closed my eyes, mourning. I raised my palm, spat out two bugs. On command, the bugs crawled into their palms. The lifeless bodies flashed with a red glow. The light was faint, flickering. I watched, curious. The bald man nervously approached. When he really heard breathing, he was overjoyed. His eyes lit up, hands trembling. He laughed, a wild, desperate sound. "Great, great." His joy was infectious, but I felt only disgust.

I weakly pressed my temples: "Father, I'll go rest first." Just as I turned to leave, I stopped. My head throbbed, exhaustion washing over me. I hesitated at the door, sensing danger. Because the butler stood at the door, locking it behind him: The key turned, the lock clicking shut. I tensed, ready to fight. "Sorry, Miss Savannah, you might not be leaving tonight. Ah, no, I mean Eden." His voice was cold, mocking. I glared at him, hatred burning in my chest. Oh dear, trapped. The realization hit me, sharp and cold. I squared my shoulders, ready for anything.

"Eden, how do you like using my daughter's body?" His voice was soft, dangerous. I smiled, sharp and cruel. This old bald bastard. The words tasted bitter, full of regret. I clenched my fists, ready to fight. Tonight he pretended to know nothing, luring me here. The trap was set, the bait taken. I smiled, baring my teeth. The two of them forced me into a corner, no way out. I pressed my back to the wall, eyes darting around. The jars glowed, the faces inside watching.

"I never knew you were so capable, able to possess my daughter. But it doesn't matter, as long as the thing in her belly survives, I don't care who lives." His words were cold, final. I glared at him, hatred burning in my chest. I looked coldly at the bald man: "Is immortality more important to you than your family's lives?" My voice was sharp, accusing. He laughed, shaking his head. He shook his head, smiling: "What do you know, brat? I have wealth and power. If I can't live long to enjoy it, who knows who will benefit? But just right, today is the day to cut open the belly. Since you've possessed my daughter, I hesitated before, but now, well, tough luck for you." His smile was wide, cruel. I shivered, rage simmering.

I pursed my lips, pointing at the jars: "These, are they what you used to raise bugs?" My finger trembled, but my voice was steady. He nodded, proud. The bald man glanced at them contemptuously, as if they were just things. His eyes were cold, empty. I shuddered, disgusted.

"Smart. You think blood spells are easy to make? To find suitable people, I captured batch after batch of staff for experiments. But they wouldn't cooperate. I fed them well, but they weren't willing. Then one day I saw a TV show about human livestock punishment—never seen it in real life—so I made a few for fun." His laughter was sharp, cruel. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. "My fault." He scratched his head, grinning: "I made too many, couldn't stop." His smile was wide, empty. I shook my head, pity and hatred warring inside me. I felt a chill, stepping back.

The air grew colder, the jars rattling. I pressed myself against the wall, heart pounding. "Do you know where all the flesh cut from them went?" His voice was soft, mocking. I shivered, dread settling in my gut. I stepped back again. My feet slid on the floor, the jars looming. I swallowed, fear prickling down my spine. Of course I knew. The truth was ugly, undeniable. I clenched my jaw, refusing to look away. All went into Savannah's belly—in other words, my belly. The realization hit me, sharp and cold. I gagged, bile rising in my throat.

The bald man's face was so thin his eyeballs bulged, dark circles under his eyes. Behind him, invisible to him, were countless angry ghosts. The air shimmered, the ghosts pressing close. I smiled, enjoying their rage. The man's greedy gaze fell on my belly. His life's wish was right before him, no wonder he was excited. His hands trembled, eyes wide. I watched, amused. Pity his wish would come to nothing. The thought was sharp, satisfying. I grinned, baring my teeth. "Ray, give me the knife." He was ready to act. The butler handed over the knife. The blade gleamed, sharp and cold. I tensed, ready to fight.

The jars shook, as if sensing something. The faces inside turned, eyes glowing. I smiled, enjoying the show. I stayed put: "If you kill me, can you guarantee the bugs will transfer to you? Do you really think Savannah learned witchcraft on her own?" My voice was calm, steady. He frowned, doubt flickering in his eyes. I feigned surprise. My eyes widened, mouth dropping open. He glared, suspicious. He pointed at a human livestock: "Do you know why they've lived so long without dying?" His voice was soft, mocking. I shrugged, playing along. As his gaze swept over them, I noticed something off. The faces in the jars were blank, empty. I frowned, curiosity piqued. They seemed controlled, all bowing their heads in unison, their exposed skin ashen, more like corpses hanging on by a thread... The only explanation: they had bugs inside. The realization hit me, sharp and cold. I shuddered, disgusted.

"My daughter wasn't born a witch. These," he smiled proudly, "I taught her." His pride was sickening. I glared, hatred burning in my chest. "Nicely put, it was to make her obediently raise blood bugs for me. Not nicely, it was her choice. There's no such thing as a free lunch. She wanted to be as powerful as me—how could she not pay a price." His words were cold, final. I shook my head, pity and hatred warring inside me.

I stared into his eyes: "Too much killing, your wish will fail." My voice was sharp, accusing. He laughed, shaking his head. Someone who could use even his own daughter—how could he live long? The thought was bitter, full of regret. I clenched my fists, ready to fight.

"Enough nonsense, you should worry about yourself." His voice was hard, threatening. I smiled, sharp and cruel. Having said all he wanted, he checked the time, signaled behind him: "Do it." The knife gleamed. I instinctively closed my eyes. When I opened them, the bald man's face was full of shock, his chest pierced. Blood gushed, staining his shirt. He staggered, eyes wide. He was slow to react, frowning, trying to look back. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I smiled, enjoying his confusion.

"After all that nonsense, best to keep your mouth shut." My voice was soft, mocking. He glared, hatred burning in his eyes. I tilted my head: "Dad, don't kill him." My voice was calm, steady. The butler nodded, smiling. The butler quickly changed his face, scratching his head with a silly smile: "Oh, I know, I know, can't let this brat die so easily." His smile was wide, empty. I watched, amused.

The bald man knelt, unable to believe his betrayal: His hands shook, blood pooling at his feet. He stared at the butler, eyes wide. "Raymond, don't you want immortality?" His voice was weak, desperate. The butler laughed, shaking his head. I laughed at his naivety: "How are you sure he's really the butler?" My voice was sharp, mocking. He glared, suspicion flickering in his eyes. Long ago, when he wasn't looking, the butler's body had a new 'core.' The truth was ugly, undeniable. I smiled, enjoying his confusion. The real butler had died of fright that day. His body was just a shell, a puppet. I shivered, disgusted.

The ghost woman flew to my side, agitated: Her eyes were wide, lips trembling. I rolled my eyes, impatient. "Why not kill him! Why send him straight to hell!" Her voice was sharp, desperate. I glared, annoyed. I slapped her, silencing her: My hand connected, the sound sharp and satisfying. She flinched, shrinking away. "No one has the right to tell me what to do." My voice was cold, final. She nodded, eyes down. Since the night this ghost barged into my dream, she's been testing my limits. If it were before, I'd have wiped her out with a slap.

But she was right about one thing: if I take over a dying person's body, I must settle their grudges. The thought was bitter, full of regret. I sighed, resigned. So troublesome. The words tasted sour, heavy. I shook my head, ready to finish this. Wasted tonight playing this charade with a house full of people and ghosts. The thought was sharp, satisfying. I smiled, baring my teeth. Evil meets evil. The words echoed in the empty room. I grinned, enjoying the irony.

I looked down at him: "Want immortality?" My voice was soft, mocking. He nodded, desperate. The bald man was in pain, speechless, but when he saw the ferocity on my face, he begged for mercy in fear. His hands shook, blood pooling at his feet. I smiled, enjoying his fear. I picked up the dagger, sliced my palm, holding up countless blood drops, floating as if alive. The blood shimmered, swirling in the air. I grinned, baring my teeth. Too lazy to drag it out. This body was tainted with too much evil, I regretted it. The words tasted bitter, full of regret. I clenched my fists, ready to finish this.

Seeing this bizarre scene, the bald man finally asked: "What are you?" His voice was weak, desperate. I smiled, enjoying his confusion. I waved at the jars. The blood drops entered the human livestock, and the room's atmosphere changed. Sigils burned, red strings snapped, coins fell, countless strange sounds screamed, filling my ears. The air was thick with magic, the screams deafening. I closed my eyes, savoring the chaos. I turned to smile at him: "The dying should go to hell and ask." My voice was soft, mocking. He glared, hatred burning in his eyes.

Ghosts swarmed, murderous aura soaring. The air shimmered, the ghosts pressing close. I smiled, enjoying their rage. The clock on the first floor chimed. Midnight, and today was October 31st—Halloween. All the ghosts were here to collect their debts. The sound echoed through the house, deep and mournful. The ghosts howled, hungry for vengeance. In an instant, the things in the jars began to move, all raising their heads in unison, bones creaking. The faces turned, eyes glowing. I shivered, skin crawling.

The bald man was petrified, wailing, crawling for the door, but stopped short. His hands scrabbled at the floor, blood smearing. He sobbed, desperate. Because at the door stood someone dead for many years. Her dress was white, her hair long and black. She floated above the floor, her head cradled in her arms. "Father, remember me?" She carried her own head, feet not touching the ground, approaching: Her voice was soft, mournful. He stared, eyes wide with terror.

"I'm your eldest daughter. You're so cruel. Just because I wouldn't help you live forever, you killed me, chopped off my head, sewed up my eyes, mouth, nose. I couldn't see, smell, or speak." Her words were sharp, accusing. He sobbed, shaking his head. "You're so selfish!" She rushed forward, turning into a vengeful ghost, body swelling several times, mouth wide enough to swallow a person. Her mouth gaped, teeth sharp and yellow. He screamed, scrambling back. Ghost woman in front, evil souls behind, and me in the middle. The room was chaos, the air thick with rage. I smiled, enjoying the show.

"Didn't you want immortality? I'll grant it." My voice was soft, mocking. He glared, hatred burning in his eyes. Unfazed, I slit open my belly, pulled out a blood-red bug the size of half a fist. My belly healed instantly. The bug writhed, legs twitching. I grinned, baring my teeth. The bald man shrank in despair. His hands shook, blood pooling at his feet. I smiled, enjoying his fear. From then on, the black room had one more human livestock, surrounded by vengeful souls. The jars rattled, the faces inside watching. I grinned, enjoying the chaos.

They chose not to kill him, but to plant blood bugs in him, swarming him. The bugs crawled over his skin, burrowing deep. He screamed, the sound sharp and desperate. He watched helplessly as his flesh was bitten off bit by bit, rotting away, no peace, not even qualified to be a ghost—his wish for immortality fulfilled. His screams echoed through the house, fading into silence. I smiled, satisfied. When his tongue was pulled out, he screamed with blood: "What are you!" His voice was weak, desperate. I grinned, baring my teeth. I laughed wildly: The sound was sharp, bright. I threw my head back, savoring the moment. "Knowing too much brings divine punishment, so keep your mouth shut forever." My voice was cold, final. He sobbed, eyes wide with terror.

A sea of fire raged, burning through the black universe, the roar of flames deafening, thick black smoke floating, a once exquisite and absurd mansion decaying, singing of freedom. The fire devoured everything, the flames licking the sky. I watched, feet swinging. The fire devoured everything inside. The walls crumbled, the roof caved in. The ghosts howled, finally free. A girl sat on the wall nearby, watching, barefoot, feet swinging. Her hair was long, her eyes bright. She smiled, humming softly. A man in the butler's form propped his head with both hands, squatting: "Deserved." His voice was soft, satisfied. I grinned, nodding. A chef ran over, excited: "Dear daughter, I've sent all the staff away as you instructed." Her hands were flour-dusted, her smile wide. I laughed, hugging her.

The fire lasted a long time. When a man in his fifties rushed over, nothing remained, so angry he even threw away his cane. He stomped his foot, cursing. The ashes swirled, the ghosts dancing. Everything was wasted. The house was gone, the secrets buried. I smiled, satisfied. Just as he was about to leave, he saw a woman standing in the corner of the yard, gently touching her belly—Savannah. Her dress was white, her hair long and black. She smiled, humming softly. He seemed bewitched, step by step, approaching. His eyes glazed over, his feet dragging. I watched, amused. To outsiders, he faced empty air, not understanding. The neighbors watched from their porches, whispering. They saw nothing, heard nothing. Until, the man was surrounded by black mist, only able to scream before falling, black bugs pouring from his mouth, endlessly. The bugs crawled over his skin, burrowing deep. He screamed, the sound sharp and desperate.

The headless ghost woman stood coldly by: "You recklessly occupy others' bodies, aren't you afraid of divine retribution?" Her voice was soft, accusing. I shrugged, smiling. Hindsight, eh. The words tasted bitter, full of regret. I grinned, baring my teeth. My father spoke first: "Sister, don't talk nonsense. We calculated that these three were at the end of their fate, and before that, they were all willing." His voice was soft, satisfied. I nodded, agreeing. The chef was naturally my mother. She nodded in agreement, still holding a chicken leg, big-hearted. She grinned, taking a bite. I laughed, hugging her. "Besides, the Whitakers did so much evil. What we did isn't wronging them at all." Her voice was soft, satisfied. I smiled, nodding.

I pointed at my eyes. My gaze was sharp, accusing. The ghost woman bowed, apologizing. The headless ghost woman apologized, bowing respectfully to us, then turned into a ray of white light, passing on. Her light faded, the air growing lighter. I smiled, satisfied. I watched coldly, then got up to leave: The night was cool, the wind gentle. I stretched, ready for the next adventure. "Mom, Dad, find me another body." My voice was soft, eager. They nodded, smiling. "What kind do you want? Don't pick one like this time, so much trouble, these wretches even chopped off our heads, too cruel." My mother's voice was teasing, her eyes bright. I laughed, hugging her. "If we could take bodies directly, we wouldn't have gone through all this trouble, letting them torture us." My father's voice was soft, regretful. I nodded, agreeing. "Remember, never tell anyone your identity, no matter who." His voice was stern, warning. I smiled, nodding. "I know, I know..." My voice was soft, teasing. I grinned, ready for the next adventure.

After a long brewing, a torrential rain fell. Fire and water clashed, autumn wind broke, newly bloomed chrysanthemums buried in dust, the last charred yellow sigil fluttered away. The rain washed away the ashes, the secrets, the pain. I watched, smiling, ready to begin again. And somewhere, far off, thunder rolled—reminding me: monsters always come back.