Chapter 1: My Body Attracts the Dead

I was born with a body that ghosts just can’t resist. So, naturally, my manager signed me up for a supernatural reality show.

To be honest, this has never been something I could brag about at parties. Try explaining to your friends that you’re basically a walking ghost magnet—yeah, not exactly a crowd-pleaser. Not the kind of thing you put on your resume. But here we are. My manager, Lisa, actually thinks it’s my ticket to stardom.

The top celebrity spun a rosary bracelet in his hand. He was famous—everyone called him a master exorcist.

He had that kind of effortless confidence—like he’d seen it all, handled it all, and walked away with a wry smile. On screen, he was magnetic. Off screen, rumors swirled that he could see things most folks couldn’t. Maybe that’s why he always wore that rosary, the beads catching the light whenever he gestured.

You’d think he was born to play the hero in a horror flick. Honestly, maybe he was.

So, the entire show, I stuck close to him.

And I mean close. Not the polite, reality-TV-friendly kind of close, either. The kind where you’re practically glued to his side, because every shadow in the corner looks like it’s sizing you up for a haunting. The cameras caught everything—of course. And the internet? Oh, they had Opinions.

His fans were all over the internet, telling me to stay away from their idol.

You’d think I’d stolen their boyfriend the way they carried on. My mentions were a dumpster fire—fan accounts with profile pics of his face, threatening to hex me, or worse. I tried to ignore it, but the notifications never stopped.

What they didn’t know was, at night, I’d be holding onto the top celebrity while I slept.

And not in a romantic way, I swear. It was pure, desperate survival. The kind of hold you’d have on a life preserver if you fell off a cruise ship at midnight. But the cameras didn’t catch that. Or maybe they did. Hard to say, with reality TV these days.

Julian Whitaker leaned in and murmured, "Since we’ve already slept together, shouldn’t you at least give me a title?"

He said it with a smirk, voice low enough that only I could hear. The kind of line that would make his fans combust if they ever got the raw footage.

The ghost floating in mid-air rolled its eyes. "Boss, don’t get so lovestruck. She’s only sleeping with you because she’s scared of ghosts."

Honestly, if ghosts could post on Twitter, I’d be canceled by now. This one had attitude, arms crossed, floating just above the bed like it owned the place. Weirdly, it was almost comforting—in a terrifying way.

There’s a special group of people in this world—ghost bait.

Yeah, that’s what they call us. Like some people are mosquito magnets, I’m haunted by the supernatural. It’s not exactly something you want to put on your dating profile, but it’s my reality.

As the name suggests, we attract ghosts. Like, literally—my body draws spirits.

I didn’t ask for it, but apparently, it’s in my blood. My grandma used to joke that I was born under a haunted star. I always thought she was being dramatic—until the sleep paralysis started.

And yeah—I’m ghost bait.

I’ve tried everything—salt circles, sleeping with a Bible under my pillow, even burning sage. Nothing works. The ghosts keep coming, night after night, like I’m their favorite late-night talk show guest.

After being pinned down by a ghost all night, I was saved by a phone call.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up like a lifeline. I scrambled for it, heart pounding, grateful for any excuse to break the ghost’s hold.

When I answered, my manager, Lisa Morales, was practically shouting: "Savannah! I got you a supernatural reality show. Seven-figure pay!"

She sounded like she’d won the lottery. I could practically hear her grinning through the phone. Already, she was imagining the headlines: “Ghost Bait Breaks Out!”

The moment I heard it was a supernatural show, that seven-figure paycheck lost all its appeal.

Seven figures sounded great—until you pictured yourself locked in a haunted mansion with a camera crew and, oh yeah, a bunch of ghosts who already had your number. Not exactly a dream gig.

"Can I not go?" I mean, I was born with a ghost-attracting body and get sleep paralysis every night.

My voice was small, hopeful. Honestly, I was practically begging. The thought of voluntarily walking into a haunted house made my skin crawl.

You seriously want me to join a supernatural reality show?

Was she nuts? I’d rather do literally anything else. Even a tax audit.

Please, spare me. I’d rather not make that money, thank you very much.

I’d rather sell plasma. Or become a barista. Literally anything but this.

Lisa didn’t miss a beat: "Ten million breach penalty. Think it over."

She always knew how to hit where it hurt. I stared at the ceiling, calculating how many years it would take to pay off that penalty—if I lived that long.

Fine. I’ve been in the industry for three years and haven’t even made ten million total.

I could barely afford my rent, let alone a lawsuit. Sometimes, you just have to pick your battles—and this one? Non-negotiable.

I can earn less, sure, but I can’t afford to lose money.

That’s the golden rule in Hollywood—even if it means risking your sanity. Or your soul.

It’s just a reality show. I mean, ghosts wouldn’t actually show up on camera, right?

I tried to psych myself up. Cameras had to count for something, right? Ghosts wouldn’t want to go viral.

The supernatural show I joined? It’s called "Haunted House: Live."

Catchy, right? The kind of title that makes your skin prickle just hearing it. The promo posters were everywhere—blood-red letters, ominous shadows. Every time I saw one, my stomach dropped.

Six guests, locked in a haunted mansion, forced to spend the night inside.

The mansion itself was famous—at least, locally. People whispered about it at bars, told stories about the pool and the basement. I tried not to listen.

I was the first guest to arrive on set. The director had me walk around the mansion, like I was scouting for ghosts.

The crew was already bustling—cameras, lights, people with headsets barking orders. The director, a wiry guy with wild hair, grinned at me like I was the star of his next big hit.

It was 9 PM. The lights in the house were dim—like the set of a horror movie.

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of old wood and something metallic. I shivered, hugging my jacket tighter around me. Somewhere in the distance, a floorboard creaked.

I walked along the garden path, trying not to look over my shoulder.

The grass was overgrown, dew clinging to my sneakers. The moon hung low, casting weird shadows that danced at the edge of my vision. My heart thudded in my chest, every step echoing in the silence.

Passing the swimming pool, I glanced over—and instantly, my heart nearly stopped.

Pools are supposed to be relaxing, right? Not this one. The water was black, still, and I could swear it was colder here than anywhere else on the property.

I screamed, "There’s a ghost!"

It wasn’t a polite yelp, either. It was a full-throated, horror-movie scream. My voice echoed off the water, bouncing back at me like a taunt.

I saw a woman in a vintage one-piece, all curves, climbing out of the pool.

She looked like she’d stepped out of an old Hollywood film—except for the nightmare face. My stomach lurched.

The weirdest part? She had no skin on her face. Just bloody, mangled flesh.

It was raw, grotesque, like something out of a slasher flick. I could see muscles twitching, teeth bared in a macabre grin.

Her eyes burned with resentment, and she gave me a terrifying, evil grin: "Sis, you’re here?"

Her voice was syrupy, mocking, as if she’d been waiting just for me. I froze, my feet glued to the spot.