Chapter 1: Serial Killer in the Livestream

I figured, why not rack up some good karma—and maybe a few bucks—so I started livestreaming late-night fortune-telling. One night, a woman everyone called the "Mercedes Lady" slid into my TikTok, asking me to read her future with some so-called spiritual heir from one of New York’s old-money families.

The city was dead quiet—the kind of hush that soaks right into your bones at 2 a.m., when even the subway ghosts go silent. My ring light glared against the window, spotlighting stacks of Tarot decks, a chipped mug of gas station coffee, and my phone propped up on a battered copy of The New Yorker (the kind of magazine you keep around to look smart, not to read). Yeah, real professional. That’s when Mercedes Lady dropped into my live, her username popping up—high-heel emojis and luxury car GIFs going wild.

"No future together," I said, loud enough to cut through the chaos in chat.

She gasped, her face popping up on split screen. "That’s impossible. He even gave me his favorite prayer beads."

Those beads? Bad vibes, all over. "You need to get out of there. He’s a serial killer!"

I’m not your average psychic—no, I’m supposedly the living vessel of a saint’s holy water, in human form after years of, I don’t know, spiritual boot camp. Weird, right? Anyway, to rack up some virtue (and maybe pay rent), I started a midnight TikTok stream, reading fortunes for whoever wandered in.

Honestly, my setup was more Brooklyn shoebox than sacred altar—fairy lights, incense from the corner bodega, and the neighbor’s TV leaking through the wall. My followers called me quirky, but, hey, my readings? They landed so close to home, even I had to laugh sometimes.

Everyone called her Mercedes Lady. She had that influencer vibe—designer headband, perfect eyeliner, and eyes gleaming like she’d just bagged a DM from Manhattan royalty.

She rocked a silk headband and killer winged liner. Her accent? Park Avenue drawl meets TikTok sass. I could practically hear her acrylics clicking as she showed off the beads. Girl had style.

One look and—yikes. Those beads were just dripping with bad vibes.

"Those beads are trouble. Ditch them, honey, and run!"

She rolled her eyes, like I’d just told her the sky was falling. "No way. These are the beads Mr. Whitaker always wears!"

I had to bite my tongue to keep from groaning. "Trust me, I’ve seen Mr. Whitaker’s beads—real vintage rosewood. Yours? Cheap dyed maple. Toss ‘em, or you’re toast. If you wear them for forty-nine days, you’re toast!"

A dark shadow crossed her brow. Seriously, who uses murder-site maple for prayer beads? That’s just asking for trouble.

The comments section blew up. [The host looks so serious, I’m starting to believe her.]

[Anything for a buck, huh? Serial killer? Where’d that come from?]

[Serial killer outta nowhere. Host thinks she’s in a Netflix show.]

Someone named “SuperFan98”: [Heard about it. Cops haven’t caught the guy, so it’s not in the news.]

[Definitely a plant. How come we don’t know, but he does?]

“JustHere4Tea”: [If this is true, I’ll let the host roast me on stream.]

I shot back, "JustHere4Tea, watch your mouth. Don’t get yourself in trouble."

JustHere4Tea: [Nervous, host?]

The chat cracked up.

[This host cracks me up. Why do I feel like it could be true?]

[The one above totally got played.]

[I Googled it—looks real. All the victims are pretty women, 18–28!]

Mercedes Lady started to panic. "Forty-nine days? What do I do? I’ve already worn them for forty-eight! And Mr. Whitaker’s supposed to pick me up for dinner in, like, thirty minutes!"

I mean, I couldn’t just let it slide. Fate’s fate, right? She finds my stream, I’ve got to help.

I focused in—Mr. Whitaker was already downstairs. I told her to head for the rooftop, cross to the next building, and get out—fast.

"Whatever you do, don’t take the elevator," I warned.

JustHere4Tea: [Climb 33 floors? Is the host for real?]

Forget the doubters. I pressed her again: "Honey, run! Or it’ll be too late!"

She grabbed her phone, her purse—ready to bolt.

"Ditch the heels," I reminded her.

She kicked them off, grabbed some sneakers from the closet, and opened the door—just as her phone rang. It was the so-called spiritual heir from Manhattan.

His voice was all smooth charm. Was she ready? Should he come up?

She told him she needed more time. He was all patience and charm. Too good to be true. "Take your time, no rush."

Comment from “LoveJunkie”: [I’m eating popcorn here. That’s a patient CEO. He’s been waiting and doesn’t even complain.]

[If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.]

[Rich, hot, and sweet—guys like that are unicorns! If you meet a spiritual heir from Manhattan, just marry him.]

Mercedes Lady hesitated. She shut the door and asked, "Host, are you trying to break us up? Is this about my rival?"

I leaned back and snapped, "What is this, a soap opera? That so-called spiritual heir gives me the creeps. Only you would fall for him."

The chat went wild.

[Not sure if he’s a killer, but he’s rich and hot. Saying he’s evil is a stretch.]

[From this angle, the host seems like Mercedes Lady’s rival.]

[Don’t be silly. She came to the host, not the other way around. Is the host supposed to be psychic?]

Three minutes gone. Not good. Mercedes Lady still didn’t move. I checked the time.

You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. I shrugged. "If you won’t listen, that’s on you. Next caller."

I waited for her to hang up. If she pays, I’m stuck with her fate. If not, I’m free.

Finally, the chat was backing me up.

[Trust the host. Losing love is one thing, but if you don’t believe her, you might lose your life.]

[Love is precious, but life matters more.]

Maybe I finally convinced her. Mercedes Lady decided to trust me.

"Host, I’ll do what you say. I’m leaving now."

She bolted for the rooftop, crossed to the next building.

When she hit the fourth floor, I typed fast: "Stop! Don’t go any further. You lost time—Mr. Whitaker is already at the stairwell."

Mercedes Lady’s hair was a mess, her face pale, nearly in tears. "Host, what do I do?"

[Call building security!]

[Call 911! If anything happens, get the cops!]

[Am I the only one who thinks the host is just scaring people? First he’s downstairs, now he’s in the stairwell—where’s the proof?]

[Hosts will do anything for clout these days.]

I ignored the skeptics. "Honey, there are people watching your door too.

"I’ll send you an invisibility charm. First customer discount—just $1.99. Head straight downstairs—Mr. Whitaker won’t see you.

"But whatever you do, don’t look him in the eyes."