Roaming farther and farther from her home, the ghost followed the trail of fear left behind by the FBI agent. She navigated through the woods with her nose tipped up, sniffing the essence like a hound dog tracking a wounded deer. She drudged past the rest-stop she'd often loitered at, then cruised along the highway she knew by heart.

The smell was pungent. The poor woman was terrified in the house, and her terror hadn't subsided after she left. Its metallic, morose odor filled the ghost's nostrils and guided her closer and closer to where they'd fled, intensifying with every mile passed.

After fifteen minutes or so, the ghost arrived at a small, off-the-road motel where the scent seemed to linger. The faded, stained exterior reeked of cheap sex and booze, but Kylie's stench of petrification was stronger.

"Here," the ghost said to herself as she detected the car she remembered seeing parked off to the side of the clearance in front of the house, earlier that day. "They're here."

Creeping into the shabby hotel, she paused in the lobby, eyes fixed on the overnight clerk sitting at a desk, flipping through a trashy magazine. A boy in his late teens, from what she could tell, he had no reaction to her arrival; he wasn't in tune with the energy her presence invoked.

"Good," she whispered, peering left and right to pick up the trace of Kylie's fright once more. "He won't get in the way."

The aura of trepidation led her to the right, down a discolored corridor with grayish carpeting and rows of cracked doors labeled with rusted plaques. She didn't care for their numbers, but for what she breathed in from behind them. Most of them were empty, aside from a few that harbored drug-dealing delinquents or snoring drunkards; but towards the end of the hall she located that impossible-to-miss horror that radiated around Kylie.

She stopped before the door, inhaling the aroma, letting it fuel her, energize her. But instead of pushing through and into the room, she skidded sideways to the next door, behind which a different scent lingered. One of pride, excitement, adrenaline. Toxic masculinity at its finest, inside a handsome, albeit overly confident, vessel.

Benny. There you are, you sneak.

She had no interest in Kylie and her fears. If anything, Kylie was insignificant, only used to chase down Benny. The ghost was aware that her and her team had nothing concrete on the house, on specters, on what happened after death. They were persuaded Arielle's death was a suicide, and had only authorized Kylie to bring in Benny to say they'd tried all alternatives. Arielle's dad had insisted—but the FBI had a mind of their own.

It was Benny that bothered the ghost. Benny and his intuitive powers, his inquisitive nature. Benny and his assumptions that he, a living being, was allowed to peek into the Void and communicate with spirits. It was always Benny, Benny, Benny.

She'd met him once before, though he likely had no clue. While she educated a newcomer a few states north, he'd stormed in and interrupted the sessions. He'd disturbed their lesson, planting his stupid devices all over the place, capturing evidence he had no right to capture, flailing about running his mouth about his special skills. The ghost had been obligated to put obstacles in his way, to do her best to divert him, get him to leave. But he didn't scare easily. He didn't scare at all. In fact, the more aggressive she grew, the more interested he became.

He was a stubborn jerk, and she wouldn't let him get too close to Arielle, who was still too vulnerable, too doubtful, too close to the truth. And she couldn't discover the truth yet.

The ghost swooshed through his door, comforted by the obscurity within his narrow room. He lay on the bed, covers over his upper body, one leg sticking out and dangling from the mattress. His chest rose and fell in a steady motion, and as she floated above him, she noted a slight smile over his lips. She would have loved to slip into his mind to see what he was dreaming about, but she cringed, certain it was something sexual and involving Kylie. There was no doubt about the tension between them, and his obvious attraction towards her, and the ghost wanted nothing to do with it.

"Ugh, I don't have time for this."

She lowered to ground level and glanced around the room, glossing over the chair by the window, torn at the seams. She noted the mini-fridge with a few candy wrappers littering its top, and the table covered in paperwork and photographs and tapes—

"Aha." The ghost swept over to the tapes and leaned in close to scan their labels, but grimaced at the realization that Benny hadn't written anything on them yet. "Shoot. Well, in that case..."

She rubbed her hands together, then raised them in front of her, lidding her eyes, straightening her shoulders. She sucked in the air—Kylie's fear still poured in from next door, and it was delicious—and let it fill her lungs, her stomach, her limbs. And with a large exhale, she tightened her fists, digging her nails into her palms, feeling the slice into her skin—and released.

There it was—that glow, that surge of power that signified she could touch things, grab things. She'd trained for decades to develop it, and remembered feeling Arielle's astonishment when she'd showed it to her earlier.

She'll never reach my level. No one will.

With ease, she picked up the tapes. She winced; the first few seconds of contact with a surface always took her by surprise, especially with foreign objects outside of the house. But she shrugged off the sensation fast, needing to get this job done.

Smirking, she carried the tapes into the bathroom and flicked the light on. She squinted at the sudden brightness, but didn't let it deter her from her goal—the toilet. She lifted the lid, and dropped the tapes into the water. Liquid splashed all over and her smirk widened at the sound. The water would ruin the tapes, ruin Benny's dreams—and soon, ruin the toilet itself.

"Nope, you're not getting that much information this time, buddy," she said, sneering. With that, she reached forward and flushed the toilet, cackling as the tapes came apart and clogged the pipes. Soon, the room would flood with dirty, dingy water, and Benny would wake to a disaster. He'd wake to all his proof literally gone down the drain.

And nothing made the ghost happier than protecting her secrets and preserving her realm.

As she prepared to depart, she glimpsed herself in the mirror. Most spirits couldn't see their own reflections, because they weren't ready to. Arielle wouldn't view hers for a long time, the ghost knew. And when she did, all she'd find staring back at her would be a blob, at first. And eventually, she'd learn to develop her body, her features, and view herself for who she really was; dead.

But the ghost had much practice with such things. She'd spent many years as a blurry specter, and many more developing her silhouette, her face, her attire. She'd even learned to appear however she wanted to. Some days she chose this look, the punk-rock nineties chick; and others she opted for a subtle, mature woman with braided hair and moccasins on her feet.

Tonight, as she studied her reflection, she frowned. Her clothes were fine, and her hair was its usual greasy length, but her eyes weren't what she was used to. They'd turned a vivid, non-Void-like red, causing her to slither backwards and press a hand to her heart. Vibrant colors weren't normal for this dimension, and her eyes looked ready to bleed, filling with a thick ruby hue that signaled danger to her.

"Fuck, that's not good." She angled close to the reflective surface and blinked. Once, twice, three times, but to no avail. "Come on, shift back." She jammed her eyelids shut and took hold of the counter, gripping it with enough force to rip it from the wall. "Shift, shift. I can't be caught like this."

She wasn't sure how long she stayed that way, chanting under her breath, begging her pupils to obey. Her fingers hurt, her arms were sore, and her back ached from hunching over. Such physical pain was unnatural, and she had to fix it, fast.

She pried her eyelids apart, and a wave of relief crashed over her.

"Ah, better." There they were—her black irises, faintly outlined with crimson. She couldn't let Arielle see the other version, because her questions would multiply. And the ghost wasn't ready to overwhelm her with that much knowledge.

As she exited the bathroom—purposely leaving the light on—she spotted Benny stirring in his sleep. He mumbled something and smacked his lips and drew a pillow to his torso. The ghost wavered over to him, head tilted sideways, arms crossing.

He was peaceful. Lost in his dreams where she imagined him racing after ghosts and proving to the world that there was an afterlife. Showing everyone that he'd spoken with spirits and obtained intelligence on realms and their workings.

She couldn't have that. Some secrets weren't meant to be discovered, and her objective was to ensure that. And Benny... was a threat to her goal.

"I should get into his head right now," she said, tapping a finger to her chin, pondering the extent of her powers after overexerting herself with the tapes. "I should erase his need to prowl through the house. But what if he's thinking of her, instead?" She gagged. "Having some sort of fantasy where they're doing it in the house, surrounded by ghosts?" She scoffed. "Ew, that would be his biggest desire, wouldn't it?"

He moved again, his cheeks twitching and one leg fidgeting beneath the covers. Had he heard her? Was her presence disturbing his slumber?

Though tempted to cause him nightmares beyond any he'd ever had, she sunk, snapped her fingers, and turned around.

"No, not tonight."

She chose to give him one last chance. If the destruction of the tapes didn't deter him, she'd have no choice but to employ stronger means to push him away. But in the meantime... she'd leave him be.

As she shimmied out of the hotel and zoomed towards the forest, she shrugged. "I'm unsure how long I can keep this up."