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Death she was familiar with. Living would be the real challenge.
Ophelia had lain awake well into the witching hours—the time between midnight and four in the morning when the veil between the mortal world and the Other Side was the thinnest—after
Souls that are dead cannot cross roses of red, her mother had always chanted.
The intrusive thoughts always managed to make a traitor of her own mind.
“The price is your greatest fear.”
Once you’ve begun one of the nine levels, your only saving grace will be the Devils who graciously answer your cries for help.”
“Lastly, and perhaps most important of all—fall in love within Phantasma at your own risk.”
Poltergeists and Phantoms, however, were the rarest of the ghostly paranormal beings. The most powerful.
“I don’t make it a habit to seek out trouble.” He raised a single, silvery brow. “Don’t you, though?
“If you thought that was your threshold of pleasure—imagine being worshipped by the real thing.”
“Besides, if all of my inner demons were destroyed, there wouldn’t be much left of me.”
Her mother’s grave was probably nearing seven feet deep with how many times she’d made the woman roll over in the past week.
Maybe I am a monster, she thought back. But not the same sort as you. Never that.
Life is not measured in good or bad thoughts—it’s how you treat the world around you despite them.
“If there were ever a divine entity I’d worship,” he murmured, “it’d be you.”
“My body, your altar,” she offered.
“In a different life, in a fair one, I would’ve kept you until my eternal soul withered away to dust,” he vowed to her.
Embrace your calling, harbinger of death. Unleash your darkness on the world.
“In all the darkness, in all the loneliness, you have been my one source of light,” he lamented as she began to come undone. “My soul will go to its grave with your name echoing in my mind.”
