Cider House
"Alexis? Yeah... I remember that name."
Bartender Campbell paused, wiping down a glass, eyes narrowing as he dredged up the memory.
"She used to come in a lot. I heard she was an actress. Pretty one. Took her own life two years ago."
"She committed suicide?" Charlize asked, her voice thin.
Campbell's tone wasn't exactly certain, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
The words hit Charlize like a cold slap. She masked the panic rising in her chest.
"God, why would she do that? Just give it all up like that?"
"Yeah… why indeed?"
Campbell echoed her sentiment, voice distant, like he was chasing the thought down some old corridor in his mind. He set the glass down gently and let out a sigh.
"I remember she always wore this bright red coat. Couldn't miss it. Real standout. Men used to try talking to her all the time—she'd just sit there, brushing them off, drowning herself in whiskey. Same stool every time."
He paused, then looked at Charlize.
"Funny enough… that's where you were drinking the other night."
Charlize's breath caught. "Go on. What happened that night?"
Campbell furrowed his brow.
"That wasn't last night, was it?"
"No. The night before."
"Right. You've been here two nights in a row. You okay?"
She didn't answer. Her silence was answer enough.
Campbell picked the glass back up, more out of habit than purpose.
"I can't remember every detail—it's been years—but the way you looked, the way you sat there, it reminded me of her. Sorry. That probably sounded worse than I meant."
He shot her a glance of regret, but Charlize didn't respond.
She was somewhere else entirely now.
She sat where I did… before it happened…
The coincidence wrapped itself around her like a snake. Alexis. The red coat. The barstool. The whiskey. All of it. Too perfect to ignore. Or too convenient to believe?
She'd thought Christian was full of it. A con man with a flair for drama.
The footage he'd shown her—blurry, surreal—she figured it was some hypnosis trick. Sleight of hand and suggestion.
So when he told her to check out the Cider House, she went along with it. Not because she believed him, but because she didn't.
She wanted distance. A breath. A way to prove him wrong and reset the nightmare.
But now…
Now she wasn't so sure.
Should I get out of here? Now?
She told herself it was psychological. Just nerves. But she couldn't shake the dread curling in her stomach.
This wasn't the kind of fear that lives in movies—it was colder. Closer. Real.
The next thing she knew, she was outside.
On the street. Walking without memory of having stood up.
Her boots clicked against wet pavement, echoing like whispers.
The overpass loomed ahead—the one she'd stood on, on that night.
The same place Campbell had said Alexis ended her life.
Her pulse quickened. She stared up at the iron frame as if it might speak.
"Is this it?"
The words sliced through her thoughts. A familiar voice. Calm, amused, a little too observant.
Christian Booth stood beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder like they were old friends meeting by chance. His expression was unreadable, but the glint in his eye said he knew.
Earlier that day, after their talk, Charlize had left for the bar.
Christian had made a show of leaving, too, muttering something about preparing tools for a ghost hunt.
EMF meters, salt, incense—standard crap people expect from exorcists. It was all for show.
The truth was, he never left the area.
He doubled back, stuck to the shadows, and followed her from a distance.
Tracking wasn't his strong suit, but she was distracted, lost in her own head. She didn't notice.
"She went to the bar instead of calling the cops. Guess she's taking me seriously now."
He lit a cigarette, watching from across the street, letting the smoke coil around him like a ghost of its own.
The night was damp and quiet—perfect for sneaking around unnoticed.
Leaving her alone had been strategic. She needed time, space to doubt herself, to wonder.
The more questions she had, the more she'd lean on him for answers.
And if she had gone to the cops? Wouldn't matter. He'd have vanished before they got within a block.
Christian was no saint. He never pretended to be.
He operated on the edges, a master of bullshit and misdirection, a man who knew when to disappear and when to reappear with a smirk and a cryptic warning.
People called him an exorcist, a medium, a scam artist. The truth was somewhere in between.
"She's almost there," he muttered.
"Almost ready to see what's really waiting on the other side."
Then he paused.
"But me? Can I actually face what's coming?"
His tone was quieter now. Not for her benefit, but his own.
Because for all his swagger, for all the tricks and rituals and Latin chants—Christian Booth had seen things.
Things that didn't play by the rules.
And no matter how many ghosts he banished, there was always something worse waiting in the wings.
Despite the confident front he kept around Charlize, Christian knew it was mostly just borrowed swagger—leftovers from the ghost that had trained him.
The truth was, he'd never handled a real haunting before.
No field experience. Just theory, secondhand knowledge, and a whole lot of bravado.
He was nervous. Excited, too.
Like a rookie thief picking a lock for the first time, unsure if he'd find treasure or a loaded shotgun on the other side.
"What the hell do I do now?"
From what he'd seen—and what the old ghost had hinted at—this "Alexis" wasn't some raging poltergeist or ancient evil.
She was something simpler. A lost soul, shallow and confused, probably unaware she was even dead.
That made her less dangerous… and more unpredictable.
Christian had access to spells since waking up in this era, sure, but most of them were beyond his reach.
Magic needed mana. He didn't have much of it. Not yet.
What he did have was instinct—and deception.
"Guess the old bastard was right," he muttered to himself.
"Time to bluff my way through."
He stayed on Charlize's trail, watching her from the shadows until she returned to the scene—the place it had all started.
"The spot where Alexis died… that's the same place you were that night, isn't it?"
Charlize jumped at the sound of Christian's voice.
He had a talent for showing up like a bad thought—unwelcome and hard to shake.
She stood frozen for a moment before finally answering.
"Campbell, the bartender, mentioned it," she said.
"Said it happened about two years ago."
"An actress, right?"
Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"Because ghosts like Alexis—ones that linger—don't latch onto people at random. They stick to the living who remind them of what they lost. Or who they were."
Charlize went quiet, trying to process it. Christian let the silence stretch before stepping closer, voice soft but deliberate.
"You got drunk that night after losing a role, right? Full of disappointment, spiraling down. That's what gave her the opening. But ask yourself—why you? Why not someone else? L.A.'s packed with broken people drinking themselves stupid."
"You're saying… she saw herself in me?"
Christian gave a small nod. "More or less."
Charlize bit her lip, her voice low and angry.
"So she thinks I'm just like her? A failure?"
"She doesn't think, not like we do."
He tapped the side of his bandaged head.
"No brain, no logic. Spirits like her run on emotion. Fear, despair, longing. They don't reason—they react. And when someone like you puts out the right signal, they come crawling."
He let that land before adding, almost gently:
"Truth is, Charlize… you didn't get picked by her. You picked her."
His words hit harder than she expected.
Her cheeks flushed with heat, not from embarrassment, but from anger.
She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came. She just stood there, stunned.
Christian saw it in her face—that awful mix of guilt and shame and revelation.
He exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck, then went on, unwilling to sugarcoat it.
"Ghosts like Alexis don't have full memories.
They're broken things—half shadows, barely real.
When they possess someone, they can't control them, not really.
All they can do is turn the volume up on what's already there. Your doubts, your grief. Your worst thoughts."
Charlize snapped. "Enough!"
Her voice rang out, sharp and raw. A couple of pedestrians turned to look, then quickly walked faster.
She didn't notice. Didn't care. Her fists clenched. Her eyes burned.
"You're right, okay?" she shouted.
"I lost the role, and I couldn't handle it. I felt like a fraud, like I'd been faking my way through everything. I thought about giving in—selling myself out. I even considered ending it, but I didn't have the guts. So I blamed her, blamed some ghost I wasn't even sure existed. And now here you are, tearing into me like it's your job!"
Christian didn't flinch. He let her vent, let the fire burn out of her voice until all that was left was silence and the threat of tears.
Then he said quietly:
"Do you regret it?"
She didn't answer. Not with words. Her chin trembled. Her jaw clenched. She blinked hard and fast, refusing to let the tears win.
Christian nodded, almost approvingly.
"Good. You don't have to be fearless. Just honest."
Charlize looked away. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
"Maybe you're full of shit. Maybe this whole thing is some elaborate con. But…"
She turned back to face him.
"I'm still willing to try."
Christian grinned, genuine and a little smug.
"There it is," he said.
"The first real requirement for an exorcism."
Charlize raised an eyebrow.
"Which is?"
"Willingness," he said, grinning wider.
"You've got to want it."
Then, with a wink: "But just saying 'I do' doesn't mean it happens now."
Her face flushed, this time with something halfway between rage and embarrassment.