Chapter 2

The old Miller estate looked like a skeleton against the gray sky. The paint was peeling, the windows were dark and empty like vacant eyes, and the once-perfect garden was now a tangled mess of weeds. The air was heavy and still. It felt like a place that had been holding its breath for a very long time.

We all got out of the cars-my parents, Brittany, and the flock of relatives who had come to witness the spectacle.

"This place gives me the creeps," my Aunt Carol whispered, clutching her purse. "It always did. Even before... you know."

My mother glared at the decrepit house.

"This is all her fault. She tainted this land. She tainted our lives. I hope she rots in hell for what she' s done to us."

Her voice was low and full of venom. She didn' t care who heard. My father just nodded, his face pale and grim. He looked at Madame Zelda, his eyes pleading.

"Where? Where is she buried?"

Madame Zelda didn' t look at the house. She walked past it, towards an old, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the property. The ground beneath it was uneven, covered in dead leaves.

"Here," she said simply.

The men, my father and my uncles, grabbed the shovels from the trunk. As the first shovel bit into the earth, Brittany let out a soft sob.

"I can' t believe it' s come to this," she whispered to my mother. "I was the one who convinced her to come here that day. We were going to camp out, just us sisters. She said she wanted to bury a time capsule. She was so excited. She... she said she wanted to do it herself, to have a secret spot."

She made it sound so innocent, so tragic. My mother hugged her tightly.

"It' s not your fault, sweetie. You were just being a good sister. She was always the difficult one."

I felt a phantom pain, a memory of a different truth. I wasn't excited. I was terrified. And Brittany wasn't being a good sister.

Their shovels struck something hard. A hollow thud echoed in the quiet air. They worked faster, clearing the dirt away from the top of a small, cheap wooden box. It wasn't a proper coffin, just a crate.

I watched them, a ghost tethered to their grief and their lies. Every hateful word from my mother, every sigh of agreement from my father, every fake tear from Brittany-it was like being buried all over again. They thought they were digging up a body, but they were just unearthing their own guilt, even if they couldn' t see it.

With a final heave, my uncles lifted the crate out of the hole and set it on the ground. It was caked in mud. My father stared at it, his breath catching in his throat.

"Open it," my mother commanded, her voice shaking. "Let' s get this over with."

My uncle took a crowbar and pried the lid open. A loud crack echoed, and the lid fell to the side.

Everyone leaned in, holding their breath, expecting to see bones, expecting to see the decayed proof of their problem.

But the coffin was empty.

A collective gasp went through the crowd.

"It' s empty!" my Aunt Carol shrieked. "Oh my god, she' s not here! The demon has taken her body!"

Panic erupted. My mother stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. My father looked at Madame Zelda, his face a mixture of terror and confusion.

"What does this mean? Is she so powerful she has escaped her own grave?"

Madame Zelda ignored their hysteria. Her eyes were fixed on the bottom of the empty box. There, half-buried in the dirt and grime, was a single object. It was an old digital photo frame, the kind that was popular years ago. It was caked in mud but seemed strangely intact.

She reached in and picked it up. She wiped it clean with a cloth from her pocket.

"The spirit is not in the ground," she said, her voice cutting through their panic. "It is in the truth."

She found a small port on the side and pulled a portable power bank from her bag. She connected it. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the small screen flickered to life.

An image appeared.

It was me, younger, maybe seven or eight years old, with a huge, gappy smile. I was sitting on my father' s shoulders, my arms wrapped around his head. He was laughing, looking up at me with a love that I had long forgotten. In the background, my mother was smiling, a genuine, happy smile. It was a picture from a time before everything went wrong, a time when we were a family.

A wave of murmurs went through the relatives. My parents stared at the screen, their faces frozen in shock. It was a memory they had buried deeper than any coffin.

Then the image changed. It was a short video clip. I was a teenager, looking shy and awkward. Brittany was next to me, putting an arm around my shoulder.

"Come on, Chloe, smile!" Brittany' s voice said from the device. "This is our sister adventure! I even got you this frame so we can put all our best memories on it."

In the video, I looked up at her, my eyes full of gratitude and trust.

"Thank you, Brit. You' re the best sister ever."

The video ended.

In the present, the real Brittany burst into tears, collapsing against my father.

"I just wanted her to be happy," she cried, her body shaking with sobs. "I tried so hard to be a good sister to her."

My father and mother rushed to comfort her, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words. They looked at the empty coffin and the digital frame with renewed anger, convinced my ungrateful spirit was mocking her.

But I saw Brittany' s face when she lifted it from my father' s shoulder. The tears were real, but her eyes, for just a second, were cold and hard as stone. Her grief was a performance, and she had her audience captivated.