Part 3

  There are many different kinds of spirits. In modern terminology, we use the word Passed to describe all recently deceased souls. They’re peaceful and instinctively understand what must be done.

  If a Guide doesn’t reach a Passed quickly enough, the spirit grows more volatile with every minute they’re made to wait. A soul that initially wants to continue its journey can devolve into something much more connected to the physical plane—something dangerous.

  Every ordained Guide must go through rigorous training. We start with sensitivity classes, learning how to support grieving families. In later years, we study the different types of spirits—and the terrible things they can become. Finally, we’re trained to handle all spirit forms, from the newly Passed to the far more sinister.

  Those of us who can see the Passed but lack the ability to handle families become Exorcists. They are an elite group with one duty: to eliminate spirits that refuse to move on. They don’t guide souls—they erase them, destroying their energy entirely.

  I’ve only seen one exorcism firsthand, and I’ve heard stories. It’s traumatic for the families. And for the Passed? It’s said to be agonizing. For us Guides, we never recover. I never did.

  The greatest danger a Guide faces is the temptation to pass along messages from the living to the dead. It sounds harmless. Kind, even. But it’s not. A spirit continues its journey through pure instinct—and instinct can be completely overshadowed by passion. We hear the horror stories all the time. A newly Passed soul, moments from transition, hears a final wish and decides they don’t want to leave. Maybe they need to take revenge on a daughter-in-law for cheating on their son. Maybe they want to see their grandson’s birth. Maybe they just can’t bear to let go. It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that when a Passed decides to stay, they transform—and what they become is unpredictable, terrifying, and deadly. They cannot continue on their journey past that. An exorcist will be called, and put them down quickly.

  We Guides hold a sacred oath. Once ordained, we sacrifice many freedoms. Our entire lives are devoted to serving the public. We still get personal time, but at any moment, we must be ready to help a soul continue its journey. Similar to a doctor or firefighter, we are servants to the public. We strive for the betterment of all of us.

  My first year as a Guide, I was assigned to shadow a mentor. Her name was Lorenna. She was everything I aspired to be—empathetic, determined, and wise beyond her years. She understood our purpose better than most professors. I idolized her. And I probably would have forever. If our paths continued together.

  Our appointment that day was a house on the outskirts of town. The home stood in an older neighborhood, nestled between massive, ancient trees. Leaves littered the cracked pavement of the driveway, swirling in the cold wind. The mailbox hung crookedly from a rusted post, and the porch light flickered as if struggling to hold on. It was the kind of house that felt heavy. Not just in the air but in the soul of the place. The woman who lived here had just lost her husband to suicide.

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  The first thing that hit me when we stepped inside was the smell—a mixture of stale air, cleaning chemicals, and something metallic. The house was spotless, but the tension inside was suffocating. We made our way to the bathroom. The moment we stepped in, my stomach clenched. Blood was everywhere. It splattered across the white shower tiles, dried in long, jagged streaks down the drain. He must have chosen the bathroom thinking it would be easier for his wife to clean up. The Passed wasn’t there. We found him outside—on the back patio, beneath a sky streaked with fading sunlight.

  He was sitting, staring upward. When we approached, he greeted us calmly. He knew what was happening. Knew who we were and what we were there to do. Lorenna smiled softly. She spoke gently, telling him about his wife—how she loved him, how she hoped he would find the peace he never could in life. His ethereal form shuddered, his eyes glistening with emotion. If he could have cried, I think he would have. Everything was going perfectly.

  Lorenna set down her bag, reaching for her totem—the spiritual object she used to guide souls into the Beyond. And then—BANG. The front door slammed open. Footsteps. A woman’s scream. Lorenna and I both jumped. The Passed froze, unable to see anything except our reactions. Two men. Armed. They’d broken in, thinking the house was empty after the husband’s death. But they had rushed over. They’d expected us to be done already—for us to be gone. Lorenna shouted for them to leave. And I—like a complete idiot—told the Passed what was happening. I didn’t think. I just reacted.

  The change was instantaneous. His eyes darkened, black voids swallowing their former glow. The delicate tendrils of his form thickened, lashed outward, striking the kitchen walls. The entire air shifted—like the sudden pull of a black hole. He was transforming.

  It took less than five seconds. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes—Lorenna was impaled. A thick tendril of darkness had pierced straight through her chest. The robbers? They were gone, tripping over each other in terror as they fled. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then I saw her blood drip onto the floor. And I grabbed the widow’s hand and ran.

  We barely made it out the front door. Behind us, the entire house shook. The sound of splintering wood echoed in the air. Windows shattered, exploding outward as the walls caved inward. The demon—because that’s what he had become now—was tearing the house apart from the inside.

  This was the first time I had ever seen a demon. They are among the strongest of devolved spirits. Soulless. Vicious. Consumed by rage. I held the widow as she sobbed. Looking back at the house, I saw the windows pulsing with shadows—swirls of purple and green writhing as the demon destroyed everything inside. If Lorenna had somehow survived that initial attack, the wake that followed would have finished her. We sat on the ground and cried together—this stranger and I, bound by the same grief.

  The Exorcists arrived within minutes. They made quick work of the demon. They didn’t speak to me. Just nodded as they left—because their job was over, and I still had to do mine. I had to tell this poor woman that her husband was gone. That we failed. That there was nothing she could ever do to get him back. That was the worst moment of my entire career.

  I know I shouldn’t talk to spirits about their lives. Most are strong. But some—the rare ones, the dangerous ones—aren’t. And when they aren’t, the devastation can be immeasurable. But I’d never seen a message of love turn dangerous. It’s why I still share last wishes. I still break the rules. Because I cannot look into a grieving family’s eyes, knowing I could say one last thing—and refuse.

  I just can’t.

  I went into the house after. I was the one who helped Lorenna pass. I pulled out my dream catcher, and helped her on her journey. I will never forget my mentor.

  I will never forget her.