Page 8 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

No. No crumbling. Not right now.

I gather the shreds of my sanity and shove them into one shaky sentence. “You need to get out of my head. Right now.”

“You sure about that?” he murmurs. “Because I think we really could have a lot of fun together.”

“Stop—stop talking like that. I’m being serious. Out of my head. I⁠—”

He lifts a brow slowly. “You can scream beg or plead, it changes absolutely nothing. I am not in your head. I’m here. I’m staying. That’s the situation.”

“But I don’t want you here,” I whisper thinly.

“I couldn’t give two fucks in a lake of fire,” he scoffs. “Life is an avalanche of disappointments, and I’ve been at the bottom of the pile for a long time. So settle in, you’ve got a brand-new best friend. Lucky you. I’m excellent company. A little murdery, sure, but delightful once you stop gasping for air like a trout on land.”

My nerves fizz stupidly, rendering me almost completely useless. My hands shake so hard I nearly knock the phone onto the floor as I snatch it off the table.

This is not happening. This cannot be happening.

Maybe I should call my mom, my dad, or Piper—but what would I even say? “Hey, sorry to bother you, but there’s an evil manifestation of my own horrific life choices standing in my apartment and it won’t leave.”

I thumb the screen awake, the harsh LED light blinding in the dim room. I bypass my contacts and open the browser instead, hovering over the search bar.

Maybe the police.

Maybe a crisis line.

Maybe someone qualified in—shit—what even is the correct place to go to for this?

PTSD hallucinations real? How to manage?

“Post-traumatic stress disorder, isn’t it?” he drawls, so close the scent of bonfire and spice floods my senses. “Plenty of mortals come screaming through the gates with that one. Though you don’t look the type for war. Not nearly enough bloodlust in those pretty eyes.”

“You don’t just get PTSD from wars,” I snap, my thumbs shaking as I scroll. “You can get it from—oh, you know what? Why am I even explaining this? I’m arguing with a figment of my own mind.”

He leans further in, pointing a long, silver finger at the screen.

“Headaches… dizziness…” He hums thoughtfully. “Check and check. Oh, look at this one—mood swings and irritability. Well, that certainly explains the delightful attempt to baptize me in cold tea, doesn’t it?”

I lock my jaw, scrolling faster, trying to find a solution to whatever the fuck’s going on.

“Visual misperceptions of figures not present… very on-brand,” he murmurs. “Auditory distortions… that must be my irresistible charm echoing through your tormented psyche. You’re really speed-running the checklist.”

“Shut up!” The words teeter on the edge of a scream.

He chuckles darkly. “So what’s the verdict, internet doctor? Am I a concussion? A trauma response? Faulty electrics? Or am I the dead boyfriend’s ghost disguised as something much more attractive?” He tilts his head, his horns nearly brushing my temple. “Maybe I’m your deep-seated sexual repression manifesting with horns. Or—ooh, here’s an idea—am I simply... a demon?”

I’m losing my fucking mind. I’m actually losing it.

I need to go.

I need out. Right now.

If I can just get out of this room—out of this apartment—I can fix this. If I can get to the street, to fresh air, to people who aren’t him, I can make him disappear. I won’t think about him. It. Whatever it is.

I skirt around him, keeping as much distance as the narrow room allows, and make a beeline for the door. I jam my feet into my boots without untying them, nearly falling as I grab my jacket off the hook. All while that thing just stands there watching me, head cocked, eyes bright and unbearably amused.

His breath fans across the back of my neck. “What are you doing? Abandoning your brand-new best friend? Leaving me alone with all your precious belongings and your House-Beast in the middle of the night just to escape me? Bold choice.”

My fingers fumble at my zip as it sticks slightly halfway up.