Night fell in the blink of an eye.

  Down in the hotel’s lobby, a crowd had already gathered, their faces twisted with panic. Some even sat hunched over, scribbling their last wills and testaments.

  “Stick to the plan we made this morning!”

  John and the others had no time to calm the chaos—they were ready to draw the ghost out of hiding.

  “Got it!”

  William and the other two nodded, their voices tight with worry.

  “Boss John, be careful out there.”

  John said nothing more. He turned and strode up the stairs alone, heading for the second floor.

  The hallway was empty, save for the dim, flickering lights lining the walls that cast an eerie glow over everything.

  “Let big bro see just what kind of freak you are…”

  A pouch of rooster’s blood slung over his shoulder, John’s face was calm as he pushed open a door and stepped inside—Miller’s room, the very one he’d stayed in last night.

  If nothing else, his condition had left him with an absurd amount of confidence.

  The local constabulary had been by that day, removing Miller’s body and sanitizing the scene until it was cleaner than any other room in the hotel.

  John might be unhinged, but he had no interest in sharing a room with a corpse.

  “Tonight’s the night.”

  He lay back on the bed, his eyes thoughtful.

  He’d volunteered to be bait not out of some hero complex, but for the two ghost shards.

  He wasn’t a Ghostbearer, but what if his ghostly visage could devour them anyway?

  Besides, running away would do nothing. As he’d said that morning, the ghost had its sights on every single one of them—and his turn would come sooner or later.

  Better to fight back than cower in fear.

  “My physical strength’s off the charts now, and I’ve got the rooster’s blood as a weapon…” he mused to himself. “If I can catch this ghost off guard first, I could take it down all by myself.”

  As he thought, the minutes ticked by,

  until midnight struck sharp.

  John had his eyes closed, pretending to doze—when a sound cut through the silence: footsteps, coming from the floor above.

  He knew for a fact the upper floor was empty.

  There was only one explanation for the sound.

  It’s here. It’s finally here…

  John’s eyes fluttered open, his mind calm, no trace of fear or panic in his gaze.

  This was a game of who cracked first, who showed fear first—and

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Fuck it. You think a nutjob like me’s scared of a ghost?

  But then the footsteps faded, as if whatever was making them had left.

  John didn’t buy it for a second. He kept waiting, his breath steady.

  Sure enough, the footsteps returned, louder and clearer this time—and they were in the hallway outside his door.

  “It’s coming for me…”

  His gaze sharpened, fixed on the door like a hunter lying in wait.

  Until the ghost revealed itself, any move he made would be useless—even dangerous. Panic would creep in if he couldn’t find it,

  and fear was a death sentence in this game. Show even a hint of it, and the fight was lost before it began.

  He lay still on the bed, his expression unchanging, listening as the footsteps drew closer,

  until they were right outside the door—then they passed, and the room’s silence was broken by slow, deliberate steps inside.

  “It’s here.”

  A warm tingle flared in his chest, a warning that the ghost was near.

  The footsteps were right beside his ear now, as if someone was pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed.

  Moonlight seeped through the window, painting the floor in pale silver—and though no one was there, the slow, unhurried thud of footsteps echoed on the wood.

  Any normal person would have broken down by now, their fear spilling out in screams or tears.

  And fear was when the ghost struck.

  But John was far from normal. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. If anything, he wanted to laugh.

  After a while, the footsteps grew faster, more frantic.

  The ghost, it seemed, was growing frustrated—frustrated that John wouldn’t show an ounce of fear.

  “Buddy, a word of advice?” John spoke up, his voice cutting through the silence.

  The footsteps froze. The ghost was caught completely off guard.

  John went on, as if talking to an old friend.

  “Also, the floor’s freezing. You not wearing shoes or something?”

  ???

  The ghost was dumbfounded.

  It had built up this perfect spooky atmosphere, this tense dread—and this was the reaction it got?

  What the hell was going on?!

  “I’ve got a spare pair of slippers if you need ’em,” John said, sitting up slowly and grabbing his slippers from the nightstand. He couldn’t see the ghost, not with the footsteps gone.

  “If you’re not too far gone to move, why not take a few more steps? Can’t exactly hit what I can’t see.”

  …

  The ghost was stunned. This human knew it was a ghost, and yet he wasn’t scared?

  Was this even normal?

  “You actually can move, right? Not just some weak little thing that can only pace?”

  At those words, the ghost acted on instinct—taking a couple of quick steps, as if to prove it wasn’t weak.

  The footsteps rang out again in the silent room.

  “You actually fell for that?!”

  John’s eyes flashed with lightning-fast focus. In an instant, he locked onto the ghost’s position. His right hand, already coated in rooster’s blood, shot forward in a brutal punch!

  He’d planned this all along.

  If the rooster’s blood didn’t touch the ghost, it meant the thing was too powerful for traditional weapons—and he’d play it off as a friendly greeting and book it out of there.

  But if it did hit… well.

  He let out a low chuckle.

  A loud CRUNCH echoed as the punch connected. The Footstep Ghost went flying, caught off guard by the taunt and the sudden attack, its defenses shattered. The rooster’s blood seared its spectral form, burning through the darkness and forcing it to reveal itself.

  “A tasty midnight snack,” John grinned, a feral glint in his eyes, “and big bro’s here for it!”

  He’d already pegged this ghost as a pathetic little weakling—and he was ready to unleash hell.

  In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet, lunging forward like a hunting cheetah.

  “Mid… midnight snack?!”

  The Footstep Ghost’s mind blanked, completely thrown for a loop.

  I’m a ghost! A terrifying, soul-eating ghost! What do you mean a midnight snack?!

  Shock rippled through its spectral form, weakening it even further—and every punch John landed hit that much harder.

  It wasn’t long before a shrill, terrified shriek split the air. The Footstep Ghost was scared—genuinely scared—and it turned to flee, bolting for the door.

  But it was too slow, its form still burning from the rooster’s blood. There was no escaping John now.

  Fear was a ghost’s greatest weakness.

  And the second this one showed fear, its fate was sealed.

  John’s punches were ruthless, each one slamming into the ghost and tearing its form apart. It whimpered, a strange, guttural sound of terror, as it crumpled to the floor, gravely wounded.

  “Now you know what happens when you mess with me,” John snarled, a vicious grin on his face, “when you ruin my damn sleep with your stupid pacing!” He raised his fist, ready to deliver the killing blow—

  Down at the bottom of the stairs, William and the other two were racing up to the second floor.

  They’d agreed to check on John every few minutes, just in case something went wrong.

  They’d barely stepped onto the second floor when William’s face paled. The sound of fighting—of punches and a ghost’s terrified shrieks—was coming loud and clear from John’s room.

  “Shit! Boss John’s in trouble!” he yelled, sprinting toward the door. “Hurry! Save him!”