From a manuscript in the desk of one Jessica Chanel.

Do you believe in ghosts? I don’t mean in an abstract sort of way, where you think it's a “possible” nebulous realm of uncertainty. Do you believe that ghosts, demons, and hell, even angels and fairies exist? I don’t intend to put you on the spot by asking; I’m merely curious to try and catch a glimpse of how my past self viewed things. You must think I’m weird asking if you believe, like some deranged Peter Pan trying to stop Tinkerbell’s light from going out. 

I’ll admit, I had always “believed in hosts, the same way you often end up believing in God. I was raised Catholic, and even without the intense conviction that many have I still took for granted the low-key awareness that there are powers greater than myself. Not a grand conviction; those are for the truly faithful. No, I believed in ghosts the same way I believed in god, and the same way I believed in any other fanciful tales that fell under the heading of possible and plausible. It was all larger and largely unrelated to me. 

You must believe in the same way I used to. You picked up my story, after all. Now, what am I talking about? This story will not be published. If someone besides me is reading it, they must be going through my stuff without my permission. I’m not even using a computer to write this. I bought a typewriter for the express purpose of putting this tale down on paper, so that it may haunt my dreams less. They do say that writing thighs out can be cathartic, in my psych classes. You can tell from all the typos and mistakes that I’m still acclimating to this rather handsome-looking Underwood after being so used to the convenience of a computer. But my newfound paranoia wont let me use such an un-secure method, so clickity clack I go. 

The other possibility for you reading this is that I’m dead, in which case I strongly recommend you burn this manuscript. Not to protect me; in this hypothetical scenario I’m already dead. You could post this online, send it to the newspapers, or put your name on it and send it to a publisher for all I care. It’s not my skin at risk. But there might be some who might be unhappy about this story finding its way out into the world. Burning it now before it’s too late is the smartest option. But I myself don’t usually pick the “smart” option. That’s why I’m writing this manuscript, that’s why I got myself into this mess that occurs on the following pages and that’s why, despite the jokes about “if you’re reading this I am already dead”I have the lingering fear that someone or something might decide it’s better that I stop doing that pesky “breathing thing. 

On the off chance you read on, just try to convince yourself that this is just a work of creative fiction. Admittedly it’s a poorly written one. But that’s your fault for reading through my papers. I’m writing this in the form of a first-person story for the sake of my own attempt to process what I went through, what might have happened and what I may be facing in the future. But there are several plot holes, an unsatisfying “deus ex machina ending and, annoyingly, a romance that’s much too slow-burning for my preference. Like, get the hint and ask em out already, dumb fuck. Like most ominous typewritten manuscripts hint