Christian wasn't doing this out of charity or some misguided sense of duty.
He was here because he made a promise to the girl, one he intended to keep.
The goal was simple: deal with the ghost tormenting her, especially the one that called itself Alexis.
Hauntings often start with suspicion. It feeds them. Spirits latch on when people crack under the weight of their own darkness.
Misery, regret, guilt—those are the real invitations. You don't need to summon a demon; just hate yourself enough, and something'll come knocking.
Charlize had been through hell. And somewhere in that spiral, Alexis found a way in.
She wasn't being hunted at random—she was a magnet for things like Alexis.
Christian figured that much from the start. The only way to get rid of it was to take away what kept it tethered: her pain.
He wasn't naive. People heal, sure—but not always fast enough.
And Alexis wasn't a malicious spirit, not exactly. It was a leech.
If Charlize managed to fight through the grief and guilt, it would fade. But Christian wasn't in the mood to gamble.
Not with a soul in the balance. Besides, it was time he put his knowledge to work—time to get his hands dirty.
"Feel more agitated than usual?" he asked, glancing sideways at Charlize as they moved through her apartment.
It was late. They'd just come back from the local precinct, where they'd confirmed the story behind Alexis—details best left unspoken. Now it was time for the hard part.
In her bedroom, Christian got to work.
The place was dim, silent except for the faint creak of floorboards and the rustle of salt pouring from a cheap paper bag. He didn't ask her to help—couldn't, really.
She didn't have the money for materials, and he wasn't about to add guilt to her already-loaded conscience.
"What are you doing?" Charlize asked, standing near the bed.
He moved in deliberate motions, forming a circle of white salt around her feet. "Old trick," he muttered.
"Salt's sacred in a lot of old legends. It's not the miracle people make it out to be, but it's useful."
"Useful how?"
Christian paused, lifting his eyes to hers.
"It won't stop anything strong. But it's a good early warning system. Like a tripwire."
She looked down at the salt. "It's just... falling. Isn't it?"
"Watch closely," he said. "Salt should drop in a clean arc, following gravity. But when something else is in the room—something not breathing or bleeding—it messes with that. You'll see it drift, twitch, scatter weird."
"Like interference," she said slowly.
He gave her a nod. "Exactly. Same way static messes with a TV. Ghosts don't like salt. Doesn't hurt them much, but it's like a mosquito bite. Irritating enough to make them twitch."
"Nice metaphor," she muttered.
"So the messed-up salt... that's them flinching?"
"Flinching. Lashing out. Reacting. Call it whatever you like. The thing is, spirits don't understand subtlety. They're creatures of habit. They hate being noticed. You drop salt in the right place, and they'll show you just how much they want to stay hidden."
Charlize crossed her arms, eyes scanning the uneven trails.
"So, all this... means Alexis is here?"
Christian's jaw tightened slightly. "She never left."
Silence settled between them like a thick fog.
The salt lines were a mess, disturbed in ways no wind or draft could explain.
She stared at them, breath catching in her throat.
"This is fascinating," she said softly, trying to sound brave.
"Also horrifying."
Christian gave a dry chuckle, lit a cigarette, and let the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"Welcome to my world."
"But here's the part that should keep you up tonight," Christian said, letting the words settle like ash.
"Those salt trails? They show Alexis is always with you. Not sometimes. Not during the nightmares. Always."
Charlize's voice was small. "But... I don't feel anything."
"You wouldn't. Like I told you, she's not exactly top-shelf horror material."
He grabbed a broom and began sweeping the salt into a pile with slow, steady strokes.
"She's barely aware of herself. Most of the time, she's more instinct than ghost—no consistent form, no identity. Just noise. But when your emotions spike—when you crack a little—that's when she stirs. That's when she latches on."
"Kind of like... emotional static?" Charlize offered.
Christian gave her a nod without stopping.
"Exactly. You spiral, she sticks. You stabilize, she fades into the background. That's why this has to be dealt with now, while we still have an edge."
He handed her the broom. "Your turn."
Charlize frowned, lips tightening into a pout, but she took the broom anyway.
As she swept, she noticed some of the salt clinging to strands of her hair.
Her cheeks turned red. She didn't say anything, but Christian noticed and smirked.
"Why are we sweeping it away?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
"Because I need her calm, not pissed off," he said, arching an eyebrow.
"The salt was a test—needed to confirm she's always near. If she'd come and gone, that'd mean we're dealing with a drifter. But no, she's camped out in your shadow. Now that we've stirred the hornet's nest, we need to tidy up before she gets defensive."
He glanced at the wall, already thinking ahead. "Agitation makes her harder to manipulate. And I'm going to need her... cooperative."
"Cooperative?" Charlize repeated.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm setting a trap," he said plainly.
"You don't wrestle with ghosts. You trick them. Outsmart them. Think of it like trying to outswim a shark—you don't win by being faster. You win by keeping them distracted long enough to slip the hook in."
He tapped his temple. "This is the real weapon."
Charlize shook her head with a half-laugh.
"You sound like a con man."
Christian's smile was crooked.
"Was one."
He turned on his heel and stepped out of the room.
"Clean up the rest. I've got work to do."
Charlize muttered under her breath as she finished sweeping.
"Total charlatan…"
When she was done, she looked up and froze. Her prized First Blood Part III poster was gone. Not just moved—gone. That was her Stallone autograph. The one she'd held onto since high school. A collector's treasure. Her eye twitched.
"You absolute bastard!" she snapped.
"That poster was signed by Stallone. If you've wrecked it—"
Christian didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at her.
He was already at the wall, carefully affixing three square papers, the ink still damp, to the spot where the poster had hung.
"What the hell is that?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. She stepped closer, squinting at the strange, ink-scrawled markings.
"Wait... is that—? Is that Japanese?"
"No," Christian said without looking at her.
"It's for protection."