Part 1I've Been Dead Three Years My Sister Kicked Down My Door for a Final Battle

My sister and I spent our lives fighting over the family fortune.

She hit me with her car, putting me in the hospital. I snuck into her room in the middle of the night and pulled the oxygen tube from her nose.

The year our hatred for each other finally peaked, the family went bankrupt.

We were forced into a truce, each of us left to fend for ourselves.

Ten years later, my sister, Ava, was a titan of the business world. The first thing she did when she returned to the States was smash the art studio that was my entire life. She ripped the family portrait I’d painted to shreds with her own two hands and screamed for me to come out and fight her.

“Leo! We’re not done yet! Don’t be a goddamn coward.”

“You love these paintings so much, don’t you?”

“If you don’t show your face, I’ll burn every last one of them to the ground!”

I threw a punch at her, but my hand passed right through her body.

It took me a long moment to remember.

I’d been dead for three years.

These paintings were my last gift to my sister—to the world.

* * *

Ava Ashford’s return was an event.

The media swarmed the airport, a frenzy of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Business leaders from every sector vied for a meeting. But she turned down every invitation, every partnership offer, and instead sped directly from her private jet to my studio.

Studio was a generous term. It was the top floor of a crumbling pre-war building, five flights up and no elevator.

Ava was heaving for breath by the time she reached the top, muttering a stream of curses under her breath.

“Leo, you son of a bitch. Hiding in a shithole like this just to avoid me.”

“You just wait. When I find you, I’ll break your other leg!”

I floated a glob of spit at her, wishing I could claw at her perfectly made-up face. She was complaining after one trip up the stairs. For years, I had dragged my shattered leg up and down those same stairs, over and over again.

A sudden, violent crash snapped me out of my thoughts.

Ava had kicked the door to my studio clean off its hinges.

She stood silhouetted in the doorway, a cloud of dust billowing around her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Does a person actually live here?”

“Leo, you used to complain if a mattress cost less than ten thousand dollars. What happened to you?”

She plopped down on my painting stool, her breathing still ragged.

Our last battle had cost me my leg. But Ava hadn’t walked away unscathed. The oxygen deprivation had left her with permanent brain damage, subtle but there. Her heart and lungs were severely weakened. She’d spent a fortune on a dedicated medical team just to keep her alive a few extra years.

“Useless,” I muttered, rolling my ghostly eyes.

I watched, cold and detached, as Ava directed her men to tear my studio apart. But they were as useless as she was. They found the stash of morphine bottles under my bed, but not a single trace of me.

Ava scanned the room, her eyes landing on an empty prescription box. She kicked it across the floor. A bitter smile twisted her lips.

“No wonder your life turned into this garbage fire. Got yourself hooked on the hard stuff, didn't you?”

“And you wanted to fight me for the inheritance? Leo, if the Ashford fortune had ended up in your hands, I wouldn’t have been able to rest in my grave.”

At that, Ava’s expression flickered, a shadow passing over her eyes. She seemed to be remembering something distant. Remembering the moment our war began.

When she looked up again, her face was pure ice.

Her gaze swept the room, finally settling on the large painting in the center: the family portrait.

The sight of my face, so familiar, finally shattered her composure. She stormed forward and ripped the canvas from its easel. With two violent tears, she shredded it.

“You think you deserve to be in a family portrait?” she spat.

“I told you, there’s no place for you in the Ashford family. I don’t have a brother like you!”

“I have one brother, and one brother only. His name is Noah!”

That name, one I hadn’t heard in so long, made my spectral form flicker.

Still not satisfied, Ava screamed for me to come out and face her. The dusty studio remained silent.

She pulled a Zippo from her pocket, flicking it open. The flame danced dangerously.

“Leo, you spineless bastard. What’s the point in hiding?”

“I swear to God, I won’t stop until you’re dead! If you don’t come out right now, I’m going to burn every single one of these pathetic paintings!”

As the words left her mouth, a small, hidden compartment behind the destroyed portrait clicked open. A single videotape clattered to the floor.

And from a digital voice recorder on a nearby shelf, my voice echoed through the room.

“Ava, if you dare touch my paintings, I’ll haunt you from the grave.”