The Soul Escort

That night on the lunar calendar's seventh month fifteenth, the moon was smothered under thick clouds, and the wind carried a cold that seemed like it could seep right through your bones. I was driving that van I've had for almost ten years, heading to South Cemetery. This is the hundredth job I've taken, delivering the last eight 'guests' to the entrance to the underworld. As long as I get them there before midnight tonight, I'll officially be out of training, and Grandpa can finally kick back and enjoy his peace. Just after the city moat's old bridge, a black sports car suddenly shot out from the right side. Before I could even hit the brakes, there was a muffled bang as it slammed hard into the right rear side of my van. My first reaction wasn't to worry about the van, but to grip the wheel tight and check the backseat—I was afraid the 'guests' might freak out. The sports car's door slammed open, and a guy in a black suit stumbled out, reeking of booze. He had an iron baseball bat in his hand, walked up to my window, and raised it like he was gonna smash it. "You blind or what? Driving this crappy car and blocking Miss Scott's way?" Spit splattered onto the broken glass, mixed with the booze smell—so disgusting. I rolled down the window, about to tell him he switched lanes illegally, when he jabbed a finger in my face and cursed. "You're a broke-ass loser. Scratch this car’s paint, and selling you off wouldn't even cover the damage!" I glanced at the backseat of the sports car; the window was half down, and there was a woman in a white dress sitting there. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were ice-cold. She shot me a look, then looked away, full of disdain. "Tim Clark, don't waste your time with him." The woman's voice was cold, "Take me home to see my fiance. If I'm late again, Grandpa's gonna be pissed." So that driver's name was Tim Clark. He heard her, then slammed my car window hard, glass shards falling and cutting my leg. "Consider yourself lucky! If I catch you messing with me again, I'll smash your car to hell!" He cursed as he slammed back into the sports car, black smoke billowing out the tailpipe, screwing around as he turned sharply onto the side road ahead. I didn't rush to chase him; instead, I glanced back at the rear seat first. Eight urns were lined up neat as hell, with eight ghostly shadows hovering over them—men, women, young and old. They weren't freaking out, just staring cold as ice out the window, like nothing was moving them. I let out a breath, whispering to them, "Hold tight, almost there, don't go wandering off." The woman in the red dress among the ghostly shadows—Vivian—gave a quiet nod. I fired up the van, just shifted into gear, and out of the corner of my eye caught the back seat—my heart skipped a beat. No way—there were eight ghostly shadows just a second ago, now there's only seven? I slammed on the brakes and counted three times; one of the urns was missing too—Vivian's was gone! The whole thing just got a whole lot worse. The fifteenth of the seventh lunar month is when the ghost gate opens, and it's also Vivian's first seventh-night soul-return. Back when she was alive, she sold luxury crap, surrounded by rich assholes, super high maintenance. Then her family went to a mess, her husband ran off with gambling debts, she got fired, and when she argued with the debt collectors, she fell down the stairs and died. The grudge after death's heavy as hell. If it breaks out, it's easy for it to turn into a vengeful ghost and mess people up. Thinking back on it, she slipped away when I was squaring off with Tim Clark. The way she looked at that sports car was off—she probably tagged along with it. I clenched my teeth, swung the wheel around, and took off after the direction the sports car vanished into. The van's slow as hell, but I got the plate number and know how to get to the Scott family old mansion—who in River City doesn't know Quincy Scott's the Scott family's golden girl. After driving for about twenty-five minutes, a green-brick courtyard showed up ahead. That sports car was parked right at the gate, Tim Clark sat in the driver's seat, holding his phone and making a call. I parked the car under the roadside shade, sneaked closer, and could clearly hear what he was saying. "Bro, I’ll take the car to your place for repairs tomorrow. Quote the price high—the Scott family's loaded." "Split the profit like always, fifty-fifty. Oh, and check the license plate of that van that just hit me." "Find that his address. I gotta teach him a lesson—blocking Miss Scott's way? He's dead meat!" Before he finished talking, I saw a red shadow float out from the sports car's trunk, drifting toward Tim Clark's back. It's Vivian! She's trying to possess Tim Clark! No time to think—I rushed over and slapped Tim Clark. That slap wasn't just to vent; I used some old family trick to break apart the attached ghost energy.