It was a beautiful day. She enjoyed every minute of it and appreciated it fully. The sun had vanished behind thick gray clouds, a light drizzle ruled the sky for hours, and the cold wind blew hard. Yes, it was the perfect weather to stay in and hide from the world. She had no grand plans. She just wanted to rest, relax, and read a book in peace.

  She’d woken up in a great mood, which honestly hadn’t happened in quite a while. Looking out the window, she sighed in delight.

  “Perfect weather,” she said to Marcel, who stood beside her.

  But the ghost didn’t share her enthusiasm. Not even a little.

  “It’s raining, it’s gray, and it’s miserable,” he growled, already sinking into a deep depression. “How can you possibly like this?”

  “Oh, Marcel, you just don’t get it,” Alice began.

  But the ghost cut her off.

  “As usual. But don’t let it bother you. Ignore me entirely. I’ll just sit here and rot, soaking in the juices of my own bitterness. No need to even glance in my direction. I’ll simply lose myself in the contemplation of my infinite suffering and marvel at its glorious multidimensionality.”

  Alice burst into bright laughter and walked toward the wardrobe.

  “You’re not ruining this day for me, Marcel. Not a chance.”

  His long, theatrical sob struck her as the most beautiful kind of music. Grinning from ear to ear, she headed for a hot shower. Marcel kept sobbing while she washed every inch of her young, firm body. He sobbed while she got dressed. He sobbed while she ate breakfast. But after three hours of wallowing, even he had enough. He started aimlessly drifting around the apartment, determined to do something—anything—to ruin her mood. That was now his new life goal.

  Or rather, his post-life goal.

  Alice found the ghost’s behavior endlessly amusing. In some twisted way, she adored Marcel the way any sadist adores the screams of their favorite victim. Of course, she was fully aware of it. She didn’t dwell on it, and when she did acknowledge it, she felt a strange, dark pride rather than fear.

  After breakfast, she made herself lunch and dove into a quick, intense workout. She strengthened her energy field, passed some power to Marcel, and checked the integrity of her protective barrier, then the second one, the one she’d built inside the apartment. She skipped the more advanced techniques like levitation or telekinesis. Who had time for that when the weather was so perfect? It wasn’t that she actually liked rainy days for their own sake; she liked the idea of them, the notion that she could laugh in their face from the comfort of her warm little home. Just knowing that somewhere out there someone was cold and soaked to the bone, their umbrella torn from their hands by the wind and clothes clinging wetly to their skin, was oddly soothing. After all, what could be better than mocking fate when, for once, it had skipped you?

  She ate lunch slowly, watching Marcel drift from corner to corner. She savored every bite as he launched into another passionate monologue, a detailed account of her wickedness and the profound hatred he held for her. She especially enjoyed the part with the curses.

  “...may her labia rot, and her foul, corrupted womb fill with the stinking slime of decay. May her legs swell until they can no longer carry her through this wretched life. May she suffer every day as I suffer, or even a hundred times more. May she pay for all her sins, those she committed, those she tried to commit, and even those she only thought about committing...”

  “If mentally violating people counts too, then I’m burning in hell for all eternity,” she said with a wicked smile, raising her right eyebrow as if her words carried some coy, indecent innuendo.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “You’re ruining the mood,” Marcel huffed, then continued: “May her body be covered in painful blisters. May her thoughts become tangled. May everyone abandon her. May her inner ugliness outshine her outer beauty. No, that’s not enough. So again: may her inner ugliness forever corrupt her once-beautiful body…”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Alice dipped her head graciously toward the ghost. But clearly, he had no idea what she meant, because he froze and asked, “What?”

  “For the beautiful body part. Thanks for appreciating it. I work really hard on it.”

  “No, you don’t!” Marcel snapped. “You hate exercising! You say it all the time. And your diet’s a mess, and your lifestyle’s anything but balanced.”

  “But I code my appearance,” Alice said, practically glowing with pride.

  “I hate you,” the ghost growled.

  “I know!”

  Her bright laugh burst from her throat.

  “If you send me away, I’ll stop,” Marcel said hopefully. “You should think about it. I can keep this up for eternity.”

  “Be my guest,” she said, carrying her dishes to the sink.

  After lunch, she pulled a bag of cookies from the cupboard, brewed a fresh cup of coffee, and settled at her favorite little table with a book she’d bought a few days earlier. She read slowly, savoring every word, every sentence, carefully visualizing even the smallest details of the world the author described. This was why she adored days like this. She could read guilt-free. When the sky was blue and the sun shining, you felt obligated to go outside. But when it rained, that pressure vanished, replaced with cosmic permission to do absolutely nothing. Time slowed, stretched, and made real rest possible. If it were up to her, every other day would be just like this. Maybe she’d allow the occasional downpour too. Those had their own kind of magic.

  As she basked in both her book and the glory of the rainy day, Marcel came up with a new way to get her attention. This time, she didn’t see it coming. First, she heard a soft scraping sound, like something gently shifting. She looked up, but noticed nothing unusual. A few moments later, the noise returned. She glanced around again, then narrowed her eyes at the ghost.

  “What was that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “What was what?” Marcel replied, wearing one of the most innocent expressions he could muster.

  She went back to her book. She made it through maybe four sentences before the sound returned, louder this time, and now she recognized it. A teacup was sliding across the tabletop.

  “Stop it,” she said, glancing at the ghost standing a few steps away.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  She didn’t respond, just shook her head. But the spirit had sensed it; he’d found one of Alice’s weak spots. The teacup merrily continued its journey. One full lap around the table later, Alice was angry. Maybe not furious, but definitely no longer calm.

  “I can stop,” the ghost offered helpfully. “You just have to send me away.”

  As usual, his mood steadily improved as Alice’s declined.

  “Here’s some friendly advice,” she said without looking up from her book. “Drop it, and maybe I’ll be merciful.”

  That, of course, wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. The teacup resumed its journey. Even more infuriating was the movement itself. It was broken into jerky intervals every dozen seconds or so. Just when you thought the torture had stopped, it would start again.

  “You could spare yourself the suffering,” the ghost coaxed in a sugary voice. “You could still have your perfect day.”

  Alice refused to answer. She kept reading, hoping he’d get bored before she did. Unfortunately, an hour later, she realized that was unlikely. The little bastard had an incredible talent for being a pain in the ass when he put his mind to it.

  “Stop it, for fuck’s sake,” she growled, snapping the book shut.

  “I told you, I’ll stop if you send me away.”

  Her irritation hit a dangerously high level, and she had no intention of letting the stupid game continue. The energy around her began to stir, humming with tension, needing only proper direction.

  “I’m not going to send you away.”

  At that exact moment, the teacup slid forward again. Alice looked at it, and this time, there was murder in her eyes. The energy focused, surged, and the cup shot across the room, smashing against the wall in an explosion of porcelain shards. Marcel just stood there, stunned by the sudden outburst.

  “When I say stop, you should just fucking stop, Marcel,” Alice said quietly. Too quietly, which meant she was absolutely livid. “Next time, it might not be a cup. It might be you.”

  The threat did the trick. Marcel abandoned his antics. Alice watched him for a long moment, fixing him with the most scornful, superior stare she could manage. The ghost didn’t move an inch. Their silent standoff dragged on for a few more seconds before she gave up the staring contest and went back to her book. Only now, the words weren’t as gripping, the story not as vivid, and the plot nowhere near as lethal as it had seemed minutes earlier. Her mood had plummeted. Only a long series of deep breaths could bring it back.

  When the young witch finally regained some inner balance, Marcel slinked off to the other side of the room. Defeated, she thought with a faint, smug smile. A moment later, she heard the soft scrape of keys being dragged across the kitchen counter…