Read part 1: The New Guard 1 A dark fantasy illustration of Madrina , the heartless princess, walking through a grand obsidian hall. Behind her, the powerful Patron sits on a throne of jagged black glass. Shifting shadows, demons, and spirits bow in fear as she passes, capturing the eerie and supernatural atmosphere of 'The New Guard' story. The Mortal Daughter She had everyone, minor demon or spirit, jumping out of the way as she walked toward the obsidian hall. She is furious, and every demon that saw her knew their life is at an end if they don't clear the way immediately. She is not known as the heartless daughter for nothing; her cruelty and ecstatic delight in the suffering of others is well known. The demons called her a sadist—not to her hearing, of course. She usually sent them to get her mortals that she used to play and watch as the demon tormented them. Her name is Madrina , and she is just twenty-five years old. She walked on, hissing at an old spirit that...
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| Jessica sat on the bed watching as a ghost materialize out of the mirror. |
Random People
Jessica hunched over her computer on the 50th floor, racing a deadline that had piled up like unpaid bills. Exhaustion clawed at her eyes, but she had to finish. Then the screen blinked out. White text flared across the void: “YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.”
A heartbeat later, the desktop returned—spreadsheets, cursor, coffee rings. Jessica froze, shook her head. Hallucination from too many late nights. She glanced at the clock: 2:00 a.m. The office was empty; she hadn’t noticed anyone leave. She slammed the laptop shut, stuffed papers into her bag, and bolted.
She locked her office and jabbed the elevator button. Fifty floors down, the night doorman stared without blinking—eyes pure white, like polished marble. Jessica opened her mouth to ask what was wrong; the question died in her throat. She fled past him.
Outside, a lone cab idled. She raised a hand, then saw the driver’s face—same blank stare, meter glowing: “YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.”
Jessica ran. The street was silent, storefronts dark—except her regular coffee shop. Its neon sign now read: “YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN JESSICA.”
The Man
She veered left toward Dave’s building. At full sprint, she rounded the corner and crashed into a man. Strong arms caught her before she hit the pavement. He was unfairly handsome—dark eyes, silk-smooth skin, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Shoulder-length hair spilled forward as he steadied her.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, amused.
Jessica flushed. “Everything’s wrong. I—I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Feels like you tackled me on purpose.”
“Sorry. Who are you?”
“You really don’t want to know, Jessica.”
Her head snapped up. “How do you know my name?”
He laughed softly. “I sent the message.”
“You?”
“Not me. My father.”
“Who are you?”
“Can’t say. But listen: keep moving forward. One step back and they take you.”
“Take me where? By who?”
“Not who—them.” He tilted his chin behind her.
Jessica whipped around—nothing but empty sidewalk. When she turned back, he was gone. Her pulse hammered. She sprinted again, faster, refusing to stop. A frail voice drifted from an alley: “Mark! My son, where are you? Please, Mark—it’s Granny. Don’t leave me alone!”
Jessica skidded to a halt. Everyone she’d met tonight had those blank eyes. Maybe the old woman was trapped too. Maybe together they could figure it out. She doubled back.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
“My grandson Mark—he stormed out. Night’s not safe. I have to find him before the others do.”
“I’m heading to the next street. If I see him, I’ll send him back. Stay here.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Jessica rounded the corner and spotted a figure ahead. “Mark?”
The silhouette turned—early twenties, lost expression. “Sorry, who are you?”
“Jessica. Your grandma’s looking for you, two streets back.”
“I’m new here—got turned around. Can you walk me?”
“Sure.”
They retraced her steps. Fog rolled in, swallowing buildings. Streetlights dimmed to candle glow. A wooden bridge appeared ahead, arching over black water that hadn’t existed minutes ago. Jessica stopped.
“This is wrong.”
“Why? Feels like home,” the young man said.
She looked at him—and saw the handsome stranger again. Same dark eyes, same half-smile. He raised a finger to her lips; her scream cut off mid-breath.
“I told you not to step back.”
She woke gasping, sheets twisted, alarm clock blinking 2:00 a.m.
Is Dream A Reality
Jessica woke up with her heart beating like a drum. She knew that wasn't a natural dream, and she had a premonition that something bad is about to happen, but what, she can't put her hand in it. She lay there in the bed not daring to stand up; she had read a book titled The Dead Don't Rest by Douye Soroh.
She know it was all fiction, but she wonder if he was right about the mirror stuff. She wonder if she look in the mirror, would she see a ghost? Does the mirror show the other side? She lay there thinking and trying to dare if she could look into the mirror. She had read where he said the dead are restless and they envy the living; she hadn't offend anyone, and she don't want the dead to envy her.
She take a peek at the mirror and avert her eyes. "Silly me," she mutter, "I'm getting paranoid from a story I read online."
The Visitor
She was just about to force herself back into sleep when she notice the mist. At first, she thought her eyes is playing trick on her. She thought it was the lighting flashing from the street lamp, but no—the street lamp is yellow, this one is gray. She shift so she could better see if it was just her imagination, but no, it wasn't. She could see the mist now getting thicker and she look at the time. It is now 3 AM, and she remembers the dead always visit by that time, according to the author in the book The Dead Don't Rest.
She watch as a hand materialize from the mirror, gropping about until it hold the edge, then a leg appears. She could see it was made of mist with claw as long as her middle finger. She sat upright and try to bolt from the room, and then she find out she couldn't move again. She remembers the author had said always keep salt near you; the spirit are afraid of salt.
She sat there immoveable, breathing hard, as the full body of the ghost or person, she can't say, pop out. She saw no eyes in the face but just an hollow hole and a jaw with rotten teeth.
"You Have Been Chosen," the ghost or spirit rasp.
"Chosen by whom?" She finally find her voice.
The thing move slowly toward her. She could see how it struggle like it had never walk for a long time. She saw a few things falling from the body and shudder as one of such things land on the foot of her bed.
"I'm just a messenger sent to pass a message to you, daughter of the trouble maker."
"What do you mean?"
"Here is your message," the thing said. "Your grandfather was the one who banished me and send me to hell. We were good friends, but he betray me and took everything from me. I wait, I remember as I suffer, and now you Have Been Chosen to pay the price."
She sat there stune. How can they chose her? She hadn't meet her grandfather, and he has sons who bear him grand children apart from her father—why she?
"I can't accept the message," she said. "This most be a mistake."
"There is no mistake. I could smell the blood of the trouble maker on you," the thing said.
"I'm not his only grandchild," she said.
"That maybe so," the thing said, "but I was sent to mark you."
And the thing use a claw finger made of mist to draw a straight line on her palm. It was hot and burning and she was screaming as she raise her head up. She could see what looks like a grin on the face of the thing or spirit, she couldn't tell. She watch as the line fade and a gray line appear on her palm. And as she sat there baffle on what was happening, the thing return back to the mirror and vanish inside.
Next story: The Dead Don't Rest
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