Chapter 4: The Ghost's Confession

The family dinner had left me feeling more human than I'd been since taking Liam's place, but it also brought an unwelcome side effect: hyper-awareness. Every gesture, every word, every micro-expression was now scrutinized not just by me, but by the invisible watcher who seemed to know Liam's habits better than I did.

The text came as I was finishing what passed for breakfast—another mechanical ritual of consumption that did nothing to satisfy the deeper hunger lurking beneath my stabilized exterior.

"You held your fork wrong. Liam was left-handed when he ate, switched to right for writing. Small details matter when you're wearing a dead man's face."

I stared at the fork in my right hand, then deliberately switched it to my left. The movement felt awkward, unnatural, but I forced myself to finish the meal that way. Another piece of Liam's life to catalog, another behavioral pattern to mimic.

"Better. But your mother noticed. She's downstairs right now, telling your father that something seemed 'off' about dinner. She can't put her finger on what, but maternal instinct is a powerful thing."

A chill ran through me. I crept to the window and peered through the curtains. There, in the Henderson driveway three houses down, I could see Mr. and Mrs. Henderson standing by their car, deep in conversation. Even from this distance, her body language screamed worry—arms crossed, head shaking, the occasional gesture toward my building.

They suspected something. Not the truth—that would be impossible for minds like theirs to comprehend—but they knew their son was changing, becoming someone they didn't recognize.

The phone rang. Mrs. Henderson.

"Liam, honey? I just wanted to check on you. You seemed a little... tired last night."

Tired. Such a gentle word for the existential horror of maintaining human form through sheer force of will.

"I'm fine, Mom. Just work stuff, you know how it is."

"Well, if you need anything..." She paused, and I could hear the love and confusion warring in her voice. "You know we're here for you, right? Whatever you're going through, you don't have to face it alone."

The irony was exquisite. The one person who could never help me was the one person who wanted to more than anything in the world.

"I know. Thanks, Mom."

After I hung up, another text appeared.

"Touching. She really does love him, doesn't she? Makes what happened to him even more tragic."

This was it. The opening I'd been waiting for. I typed back quickly:

What happened to him?

The response took several minutes—long enough for me to wonder if I'd pushed too hard, too fast.

"Tonight. After dinner. They're having salmon again—your mother bought extra because you seemed to enjoy it so much. Play the part. Eat. Smile. Let them love you one more time. Then we'll talk."

The rest of the day crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every minute felt like an hour, every hour like a day. I tried to distract myself with Liam's work, but the marketing reports and budget analyses felt like hieroglyphs from a dead civilization. Nothing mattered except the promise of answers, the possibility of understanding what I was and why I was here.

The second dinner at the Henderson house was a masterclass in carefully controlled performance. I switched the fork to my left hand without being asked. I laughed at Mr. Henderson's terrible dad jokes with what I hoped was the right mixture of affection and embarrassment. I asked Chloe about her classes, her boyfriend, her plans for the summer—all the things a caring older brother should ask.

But underneath the performance, I was acutely aware of feeding. Each smile directed at me, each casual touch as dishes were passed, every moment of inclusion in the family dynamic sent small pulses of stabilizing energy through my borrowed form. I was a vampire of emotion, sustaining myself on love meant for a dead man.

Chloe watched me throughout the meal with that same unsettling intensity, but this time I was ready for it. When she asked about childhood memories, I deflected with questions about her own past. When she probed about my recent behavior, I blamed work stress and insomnia. She seemed frustrated by my evasions, but couldn't push without seeming suspicious herself.

"You know," Mrs. Henderson said as we finished dessert, "I was looking through photo albums earlier. Remember your eighth birthday party? The one where you insisted on having it in the backyard even though it was raining?"

She was testing me. The realization hit like a physical blow—my own mother was testing me, looking for cracks in my façade. But I'd learned to navigate these conversational minefields.

"You should show me those photos sometime," I said carefully. "I'd love to see them again."

It wasn't an answer, but it wasn't a lie either. And it made her smile, which sent another small pulse of nourishing energy through me.

The evening ended with the usual hugs and promises to visit more often. But as I walked to my car, I caught a glimpse of Chloe in the living room window. She was standing perfectly still, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read—something between suspicion and hunger that made my stolen skin crawl.

Back in Liam's apartment, I waited. The silence stretched on until I began to wonder if my mysterious correspondent had changed their mind. Then, at 11:47 PM, the phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered without speaking.

"Hello, Alex." The voice was male, probably mid-twenties, with an accent I couldn't place. But more than that—it was broken. Raw with grief and something that might have been rage. "I think it's time we talked properly."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who loved him. Someone who held him when he cried, who knew the sound of his laugh, who could make him come apart with just a touch." The voice cracked slightly. "Someone who was supposed to protect him."

The possessive tone, the intimate knowledge—pieces clicked into place with horrible clarity.

"You were his lover."

"I was his everything." The words were fierce, proud, devastated. "And he was mine. Until someone decided that love like ours was shameful enough to kill for."

Kill. The word hung in the air between us like a blade.

"Liam didn't die in an accident," I said. It wasn't a question.

"Liam was murdered." The voice broke completely on the last word. "Someone who couldn't stand the thought of their perfect family being tainted by a gay son. Someone who thought death was preferable to scandal."

My grip on the phone tightened. "Who?"

"That's what we're going to find out. You and me, together. Because you're not just wearing his face—you're all that's left of him in this world. And I'll be damned if I let his killer go free."

"I don't understand. What am I? How am I here?"

A long pause, filled with the weight of grief and secrets.

"You're what happens when love refuses to let go. When the need for justice is so strong it pulls something back from the void. You're Liam's ghost, his echo, his chance for revenge." The voice softened, became almost tender. "You're what I wished for every night since I found his body. You're my miracle."

"I'm not him." The words came out harder than I intended. "I don't have his memories, his feelings, his—"

"You have his face. His voice. His fingerprints and DNA. You have access to his family, his life, his secrets. And most importantly—" The voice turned dangerous, predatory. "You have the same enemies he had. The same people who smile to your face while planning your destruction."

"You think someone in his family killed him."

"I know someone in his family killed him. I have proof. But proof isn't enough—I need justice. And justice requires getting close to them, making them trust you, making them reveal themselves." A bitter laugh. "Good thing you're so good at playing house with people who should terrify you."

The words stung because they were true. I had been playing house, feeding off their love like a parasite, growing stronger from their affection while wearing the face of their murdered son.

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm the only one who knows what really happened to Liam Henderson. I'm the only one who can tell you why you exist, what you are, and what you need to do to survive." The voice hardened. "And because if you don't help me find his killer, I'll make sure the Hendersons learn exactly what kind of monster has been sitting at their dinner table."

The threat was clear, but underneath it was something else—a desperate need that mirrored my own. He needed me as much as I needed him.

"What's your name?"

"Kael. Kael Morrison." A pause. "We were going to move in together next month. Had the apartment picked out, the deposit paid. He was going to tell his family about us over Sunday dinner."

The family dinner that would never happen. The confession that had died with him.

"Meet me tomorrow night," Kael continued. "Pier 47, like I said before. Come alone. We have work to do."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll spend the rest of your borrowed existence wondering who killed the man whose life you stole. You'll feed off his family's love while his murderer walks free. You'll be complicit in your own creation's greatest injustice." His voice turned cold. "And eventually, when they figure out what you are, you'll face that monster alone."

The line went dead.

I sat in the darkness of Liam's apartment, surrounded by the photos and mementos of a life that had been cut short. Murder. The word echoed in my mind, recontextualizing everything I thought I knew about my existence.

I wasn't just an imposter hiding among humans. I was the ghost of a murdered man, pulled back by love and grief and the need for justice. And somewhere in this perfect suburban family, a killer was watching me, wondering if I suspected the truth.

Tomorrow night, I would meet the man who loved Liam Henderson. Together, we would hunt for his killer.

But first, I had to survive another day of playing the devoted son to people who might want me dead.

The hunger stirred in my chest, but for the first time, it felt like something more than need.

It felt like purpose.