By: Emma Yuan

When people ask me what I do for a living, I usually don’t tell them I’m a piece of trash that scams people.

No, messenger of the gods sounds much more appealing.

Today had started out as it was supposed to. At least, for the first ten seconds. I woke up, always a bonus, got out of bed, then got dressed. Then, I felt their presence.

I lived a pretty routine life for ten years, ever since I ran away from home at the age of sixteen. People come to me, and I pretend I can read their mind. I pretend I can see the dead. I pretend to speak to them, to let them possess me so they can speak to them. I’ve spoken to grieving friends and family members, curious passersby, fanatics of the occult, pretty much every type of person. I’ve spoken for even more people, long since dead and gone. That’s the convenience of a world where magic is possible. People will believe anything if you sell it well enough.

If the spirits I imitated during my career ever noticed what I was doing, I’m sure they would have wanted to tear me to shreds

How I have been able to pull this off, you may wonder. Well, I create a waiting list. Even if you’re the first to come I will make it seem as though you’re not, and have you wait for around a week or so. I’ll go out and do my research, get to know you and who you may be looking for. Then when I’m done, I’ll take you off the waiting list.

I always have to live on edge, in fear that someone will come along and end my decade-old scam. Sometimes, I end up meeting with people more skeptical about my work. But honestly, I’m not sure it would be any easier if my deception became the truth. I chose these powers because they were the easiest to fake, not because they were the ones I wanted most. I might actually go insane if I had to deal with my ghosts of the past. I’ve come out of some close shaves just barely unscathed before, but I manage, somehow.

I never really had a choice. Sounds a bit like I’m trying to excuse my actions with my tragic past, but rest assured I am fully aware that I’m a scumbag. My parents kind of made sure that every opportunity for success that came my way was passed off to someone else. Money I received was donated instantly. Gifts, food, scholarships, anything I could afford to give was taken away. And apparently a human could live off surprisingly little, if the only conditions were to not die. It was the ultimate selflessness, they told me. Kinda funny how I turned out so backwards. In the twenty-first century, the things I had to give up were considered necessities in order to make an honest living. With nothing invested in my future I had to turn to deceit to survive.

Customers know me as the Psychic. My name was the last thing I had to give up.

I lied a lot in this line of work. Aside from pretending to be a sort-of all seeing being, I had to blab through all sorts of loopholes to sell the story of why the vessel of some divine force was taking cash offerings.

I try to have morals, ridiculous as that sounds. Still way below the bare minimum though. I mean, I do what I can. I’ve never put anyone into debt. If someone couldn’t completely cover their visit, I would write it off under a certain sum. Make some excuse on the divinity having mercy on their poor soul so no one else tried to pull that kind of crap. Usually though, I would try to aim for people wealthy enough to blow their money in this fashion. I wasn’t always fortunate enough to find such people however. If I garnered too much traction more talented individuals would discover I was a fake.

I thought I’d continue with this cursed existence forever. I thought my greatest fear was being found out. I thought a lot of things.

Voices, thousands of them, layered like a malfunctioning record. Smoke entered my vision and I panicked, thinking there was a fire. That is, until I saw the shapes within the vapor—limbs, faces, everything. Fingers and teeth snagged through my clothes, foreign thoughts clouded my head. I dropped to my knees, clutching at my throat as I scrambled to find something to fend them off, but they remained unrelenting. It was so suffocating I felt as though I would drown.

Then, as I was gagging on my last breaths, they dispersed, and I was left alone.

I heaved, gulping up all the air my lungs could handle. My mind raced, desperately searching for answers on what had transpired. Reeling, I staggered to my feet, vision spinning and ears ringing. My hands found their hold on the edge of my vanity. My eyes adjusted, honing onto the poster taped to the mirror. Realization struck like lightning.

The poster was one of my advertisements for my psychic services. The voices, the visions, the ghosts, were all things I claimed to experience almost every hour of the day.

I was beginning to feel their presence again. The creepings of a headache, a chill down my spine. I could sense the echoes of voices I knew now contained thought. I was hearing people’s thoughts. I was seeing spirits. I could feel them reaching. Somehow, I could tell that this time, they wouldn’t leave me alone so easily.

My biggest lie had become my reality.

Slowly, I sank to my knees and started to sob.