"It's cold."
The story I'm about to tell you is probably the least believable and most outrageous one out there, but I need you to hear me out on this.
I was once a normal girl. Once, like, once upon a time, but this isn't a fairytale with a damsel in distress. For the most part I was happy, living in a foster home with my adoptive parents and four foster siblings who I didn't always agree with, but for the most part, life was good.
All of that changed when some things in the house happened, I won't tell you the details, but I got very...unstable. I couldn't trust anyone and eventually that ticking time bomb exploded in the most colossal of ways. I ended up in what I thought was a hospital while my entire family ended up dead.
From there on, I learned about something called the PASCI foundation. PASCI of course being an acronym for Paranormal And Supernatural Containment Initiative. They worked to collect people like me who were either super powered, monsters, or unexplainable phenomenon such as ghosts and people who love country music.
I thought they were trying to help me. They told me I would do great things, and that I'd be such a great asset to have on the team. For the first time since I could remember, I felt wanted, and in a way, loved. That all changed when I found out what they were really doing with us.
I can't just sit here and let them get away with it, now can I?
If you play with fire, you're going to get burned.
So here's the deal: I, Oreon, took a night shift at the world's saddest haunted pizzeria. Minimum wage, asbestos vibes, and zero life choices worth bragging about. Easy gig, right? Sit in a crusty office, smoke a blunt, and pretend ghosts aren't real.
Except-plot twist-they are.
One minute I'm joking about asbestos and trauma, the next I'm finding decades-old files about missing kids, murderous animatronics, and some crusty bastard named William who writes like a failed theater villain. Oh, and did I mention the ghost child who literally wrote back to me? Yeah. We're pen pals now. Totally normal. Definitely not emotionally compromising.
Add in my chaos bestie Vincent, the girl I'm hopelessly (and pathetically) into, and my uncle who's one angry text away from grounding me into another dimension-and you've got my life.
Haunted halls. Cursed notes. Ghost therapy sessions at 3 AM.
Welcome to my shift.
If I survive this job, it'll be a miracle. If I don't... at least my obituary will say I was hotboxing with spirits.