They call her many things… but in the shadows where spirits scream, she is known only as the Mystic Ghost Hunter.
~~~~~
The moon shines bright tonight, its silver light washing over the broken house like a silent curse. The wind brushing against the crumbling walls, carrying whispers no one wants to hear. She feels it, the weight of something terrible lingering in the air. This house carries a presence— a dark shadow, a revenge spirit. A wound that chose not to close.
Inside the dimly lit room, a boy lies trembling, his body is gaunt, as if hollowed out from within. His skin pulses with something not his own. He's being eaten from the inside. The spirit inside him doesn't belong here...… it is, bitter, and unwilling to let go.
The Ghost Hunter sits cross-legged on the cold floor, her beads in hand carved from the wood of a holy tree. Her fingers move in rhythm with her breath. She chants softly and steadily 'hari…hari…hari…..' , a sacred hymn older than us. Each word is a blade of light. Each syllable, a step closer to freeing him.
Suddenly, the energy shifts.
The spirit erupts within him.
In the blink of an eye, it rushes towards her, faster than wind and wraps its claws around her throat.
Its rage seeps through its grip, cold and choking.
But she does not flinch.
Her eyes meet the boy's eyes, but she sees past them, deeper. To her they are not his eyes. They belong to the spirit, for now. It is watching her from behind those borrowed eyes, sharp and unyielding, as it knows she has come to end this.
It does not understand her.
A short, cold laugh escapes her lips—sound like the snap of distant thunder.
"I wanted you to go without pain," she says, her smile calm and maddening. "I thought maybe, just maybe, you'd leave willingly. But now…"
Her smile fades as she clenches her jaw.
"…you've chosen pain."
She rises with deliberate grace. Her hand lifts, steady and unshaken, reaching for the boy's throat, not to hurt, to hold. Her fingers close around it—firm, unwavering. To draw the line between what belongs and what must leave.
She slams him to the ground like a wrestler pinning their opponent. Not in anger. In necessity.
She pulls out the holy salt.
Her fingers move in practiced precision as she presses it onto the boy's forehead. She chants louder now, the hymn burning through the stale air. The boy's body contorts. The spirit begins to scream "NO!", like a wounded animal caught in holy fire. The cracks across his skin deepen. It's unbearable to watch — and yet, they must.
The girl kneels over the boy, strands of her long black hair falling around her face. Her skin is light, almost ivory. She looks young, maybe in early 20s. Her features are sharp, intelligent. Her eyes are lit with something not earthly, not anger, not vengeance, but holy and pure.
The boy's family watches in stunned silence, unable to breathe. The air stinks — foul, sulfuric, but she does not waver.
She is radiant. Terrifying. Beautiful.
The boy convulses beneath her touch.
His mouth stretches into a scream too wide, too distorted. But it isn't his voice anymore—it's dark, deeper, not meant for human lungs. A voice soaked in fury and grief . The spirit doesn't retreat. It pushes harder. It surges within him like a tide of tar, unrelenting.
Then—he breaks.
His limbs jerk, tossing her back across the room like a ragdoll. Her spine hits the far wall with a sickening crack. Pain blooms sharp across her shoulder, but she grits her teeth and plants her palms to the ground, dragging herself up.
"I know you're afraid," she says through clenched teeth. "But I'm not your jailer. I'm not your enemy."
The room grows dimmer. Through the boy's lips, the spirit growls like an animal torn between worlds, his face— a picture of pain and malice.
"I'm your exit," she whispers.
She reaches into her bag again. She pulls out the last bit of salt and the holy oil-soaked thread. She takes one step forward, then another.
"God," she breathes.
Then—she lunges. Her hand grips the boy's face, pressing the salt and thread against his burning skin. It sizzles like fire meeting snow. The scream that follows is not human.
The spirit fights. Its claws rake her aura, unseen to others, tearing into the very air around her. Her bones groan. Her breath shortens.
Still—she holds.
"You were never meant to stay here," she says, "vengeance is a second death. Let go."
She unwinds a twisted rope knotted with nine sacred chants and wraps it around his wrist, binding him not in force, but in intention — a seal of compassion, not violence.
"This rope is not to bind you in hatred, but to hold what wandered too long.
Let it hold only in grace, not in rage." She whispers her prayer.
She draws a thin iron nail from her bag, etched with ancient prayers.
Then, she drives the iron nail into the ground beside him — not into him, but into the shadow beneath him.
The spirit lets out a scream that splits the room in two. Not of pain—of release. The nail pulses once, then smokes. Ash bursts from the floor, as though the spirit is being dragged out by force.
The boy collapses.
The wind stills.
The rope untwists itself.
The boy lies unconscious but free.
And she smirks, like a storm that just passed on her own terms.
She runs a hand through her hair like she just wrapped up a casual errand—not battled a revenge spirit. 'Ghost? Gone. House? Cleansed. Legend? Obviously—it's me.'
God has never failed her, not once.
She is her; she is Shaamvi.