The Ghost In Her Skin

The fake heiress recorded a video, weeping to the camera about my supposed abuse. My parents and my fianc stood right behind her, nodding in solemn agreement, testifying to my cruelty.

Overnight, the internet became a tidal wave of vitriol, drowning my name in curses and death threats.

If that wasnt enough, my father cornered me in the hallway, his face flushed with righteous indignation, demanding I issue a public apology to my "sister."

What he didnt know was that his real daughter was already dead. The thing breathing inside her body right now? Just a wandering, damned soul.

With all of them watching, I shoved her down the sweeping marble staircase.

"An apology? Sure," I said, leaning over the banister. "But only if she actually breaks her leg."

I am a damned thing. A revenant. A ghost who learned the hard way that if you don't bare your teeth, the world will swallow you whole. And somehow, I have woken up inside the body of Caroline Stanford.

Carolines luck was truly tragic. She was the biological daughter of the Stanford dynasty, stolen away and lost for years. When she finally clawed her way back home, she found no warmth, no tears of joy. Just a cold house and parents who couldn't look her in the eye.

Instead, all their love had been siphoned off by the imposterthe cheap, surrogate sister who had occupied Carolines rightful place. This girl survived entirely on weaponized pity, playing the eternal victim, bewitching everyone around her.

It culminated on Carolines eighteenth birthday. The entire familyincluding Carolines own fiancabandoned her to attend the fake sisters prestigious conservatory piano showcase. Left alone in a sprawling, empty mansion, suffocating under the weight of her own insignificance, Caroline drew a blade across her wrists and bled out in the porcelain tub.

The moment her heart stopped, my unfortunate soul slipped right in.

Sifting through the shattered fragments of Carolines memories, I found myself thoroughly fascinated by this sister of hers, Belinda.

I hadn't realized the living could be so exquisitely, ruthlessly selfish, caring for absolutely nothing but their own survival. It was almost touching. It meant my kind had heirs in the mortal world.

I pulled myself up from the cold, blood-stained water of the bathtub. I wrapped a haphazard towel around the jagged cuts on my wrists, threw on a hoodie, and called an Uber to the Stanford estate in Greenwich.

The Stanfords possessed generational, obscene wealth. Yet, they had forced Caroline to take up menial part-time jobs, dressing up their neglect under the guise of "building her independence."

I immediately pulled out her phone and quit the diner job.

Was it a joke? Why on earth would a trust-fund kid clock in for minimum wage? I wasn't out of my mind.

When I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the estate, the shock on the housekeepers face was palpable. I strolled past her, unimpeded, straight into the grand living room. There, nestled on the velvet sofa, was Belinda, her arms wrapped tightly around my fianc, Carlton.

Seeing me, Belinda didn't pull away. She pressed herself even closer against his chest.

The polite smiles on Richard and Margaret Stanfords faces vanished the second they saw me.

"Caroline? What are you doing here?" Richard demanded.

I didn't answer him. My eyes were locked dead onto Belinda.

Sensing my gaze, her lower lip quivered. She instantly slipped into her pathetic, wounded-fawn routine. "Sister, you have everything now. I just wanted Mom, Dad, and Carlton to come see my performance. Youre not mad at me, are you?"

"Why would she be mad? Hasn't she taken enough of your things and your place in this family already?"

Carlton let out a cold, derisive scoff, the disgust in his voice thick and unfiltered.

Ah. I had miscalculated.

It wasn't just Belinda who was rotted through. This entire house was a cesspool. Not a single decent human being among them.

I slowly raised my arm, letting the blood-soaked towel around my wrist dangle in the light. "Sister. You have Mom. You have Dad. You have my fianc. All I wanted was to breathe, to stay alive. You wouldn't force me to die, would you?"

Belindas expression froze. A flicker of genuine panic crossed her eyes, but she was a professional. In a blink, the tears spilled over her lashes, fat and perfectly timed.

Richard couldn't stand to see his precious girl cry. He lunged forward, his hand cracking sharply across my cheek.

"What kind of sick thing is that to say?!" he roared. "Are you trying to make Belinda feel guilty to death?!"

I let the momentum of the slap carry me. I collapsed onto the Persian rug. Before I even had to fake a sob, Belindas trembling voice filled the room.

"It's fine, Dad. Let it go. I know my sister hates me. It's okay. I'll I'll just pack my things and move out."

She sobbed, her voice cracking beautifully. Yet, I noticed, she didn't make a single move to stand up from the couch.

Lying there on the floor, looking up at her, I felt a strange sense of awe. She was practically glowing in my eyes.

I had an epiphany.

The absolute zenith of selfishness is the ability to convince the world that you are a saint.

"Listen to your sister!" Richard practically shoved his finger into my eye. "Look at the grace she has! Do you think everyone in the world is as vile and self-centered as you?!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure a single tear, but as a ghost, I simply didn't have the hardware for it. Crying was impossible.

Giving up, I pushed myself off the rug, dusted off my cheap jeans, and plopped down onto a plush armchair, casually crossing one leg over the other.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "She has the heart of an angel. She's obedient and sweet. I'm selfish and greedy. Therefore, Im moving back in."

Richards mouth dropped open. He stared at me like I had sprouted horns.

When Caroline had originally moved out, it had technically been her own suggestion. But she had only fled because she was suffocating under the toxic atmosphere and Belindas daily, insidious gaslighting.

I, however, was built differently. As long as I was comfortable, I couldn't care less how much they hated me.

"Enough!"

Carltons shout echoed off the vaulted ceiling, so loud it nearly rattled my soul loose from Carolines body.

He stood up, shielding Belinda behind his broad shoulders, glaring at me like I was vermin. "Caroline, I am not going to let you bully Belinda anymore. What gives you the right to stay in this house?!"

I stared at him. The sheer, unadulterated audacity. Even when I was alive, I had never heard a man speak with such shameless entitlement.

I was beginning to realize that the only reason I had become a formidable ghost back in my day was simply a lack of modern competition.

"It's okay, Carlton," Belinda whimpered, clutching his shirt. "She is Mom and Dads biological daughter, after all. I"

She offered a brave, wobbly smile that was uglier than a frown. It was a masterclass. I almost wanted to applaud.

So, I did.

The sharp, rhythmic clapping of my hands cut through the tension. Everyone froze, looking at me with absolute bewilderment.

"Beautifully said," I grinned. "So forgiving. You see, Dad? Since my sweet sister says it's fine, Ill be staying. After all, like she said, I am your actual blood."

Without waiting for Richards brain to reboot, I turned on my heel and headed for the stairs, following the layout from Carolines memories. Carltons curses faded behind me as I hummed a light tune, my steps bouncing.

But when I pushed open the door to Carolines old room, I stopped dead in my tracks. My nose wrinkled in disgust.

This cramped, sunless, depressing little box? Did they really expect someone of my elegant, refined stature to sleep in a closet?

Without a second thought, I slammed the door shut and began pacing the hallway, inspecting the other rooms.

I stopped in front of a heavy, ornate double door. It smelled like expensive perfume and privilege. I reached for the handle, but a roar echoed up the staircase.

"Stop right there! Don't you dare touch that door!"

It was Richard. He was storming up the stairs, Margaret right on his heels, her face twisted in rage.

"Caroline! That is your sisters room!" Margaret shrieked.

I raised an eyebrow.

Oh, really? Beginner's luck. I had picked the best suite in the house on the first try.

"Is it?" I murmured, casually turning the knob and pushing the doors open.

The contrast was staggering. The space was massive, bathed in natural light, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured gardens. It was a sanctuary of custom silk drapery and plush velvet.

Behind her parents, Belinda began to weep, playing her part flawlessly. "Sister, I know you resent me. But but Mom and Dad designed this room specifically for me. Ill give you anything else, I swear. Please, sister, give me my room back."

It was a touching monologue, but I could read the panic in her eyes. She was terrified of losing her territory.

Predictably, Richard and Margaret ate it up. They swarmed her, cooing and hugging her as if shed just been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. "Are you done? Because the answer is no."

Belinda choked on her sob, completely blindsided. She clearly hadn't anticipated a flat, emotionless rejection. Moral kidnapping was her specialty; she wasn't used to a victim without morals.

Taking advantage of her shock, I stepped inside and moved to shut the door, but Richard lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip.

His fingers dug perfectly, entirely by chance, into my freshly sliced veins.

He didn't notice, or simply didn't care. His face was red with fury.

"Caroline Stanford! This belongs to Belinda! Can't you, for once in your miserable life, be the bigger person and let your sister have something?!"

Fortunately, a ghost feels no physical pain.

I slowly wrenched my arm out of his grasp. The hastily wrapped cuts tore open again, fresh blood seeping through the white terrycloth, dripping onto the hardwood floor. Richard glanced at the blood, his eyes cold. Not a flicker of remorse.

"Sorry, no can do," I chirped, giving him a dead-eyed smile. "And if you keep harassing me, be careful. I might just leak a few secrets to the press."

Before he could unleash whatever curse was building in his throat, I slammed the heavy door in his face and locked it.

The Stanfords had never publicly acknowledged Caroline as their biological daughter. Back then, they had gagged her with excuses about "protecting the companys stock" and "maintaining family stability." But what did the Stanford dynastys PR mean to me?

If they pushed me, I was more than happy to drag us all straight to hell.

I threw myself onto Belindas massive, cloud-like bed and pulled out the phone. Over the years, the real Caroline had been so beaten down, so painfully insecure, that she didn't have a single close friend. When I opened Instagram, her feed was a wasteland. But the trending pages? They were plastered with glowing reviews of Belindas piano recital, interspersed with nauseatingly perfect paparazzi shots of Belinda and Carltonthe "childhood sweethearts."

Timing is everything. A notification popped up: Belinda had just posted.

I clicked on it. It was a highly filtered, carefully angled selfie, her eyes looking tragically glassy.

Caption: My big sister finally came home today. I gave her my bedroom. Even though Mom and Dad built this room just for me, it doesn't matter. As long as shes happy, Im happy.

As expected, the comments were a bloodbath of hatred aimed at Caroline.

To the public, Caroline was just an ungrateful, adopted charity case. How could she ever compare to the delicate, talented biological heiress?

I smirked. I went into the settings, changed the handle to my real, full name, and cracked my knuckles. Time to go unhinged.

I replied to her post: "Gave it to me? Or did I have to pry it from your cold, manipulative hands?"

Then another: "Wow, guys. Are there actually people out there who sob to their parents in the hallway and then immediately run to Instagram to play Mother Teresa?"

My comments were instantly flooded by Belindas rabid fan base. With her "piano prodigy" label and her old-money aesthetic, she had the online pull of an A-list celebrity.

"You are disgusting! A stray dog taking the real daughters room!" one user wrote.

Is that what they thought?

In a stellar mood, I replied to that comment. "I think you make a great point. She really is just a stray."

Because of the sheer controversy, my reply was algorithmically boosted to the top of the comment section. Within three minutes, Belinda deleted the entire post.

Free from having to look at her curated, teary face, I bounced off the mattress and opened the walk-in closet. It was packed with Belindas clothes. An endless sea of pastel pinks, ruffled tulle, and infantile innocence. Absolutely nothing in my aesthetic.

I had finally possessed a rich girl. I wasn't going to sit around in rags. It was time to swipe some plastic.

I swung the bedroom door open, entirely intending to go shopping, only to find Belinda marching down the hall toward me.

We were alone. The mask was completely gone. Her face was contorted in sheer, unadulterated rage. She closed the distance and grabbed me by the collar of my cheap hoodie.

"Caroline, what the fuck are you doing online?! Didn't you learn your lesson the last time?!"

God, I wished her little internet fans could see her now. The high-class, untouchable goddess, snarling like a rabid dog.

I raised a single brow, keeping my face infuriatingly serene. "What's wrong? I was just telling the truth."

Belinda ground her teeth so hard I legitimately worried her veneers would crack.

She shoved me backward, lifting her chin with that familiar, sickening arrogance. "Listen to me, you pathetic bitch. Don't think for a second that just because you have their blood, you've won. I forced you out of this house once. I can easily throw you out again."

And then, without breaking eye contact, Belinda reached over to the console table, grabbed a heavy porcelain vase, and smashed it directly against her own forehead.

She let out a blood-curdling scream as the porcelain shattered. Dark red blood immediately began pouring down her face.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Margaret appeared at the end of the hall, her face draining of color.

"Belinda! Oh my god, what happened?!"

She dropped to her knees, pulling Belindas bleeding head into her lap, frantically inspecting the wound. But when Margaret looked up at me, her panic crystallized into pure hatred.

"Mom, Im fine," Belinda whimpered, her voice frail and shaking. "Don't be mad at my sister. She she just wants to be a part of this family so badly"

I had to hand it to her; Belinda was ruthless. The gash on her forehead was deep. Just looking at it gave me a phantom headache.

Margaret carefully helped Belinda to her feet, unleashing a torrent of venom in my direction.

"How did I give birth to something as vile as you?! Hasn't Belinda been kind enough to you?! Why must you destroy everything she touches?!"

"You never should have come back! You should have just died in the gutter where you belonged!"

This was Carolines biological mother.

She finished screaming at me and turned, supporting Belindas weight, ready to rush her to the hospital.

But why would I let myself get cursed out for free?

"Did I say you could leave?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft.

Margaret whipped her head around. "What more could you possibly want?! Caroline, I swear to God"

She never finished the sentence. Because I had already picked up the matching vase from the other side of the console table and smashed it across the other side of Belindas head.

This time, the scream was real. She was genuinely terrified.

I looked down at the blood streaming symmetrically down both sides of her face and finally gave them a bright, sunny smile.

"You see?" I said. "Now its a matching set. Much prettier."