The resort looked like a postcard designed by someone who had never slept badly.
White structures balanced delicately over turquoise water. Glass floors suspended above coral like expensive acts of trust. Staff moved silently, smiling with the precise warmth taught in the corporate manuals. Every surface gleamed. Every sound felt curated.
Places like this always seem to reek of death.
Not the type of fresh death you would see in obituaries. Not the violent kind of death you would see on the news. The worse kind. The kind that happens slowly, almost politely, and without witnesses. The kind that leaves paperwork instead of police reports.
I stepped off the boat wearing sunglasses that cost more than my childhood rent and smiled for the cameras waiting on the dock.
"Relax," I said, not breaking stride. "If something wanted you dead, you would already be floating."
The cameraman laughed, almost too loudly. Good. Laughter keeps people stupid.
The owner greeted me personally. Tall, silver haired, skin stretched thin by money and stress. His handshake lingered a fraction too long.
"We are grateful you came," he said. "Discretion is important."
"I am famously discreet," I replied. "When paid appropriately."
Mira walked past us, headphones around her neck, tablet under her arm. She did not look at me.
She never did when I wanted her to.
The ghosts seemed to have noticed me immediately.
They always do.
They hovered at the edges of the dock, translucent figures overlapping the living staff like badly aligned reflections. Former workers mostly. Cleaners. Maintenance crew. A cook with burn scars up his arms. None of them screamed. None of them lunged.
That was worse.
Ghosts who wait silently are always planning something.
My suite was obscene.
Floor to ceiling glass. Private deck. Infinity pool melting into the horizon. The kind of place designed to make people forget the world existed beyond it.
The ghosts crowded the glass.
I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and addressed them without raising my voice.
"I am not here to save you," I said. "I am here to solve a problem. If you make yourselves useful, this will be faster."
A few recoiled. One laughed soundlessly.
Good.
Respect is optional. Fear is not.
Mira knocked and entered without waiting.
"You are enjoying this," she said flatly.
"Of course I am."
"This place is wrong."
"Everything is wrong," I replied. "That is why I get paid."
She watched the air behind me, frowning slightly. She could not see them, but she could feel the shift. Mira was sensitive in the way skeptics hate admitting.
"You are pushing too hard," she said. "You always do at the start."
"Because it works."
"Until it doesn't."
I grinned. "You worry too much."
She did not smile back.
Filming started that evening.
The first disturbance happened right on schedule. Lights flickered in the overwater villas. Guests complained of footsteps. Security footage caught shadows moving against logic.
I walked straight into it, microphone clipped, cameras rolling, confidence dialed high.
"You feel that?" I said to the lens. "That pressure. That discomfort. That is what happens when people pretend history doesn't exist."
A ghost manifested fully behind me.
Tall. Male. Drowned.
He did not attack.
He spoke.
"Hunter," he said, voice like water dragged over stone.
The crew froze.
Mira swore under her breath.
I felt the familiar pull in my chest, the echo of the river, the memory of lungs burning and time stretching thin. I swallowed it down.
"You have my attention," I said calmly.
"You should leave," the ghost replied.
That was new.
Most ghosts beg. Or threaten. Or scream.
Warnings are rare.
I laughed.
"That is adorable," I said. "You think you are in charge."
The ghost's expression did not change.
"He is not the problem," it said.
The temperature dropped sharply.
Something deep beneath the resort shifted.
I felt it then. The thing watching from below. Not attached to one death. Not bound to one regret.
A collector.
Something old enough to be patient.
The cameras caught my smile. They did not catch the way my hands tightened.
"Cut," Mira said sharply.
The producer hesitated.
I shook my head. "Keep rolling."
That was arrogance.
That was also calculation.
Whatever this was, it wanted witnesses.
So did I.
Later that night, Mira cornered me on the deck.
"You felt it," she said. "Don't lie."
"I felt something."
"This isn't a normal haunting."
"Normal doesn't pay like this."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"You are not invincible."
I leaned in, close enough that she could see her reflection in my eyes.
"I know exactly how killable I am," I said. "That is why I am careful."
She searched my face, looking for cracks.
She did not find them.
That was my mistake.
I dreamed of the river that night.
Of hands beneath the surface.
Of something waiting its turn.
And for the first time in years, I woke up unsure whether my confidence was keeping me alive.
Or just making the inevitable more entertaining.