never believed in the occult. Not really. Sure, I’d dabbled in tarot cards during college sleepovers, giggling with my roommates as we pretended to commune with spirits over cheap wine and pizza. But that was years ago. Now, at 28, I was a practical woman— a graphic designer in a bustling city, living in a cozy apartment that overlooked the twinkling skyline. My days were filled with deadlines, coffee runs, and the occasional swipe on dating apps, hoping to find someone who could ignite that spark I’d been missing. Little did I know, the spark was about to become a raging inferno, courtesy of something far beyond the mortal realm.
It started on a rainy Friday night. I’d come home exhausted from a long week, my blouse clinging to my skin from the downpour outside. I kicked off my heels, le
