Meilan loves writing.

It isn’t just a career but her entire life.

Creating unique and strange worlds and compelling characters is what she lives for. Writing is a form of transportation. An author can bring an idea and craft a story that means something to people.

So when she gets the biggest, most surreal break of getting to be a ghostwriter for one of her favorite mystery series, she couldn’t believe her luck.

Mysteries excite her. There’s so many components that she is captivated by. The foreshadowing, the clues, and the unknown.

She loves all of it.

_The Thirteen Suspects. _Each book follows a different suspect of this brutal murder of a seemingly normal family man. You learn more and more of his life from that suspect’s perspective. That lends itself to ghostwriting since each author can give their suspect their own voice. Meilan literally ate up all ten books so far. She’s gets to write the eleventh.

If it wasn’t for the nondisclosure agreement, she would be bursting with the news. But she can’t tell anyone, not even her family.

All she could reveal to them is that she is a freelance writer that is working on a long term assignment.

She would’ve signed anything to get this deal.

Her character, suspect #11, is Ebbie Simone. She was teased in the ending of the last book.

Sitting down in front of her desk, she relishes in the slight sunlight that filters in through the curtain. On her computer screen, a blank document is open.

Now, she gets to decide everything about Ebbie.

Typing each letter slowly, she begins with the title, _The Eleventh Suspect_. Meilan isn’t in control of that. The title of each book in the series is the suspect number. The next line also isn’t her. Quite literally.

_Written by: Sam Charter_

That’s the name all the ghostwriters go by. As far as Meilan knows, it is a pen name. She has no idea if Sam began this and then handed it over or if there is no true first author of this series.

But that doesn’t matter.

It’s her turn.

“Ok, Ebbie. Who are you?” She mumbles under her breath.

Clicking onto another document, she quickly jots down characteristics and traits for Ebbie.

**_Creeeeeaaak_**

Meilan jumps, hitting her knees on the bottom of her desk. She turns around to look out her open doorway where the noise came from.

Nothing is there.

Of course there isn’t anything. It’s an old house. Her mom didn’t like this place but it was cheap, so it was perfect.

It takes her a long minute for her heart to calm itself and her breathing to turn to normal.

Silence is something she never did well with. To solve that issue, she places in AirPods and plays some instrumentals of pop songs. It perhaps is her favorite form of music.

Now she won’t be freaked out by any other groans of the house.

She begins giving Ebbie characteristics. A life.

Ebbie could be anyone. An innocent protagonist walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. Crimson walls with red lights. Maybe she could have been someone who saw the man, face down, blood trickling down his flesh but ran away.

Couldn’t call the police.

She goes through hundreds of scenarios with Ebbie. A person is beginning to take shape.

Before she knows it, it’s been hours.

Maybe it’s time for some food and water. Getting up, she stretches her limbs, her bones aching. Slipping her AirPods out, the diegetic silence returns.

“_Mei_.”

Her heartrate skyrockets. The organ would have ripped away from her chest if it could.

That was definitely her name.

A nickname that only few living people use.

“Ling? If you’re trying to scare me, you are the meanest sister ever,” she says to the darkness.

In her core, she knows it isn’t her sister. Ling is the wise older sister that everyone needs. She is the reasonable one. That’s why her sister became the accountant and Meilan is the writer, chasing her wild dreams.

She’s not one to play pranks.

“_Mei_.”

Grabbing her pen and clicking it once, she wields it like it is a knife.

What? She’s a writer, what either weapon would she have?

“_Mei Mei_.”

Almost dropping the pen, she readjusts her grip on it.

Her heart, on the other hand, did drop to the deep pit of her stomach.

The only person who called her that was her grandfather. The only issue is that her grandfather has been dead for seven years.

“yéye?” She whispers into the air.

It couldn’t be him. It’s not possible.

But in her doorway, from the darkness, is him.

A version of her yéye at least.

Instead of the warm, comforting man, it’s this shadowy figure. There’s this scowl on his face. One that unsettles Meilan.

His features are warped. As if she is seeing him through water. Not quite right but enough for her to recognize him. Or whatever is taking his form.

“_Mei Mei_.”

She can barely hear the chilling use of her nickname over her rapidly beating heart. It’s like an elephant is stomping inside her chest.

Her fingers ache at how hard she is holding the pen.

Fear courses through her entire body and freezes all of her muscles. She can’t move.

It’s as if she is a puppet at the mercy of a puppeteer.

“_Mei Mei. Don’t._”

_Don’t_? Don’t what?

Just as she’s about to ask him, his entire demeanor changes.

In an instant, he moves. Much faster than her yéye. It’s as if he doesn’t have feet and his upper body floats, talon hands out stretched. His scowl becomes a snarl.

She hears someone scream.

It takes her a long moment to realize that it’s her.