I knock at the door, and a loose bulb instantly flickers on above me. It’s like he was watching for a stranger, anticipating one.

Haunting him as a poltergeist could never be enough. I’ve spent the past year dreaming of the moment I’d get to kill Rod, with real human hands, to christen a new body in his blood.

What would I say? What would make his final breaths hurt the worst? Now that I’m here, I can’t remember any of that. Now that I’m in it, there isn’t much to say—only things to do.

Rod answers the door with a defensive wince—shock and disgust because there’s a Black boy on his property.

“Yes?” Rod says, already impatient. “Can I help you?”

He looks ready to pull a gun out from somewhere, but I got one in my waistband too, so I dare him.

I give him a once-over. Receding hairline, normal brown eyes, nose bent four different directions, stringy blond hair falling around his ears like corn silk. A beer belly through the tank, cheap cargo shorts, crusty feet, a stitched-up knee.

The sight of the kneecap I blew up brings an air of relaxation, of peace.

My moment of power.

My legacy.

“Hi, sir, my car broke down,” I say, my voice measured. “My phone’s dead, and I need some help making a call. If you could h—”

“No,” he interrupts. “You know what time it is, man? It’s almost twelve in the morning.”

“My car broke down, sir.”

“No.”

Rod tries to slam the door, but I stop it with my hand. We shake there for a moment, him pushing the door harder and me holding it open.

This may be my only chance. I can’t waste it.

I force the door open and stick the knife in his stomach.

“Excuse me, sir.” I invite myself in. “If you’d just let me finish.”

Rod stumbles backward, gasping and gaping at the knife handle jutting out of his stomach. I step over the threshold and close the door behind me, tenderly locking both locks.

Rod didn’t mind it when he stole my last bit of innocence.

When he convinced my own mother to shoot me.

When he convinced me to shoot others and then myself.

There is something wrong with Uncle Rod. There must be something wrong with me too, since we share blood. I must be horrible by other people’s standards, but strangely, I don’t care, because it’s how it must be, as a ghost, when all your strength comes from human weakness.

But even in life, you must kill people before they kill you, not after.

I press two fingers into his chest. He collapses on his back, legs and arms squirming like a centipede. He shuffles down the floor, toward the kitchen counter.