Rachel Keller sighed, and she angrily kicked her car's wheel. Great time to have a puncture, really. Well, it had been a rather bad day, so she wasn't really surprised.

First, she hadn't woken up that morning, even though she had an article to finish before lunch. Then Aidan had reminded her that she was supposed to drive him to his girlfriend's where he'd stay for the next few weeks. The girl lived in Salem, and they had met through an internet forum about supernatural experiences. It appeared Mindy had once met the ghost of several witches. Like everyone and their cousin in Salem, Rachel thought. She didn't really like Mindy, mostly because of her parents. Mr and Mrs Johns were just as obsessed with ghosts as their daughter was, maybe even more, and every time they saw Rachel, they would ask about 'that one encounter with the awful killer ghost child'.

The very thing Rachel did not wish to discuss with two idiots who thought have watched Ghostbusters twice made them experts about the afterlife.

Well, truth be told, there wasn't anyone with whom she talked about the Morgan case. Even with Aidan she avoided it. She was scared that the mere fact of mentioning that monster would help her find them again. Sure, she had that website where she had told the whole stories, and sometimes she would get an email from someone who had lost a relative to the cursed tape, or from an idiot who thought it would make a great movie and felt the need to tell her so, but that was it. Samara Morgan had left her life, and this time it was forever.

That was the reason why, when the Johns tried to make her speak, Rachel had suddenly 'remembered' that she still had a lot of work to do, back at home, so she really had to go. It was only half a lie. She did have work to do after all.

She had had to park her car on a parking lot rather far away from the Johns because one of their neighbours was having a party and there were cars all over the street. It had annoyed her at first, but she was now glad of it. If the Johns had seen her flat tire, they might have offered her to stay the night, and that was something she really didn't want. Furthermore, as an independent, single-mom kind of woman, she had learned how to change a tire long ago. She was lucky, for a given value of lucky.

It was still a more difficult task than she remembered and when she was done with her car, she was slightly angry and hungry.

When she went to the nearest supermarket to get some cookies, the bench of the bus stop in front of the parking lot was empty. When she came back, there were two people sitting there. One was a boy in his twenties with bright red hair, glasses, and the general air of someone who doesn't get out much, the other one was a young girl with long black hair who was pouting and trying very hard not to laugh.

Rachel froze. There was something familiar about that girl, and she felt an awful urge to run as far away as possible. Yet she refused to recognize the kid, mostly because she would never have laughed like that, she would never have acted like a normal child and, more importantly, she was trapped in the world of her damn tape and there was no way she'd ever get out of there.

But it was still the same long, dark hair, the same big, black eyes, and although Rachel could not tell for sure from where she was, there was something strange about the girl's hands, a strange redness where the nails should have been, as if she had lost them somehow.

The pack of cookies fell from her hand, and she pushed her hand against her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. It was her. It was Samara. She was back.

Many ideas passed through Rachel's mind, most of them about how she could kill that monster and get rid of her once and for all, before she noticed again the young man with Samara.

He seemed alive. And not very dangerous. Probably the kind of kid who had spent all his high school years being bullied. Not someone you'd expect to see chatting with a spectral serial killer.

Unless it was him who had brought Samara back. Maybe to get his revenge on his old bullies, or to conquer the world or some other crap of the kind. He didn't look like someone very original.

But maybe she was mistaken, Rachel thought. This might just be a coincidence. Maybe they were just a little girl and her big brother; they seemed close after all, even if they didn't look like siblings. She had to make sure. She had to know.

She walked toward them cautiously, as if they would attack her if she startled them. And if it was Samara on that bench, it wasn't impossible. Now that she was closer, she could hear them. The boy had a foreign accent, maybe French. French trying to pass as British, she noted with a smirk. It sounded awfully silly.

"Listen, Sam," he said, "New-York was merely a suggestion. If you have a better idea, I'm listening."

Sam, Rachel noted. It could work as a nickname for Samara. But who would ever be stupid enough to give a nickname to a killing ghost?

"I wanna go somewhere sunny," the girl answered. "Somewhere fun! But not the sea. I don't like it."

"Maybe Disneyland," the boy said dreamily. "I've always wanted to go there, I've heard it's great..."

The dark haired girl nodded and was about to say something, when she noticed Rachel standing a few steps away, and their eyes met. And after that, there was no doubt possible for the journalist, because Samara too had recognized her. The dead girl looked as frightened as she was, and yet at the same time there was longing and hope shining in her black eyes. Hope for what, Rachel didn't want to know.

Samara's smile had disappeared so quickly that the young man with her noticed something was wrong, and he too finally saw Rachel. He was not afraid. Slightly pissed off maybe, unless that was just his usual face. Anyway, he clearly didn't know who she was.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked sharply. "Or do you just enjoy starring at little girls in the street? Or maybe you want to lecture me because Oh god, the poor girl looks awful? She's been sick not long ago, it's the first time in weeks that she's leaving the hospital."

"What do you... Do you even know who that girl is?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah. She's my niece. And yes, I'm French but no, she's not, because my brother emigrated here years ago, so yes, I'm just her uncle and I'm taking care of her for the holidays because her parents couldn't afford a single day off. Happy?"

Rachel did not answer, and the young man sighed.

"Sorry. People have been a pain in the ass because of her looks, and I'm not a very patient guy. Guess it's a good thing you're all so worried about her you all yell at me before asking any questions. Well, you didn't yell. That's nice of you."

Samara quickly caught his hand and held it tightly, just the way normal kid would have done in front of someone they feared.

"That's a nice story," Rachel said, "but I don't think it's true. I don't think she's you niece. In fact, I don't think she's even alive, is she?"

"Ma'am, you're totally crazy. Does she look like a zombie to you?"

She didn't. The more Rachel looked at the girl, the more alive she seemed. Not quite as lively as most girls of that age, but definitively less dead than last time she had seen her. Had Samara not looked at her that way, she might have thought she was mistaken.

"I know who she is," the journalist said. "I know who she is and if you don't know, you're in great danger. Her name is Samara Morgan, she's a ghost, and she's dangerous. You shouldn't stay with her."

The young man shivered, and all colour left his face. Rachel expected him to either call her a liar or try to get away from Samara. Instead, he just drew the girl closer and hugged her tight.

"Listen lady, I don't know who you are, but Sam is harmless. Mostly."

"She killed people."

"Maybe. She's a kid. She didn't know what she was doing. It won't happen again. I'm here now, everything will be alright. I'll protect her."

This was... unexpected, Rachel thought. He wasn't acting like someone travelling with an evil ghost. He should have been either ignorant of Samara's true nature or trying to use her powers for his own interests. That he was so protective towards her was... strange, to say the least. It was as if he didn't realize how much of a menace the girl was. As if he didn't care.

"I think you don't understand", the journalist said, "you don't fully understand..."

"I gave you your chance, lady," the boy replied. "You should have left us alone."

He jumped on his feet, pulling the girl to him, and he started screaming.

"LEAVE US ALONE LADY!" he yelled. "HOW DARE YOU SAY THINGS LIKE THAT TO MY NIECE, YOU... YOU PERVERT, YOU FREAK! SHE'S EIGHT!"

At first, Rachel did not understand. It took her a few seconds to realize that everyone in the street was staring at them. The boy took Samara in his arms and started walking away. Rachel tried to catch his arm, but an old lady ran their way and insulted the journalist, using words she didn't know existed before that day. The old woman was soon joined by several other people who all wanted to call the police or to kill her right there and then for daring asking such awful things of a poor, innocent little girl. By the time Rachel managed to escape, Samara and her mysterious protector were already far away.

When Rachel eventually got back home, it was well past midnight and she was more tired than she had ever been in years. She prepared a hot bath, as hot as was humanly bearable, and after that she would eat all sorts of crappy, oily, artificially tasting food while drinking a cold beer in front of some silly movie about a silly girl and a silly boy falling in love and wasting their lives.

But first, she turned on her computer. She had to update her site about Samara's curse. She had to tell people the girl was back. She had to tell them this time, she wasn't alone. No one would read that, she was pretty sure of it, but she still had to do everything she could.

After that, Rachel took her bath, ate her food, drank her beer, watched her movie. And any other day she would have gone to bed after that, but that night, she decided to check her emails first. There was one in particular that caught her attention. It was very short. But also very interesting:

It's probably my fault if she's back. I can help you stop her, forever this time. Write me back.

Colonel Jackson.