Welcome to Ghosthood

Well, I've been writing Ghost Brigade (whatever the real title turns out to be), so I thought I might as well post the first (unedited) chapter here. Warning: suicide, not that descriptive.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I’m still not completely sure about this.

That’s probably a bad thought to have in the middle of cutting my throat open.

Of course, it’s a little late now. I’ve probably cut my hand more than my jugular, but I’m still on my way to bleeding out. Hopefully I’ll wake up like I’ve been led to believe. If not, well, I tried.

I slump against the shut door as the walls around me begin to dim. The slacks and blouses hanging on my right get as fuzzy as the sweaters and T-shirts to my left. The shelves in front of me blur until no one book can be distinguished from another, and then until it’s all one greyish smudge. 

Fade to black. Cue curtains.

Or so I would normally expect. For a Biochemistry major, I don’t know all that much about death. Once your brain stops getting oxygen, it starts to die, and then things escalate until all of you is dead. There’s probably some apoptosis in there somewhere. That’s all I’ve got.

And then, after that point, well, you either stay dead or show up as a ghost. I don’t know the details of that process any more than the last one. I don’t have any proof that I’m going to end up as a ghost, either. Just a hunch. And some persuasion from a, uh, “friend” of mine.

I don’t know his name. I’m not even completely sure if it’s a he, it always shows up so faded. While I can see spirits in a lot more definition than the average paranormal photographer, this guy is still hazy in my eyes. But he’s persistent. He’s basically been stalking me for a month now, and, while he doesn’t give off any malicious vibes, I’m not sure why I trust in what I think he’s been trying to say. I guess I’ve just given up enough on everything else. You know, why not? What have I got to lose?

So, here I am. Dying. Or dead. Or something.

The world remains black and empty for an indeterminate amount of time before I start to see a glimmer. Gradually, my closet rematerializes around me, the light growing until I can see every detail.

I can’t turn my head, though. And now that I think about it, I can’t feel the stickiness on my hands and neck. I guess I’m not really back to my senses, per se, but I’m definitely conscious in some way.

My view begins to shift. I can’t feel myself rising, but the floor becomes more and more distant regardless―and then I can see my body below me. Yeah, that looks dead. My hair looks terrible, too.

Still I rise. The lowest bookshelf begins to eclipse the speckled carpet beneath it. The shoulders of my shirts sink below me in a row of colorful streaks. 

So is this just my spirit now? Am I going to keep rising to the heavens? I can’t seem to shake myself from my trajectory, so I guess I’ll find out. Here’s hoping I’m headed somewhere decent. I can’t say I’ve earned, it, but―

A screaming something crashes into me from the side, and I don’t have time to yelp before I’m crashing down onto the carpet.

I do manage to get out an “ack” a moment later, though. I can feel weight still pushing down on me, although it doesn’t hurt, and soon I notice my arms splayed out in front of me. I can wriggle my fingers. And my corpse is still sitting over there. Okay.

“Phew! You made it!” 

I find myself rolling onto my stomach as the weight leaves, but my hand is grabbed and I’m hauled upright before I can shift myself. I at least manage not to stumble back to the floor when I’m let go.

“You feeling okay? Coming over can be kinda rough. Do you remember who you are? How many fingers am I holding up? Can you hear me? Can you talk? Are you hurt? Did I tackle you too hard?”

“S-slow down!” I hold up my hands like I’m about to get slapped with that peace-sign hand being waved at me. I’m not sure that there’s reason to believe I won’t.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

The man standing in front of me hunches a little and puts his hands in his jeans pockets. His build seems pretty intimidating at first, but, after another moment’s investigation, he doesn’t seem to have much meat on his big bones. He’s a mite taller than me while he’s slumping, and he has a lot of hair for someone who doesn’t keep it much longer than the average guy. His facial features are kind of soft in general, although he’s still frowning pretty tightly as he glances between me and my corpse. 

I don’t recognize him as anyone I’ve ever known, but the brown of his shirt and blue of his jeans match the blur of my stalker-ghost. Considering that I don’t recall anyone else in my closet and my body is still very much slumped against the door, I’m pretty sure this guy’s about as dead as I am. This is him, then. I’m not sure how exactly I thought he’d look, but it wasn’t this.

“Uh, miss?” His glance at my ghost this round is a little longer before he averts his gaze to the other me.

I put my hands on my hips. “I prefer ‘Becky.’ You?”

“Huh?” He straightens up immediately and smiles at me. “Oh, great! You’re okay, then? Well, I’m George. Nice to meet you.”

I nod and watch him. His expression shifts to puzzled, and then uncomfortable as he slumps again.

“Mi―I mean, Becky?”

“Yeah?”

“Um―” he scratches the side of his head― “what is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it’?” I wish I had a good three-ring binder in hand to smack him with. “What am I doing here? You’re the one who’s been trying so hard to get me to the ghost side, right? Is there a reason, or are you just a creep with nothing better to do than watch teenagers kill themselves?”

“No, no!” It’s his turn to hold up his hands defensively, although he waves them around, too. “I have a reason. I, uh―there’s something I need you to do. But there’s one problem.” He looks at the other me. “You kinda left your corpse where somebody’s gonna find it.” He pauses, straightens up again, and looks me in the eye. “Or are your parents leaving for a while? For how long? Is there anybody else that comes over here a lot? Are any neighbors probably gonna catch the smell? I don’t know how good the vent system is here.”

“Cripes! One question at a time.”  I grip my hips a little tighter. “So what exactly is the problem here? Why shouldn’t anyone be able to find my body?”

I guess that was technically two questions at a time on my part. Well, at least they’re closely related.

George puts his hands in his pockets and rolls his shoulders back. “Then they’ll probably do an autopsy, right? It’ll be a little hard to come back from that. So here―” he waves at the corpse― “get back in, quick, before somebody shows up. You have to find somewhere a little more exclusive.”

“First of all, ‘jump in’? You mean possess my corpse somehow? Is that possible?” I frown at the body by the door. Even if I could somehow get back inside, it’s already a dead shell. With blood all over it, no less. I don’t think I’ll be sneaking off to any good body-dumping spots without raising any suspicion.

“For you, yeah.” He eyes the quietly buzzing light in the ceiling. “Most of us not so much, but―” he looks back at me with an eager nod― “yeah, go for it. Quick. All you have to do is find somewhere cool and secluded and, uh, do the thing again, and we should be good to go ahead.”

“All I have to do is kill myself again. Great!” I sigh and step straight over my body, my foot just shy of the knife. “This method sucks. Should I just go jump in the river? I bet nobody’d find me then.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He jumps in front of me, knocking me back from my corpse before I can attempt to somehow climb in. I land on my hands and rear with a grunt and glare up at him. He fidgets before breaking eye contact.

“No. Bad idea. You still have to be able to find your body.”

I pull myself back to my feet for the sole purpose of putting my hands on my hips again. Leaning in a little, I squint at him. “Because?” 

“Because you might still need it.” He blinks, apparently confused enough to stop noticing my glare.

I continue to stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to recognize a need to divulge more information.

“Okay, then.” I nudge his shin with my foot. “Let me get to it.”

“Oh!” He jumps out of the way, his back phasing through my hanging blouses in the process. “Okay!” He smiles. “Good luck!”

I try to thank him with the flattest tone possible, but he doesn’t seem perturbed by it. With an exhale, I step over to my body and frown down at it. 

So I’m somehow going to resuscitate myself, and then I have to go kill myself somewhere no one will find me, either on the way there or for who-knows-how-long after I’m gone again. I’m sure absolutely nothing will go wrong with that plan.

I step into my feet carefully, although they’re at such an angle I can’t quite fit them while I’m standing. Nothing happens for a moment so, with a chill of disgust, I lower myself onto the blood-soaked carpet and try to match my corpse’s position. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. Close my eyes, or meditate, or do some sort of proverbial reaching out to the core of my dead body. George looks like he’s cheering me on, but I’m not expecting much sage advice from him if he’s never done this himself.

Wait. I can’t hear him talking.

I open my eyes again to find more of a blur than a man in front of me. I can’t even tell if his mouth is still moving or not, although I’m pretty sure he’s waving his arms.

I start to sit up before I feel the burning in my hand. Looking down at my right fingers, I find them bloodied. That doesn’t surprise me nearly as much as their response when I try to move them. I manage to wriggle my hand for a god few seconds before it makes the cut burn too much for me to continue.

I guess I’m back, then. That’s nice.

Gently, I put my fingertips to my neck. It’s coated with blood, but no matter how much I palpate, I can’t find the cut. It was there a minute ago. I’m pretty darn sure about that. Where precisely it’s gone, not so much.

Well, I can ponder that over when I’m not locked in my closet covered in blood. I have other crap to do right now. 

After glaring hard enough at George to chase him out of the room, I get a clean shirt put on and check out my slacks. They’re a little wet, but you can’t really make out the blood on the black fabric. Good enough for me.

I hastily clean off the knife on my soiled shirt and toss it in my jacket pocket. I don’t bother trying to hide the shirt. There’s a huge bloodstain in the carpet that’s not going to resolve itself anytime soon, so I can’t stop anyone from getting suspicious by kicking the shirt in the corner. Here’s hoping no one tries to snoop in my closet. My parents ought to know better, as should anyone they invite over.

Once they think I’ve gone missing, well, I ought to be far enough away not to worry about it.

I still open and shut the door fast as I get to the bathroom to rinse off. My hand is still stinging, but I guess that’s the price to pay for my hesitation. I’ll just have to man up and deal with it. Until I die again, at least. But that’s a problem for a later hour. Right now, let’s just try to get halfway presentable.