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Ghosts - wip

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1 - Ghosts Make Great Friends

Ethel is a Ghost Girl.

Mother Nyx says she is blessed

Ethel knows she is burdened.

Being a Ghost Girl may be a great gift, but with it comes a load of responsibilities her lithe shoulders feel too narrow to carry. And yet, she finds a quiet sort of enjoyment in Spirit-speaking.

“Only special people are chosen for this job, Ethel,” Mother Nyx likes to say when she senses her child’s growing displeasure.

Ethel imagines the immortal woman saying it as she walks along the sidewalk, bags heavy in her arms. She suppresses a shudder as a memory resurfaces: Mother Nyx’s sharp features shrouded in dark anger as she inked a fifth Tally into the book on her desk.

Ghost Girls are not true immortals; with only ten lives to their names. Mother Nyx keeps a count of her girl’s lives, drawing a line to represent each failure and sacrifice. She takes it upon herself to remind each of her children’s proximity to death’s doorstep. The woman claims her warnings are caring, but Ethel has only ever found them malicious, a calculated sort of torment, because with every warning, a challenge follows.

“Be grateful as you continue to carry out your duties.”

She is grateful- somewhat, at least. She is grateful for the ghosts she has had the pleasure of speaking to and for the endless stories she’s learned as a result. She harbors no hard feelings towards the many beautiful sights that come with being a Ghost Girl.

What Ethel will forever hate is speaking to new ghosts, for every conversation she’s been forced to have with one ends with a heart that’s been ripped out of her chest. The newly-dead are always vengeful and angry. Every encounter with one traps Ethel in a fight for her lives.

Ethel is walking home from the grocery store when she sees five lines carved into the sidewalk, every single one too straight to be natural. She nearly falls, blood freezing in her veins. The girl almost drops the bags in her arms in surprise, but begins to run home nonetheless.

A new ghost, she thought, consciousness tinged with alarm. It’s nearby.

Mother Nyx, when leaving her cruel reminders, does so in the form of lines scratched in plain sight. Mortals would look the other way. Ghost Girls would know instantly what it meant; Mother Nyx was angered by one of her children’s failures and was ordering them to battle a new ghost as both a chance for redemption, and as a punishment.

The first time Ethel saw a line clawed into the wood of her dingy apartment’s door, decades ago, when she lived someplace else, she didn’t realize it was a Tally.

Locks of hair darker than a raven fall from the loose ponytail they were tied into when Ethel begins to walk as quickly as her plentiful amount of heavy bags will let her.

If Ghost Girls were not meant to be such well-kept secrets, she thinks bitterly to herself, I’d use my wings to get home. I’d leave before I earn another Tally.

Ethel no longer takes joy in her work, but she will always love her wings. Darker than even her hair, the feathers stretch far. When she unfurled her wings for the first time, decades ago, Ethel thought they could block out the sun itself.

I could’ve saved Icarus, she once said, silver eyes sparkling with the sort of eagerness only children have. I could have kept the sun’s rays at bay.

In the decades since then, though, there has been no Icarus to save.

She keeps a journal listing every old delusion hiding behind the guise of being a dream.

Ghost Girls are not heroes, it says on the first page in her loopy, cursive handwriting. You do not exist to save people.

Heroes have colorful capes. Ghost Girls have night-black wings that reveal the death they all have to work with. Heroes carry noble burdens, tasked with keeping people alive and safe. Ghost Girls are servants of the afterworld itself, ferrying wandering ghosts to where they are supposed to be.

Ethel wishes for her wings as she runs home.

A few people look over, gazes tainted with confusion, for why would she be running? No one sees a predator, something chasing her down like prey, but she runs like it all the same.

Mother Nyx’s words never fail to repeat themselves when Ethel needs them least.

Do not run from a job, Ethel. If there is a new ghost, you must face it head on. Even in her head, the immortal woman’s voice carries the eternal weight it always does. You are a Ghost Girl for a reason, my dear.

But lately, Mother Nyx hasn’t seemed all that wise. Her wisdom hasn’t seemed all that worth following, so Ethel keeps running.

Her sneakers pound against the sidewalk, a steady rhythm almost faster than her racing heartbeat. Her footfalls are war drums, announcing a fight she desperately doesn’t want to happen. Ethel runs. She runs even as her shins scream louder with every impact. She runs even as the ache in her legs toes the line between pain and agony,

If a few apples or boxes of bandages fall out of her bags on the way, she doesn’t notice.

Before Ethel can turn the corner onto her street, the familiar shriek of a new ghost pierces her pounding ears.

She curses under her breath, dropping her groceries onto the pavement. The girl mutters an incantation under her breath, a simple jumble of words that hide her and any damage from other gazes.

The new ghost rounds the far street corner and Ethel goes still.

Translucent silver projections of the people they once were, ghosts are breathtaking. Their eerie and otherworldly beauty rather haunting to even seasoned Ghost Girls. Ethel thinks that new ghosts have a rather ugly sort of beauty, if that’s even a thing.

Chancing a glance over her shoulder to check and make sure that the incantation worked, Ethel takes a breath, conjuring images of great birds to her mind and calling upon the eldritch power burrowed deep in her gut.

Ravens, eagles, vultures, and flocks of starlings flying in impressive formations.

Ethel exhales deeply, the corners of her lips turning upwards at the faint sound of feathers flapping behind her. She doesn’t dare look back, not yet, not until she knows her wings are ready to carry her into the sky.

I may never save Icarus, but that doesn’t mean I can’t become him.

With a war cry loud enough to shake the cruel world, Ethel shoots forward, black feathers carrying her farther than her tired legs ever could.

The new ghost whirls around, its grotesquely twisted face right in view. Eye sockets stretched downward with distress, and cheeks streaked with permanent tear stains, irises red with new-ghost-rage.

Swallowing any terror threatening to freeze in her veins, Ethel draws out an old fountain pen from a hidden pocket in her shirt and mutters another incantation. A crystal blade appears in her hand the second she finishes the last syllable.

Ghost Girls are not heroes.

Your sword is your savior; never part ways with it, is written below the previous in the running list in Ethel’s journal.

Soul Blades should be sacred things. More beautiful than sunrises, more elegant than the most regal of monarchs, stronger than pride of lions, Ethel believes that Soul Blades should be kept in museums for little kids to gawk at, eyes wide with wonder, instead of wielded against death itself.

And yet, because she doesn’t want another Tally to be scrawled in Mother Nyx’s book, Ethel draws her sharp features into something even sharper. Countenance shadowed by fierce determination, she throws herself into every ruthless slash of her weapon,

But new ghosts are not infamous for no reason.

Just corporeal enough to cause painful damage, the ghost rakes its nails, long and sharp like claws, down Ethel’s side in an effort to throw her off. It works.

Ethel screeches, scrambling backwards, giving herself a few heartbeats to breathe. She looks down at her abdomen, at the blood welling up from the deep wound, staining her cream-colored top at the side and the collar. The garment is ruined, she knows.

Just another thing I hate about this, a voice grumbles in the depths of her mind. Yet another thing completely ruined.

New ghosts are quicker than she ever remembers, though, and Ethel’s breath is ripped from her lungs as a gash is clawed along her body before she can attempt to defend herself anymore.

Clenching her jaw to avoid screaming in agony as the life in her body starts to ebb away from the sound in her side, the Ghost Girl twists to avoid another deadly swipe before lunging, silver sword hilt gripped tightly by scarred fingers.

Mother Nyx, despite every other reason Ethel hates her, is grateful for her training.

Her crystal blade strikes true, sinking right into the new ghost’s translucent chest,

The effect is instantaneous as always. The new ghost’s body begins to glow, sad blue shade giving way to a more cheery cerulean. All the tension fades from it, figure shrinking into itself. Claw-like nails return to normal, tear stains fading, and eyes losing their horrifyingly distorted quality.

Ethel steps back, withdrawing her sword. She sways on unsteady, tired feet, trying to blink away the fog and dizziness that comes with exhaustion and the first stages of death. Exhaustion sets in even faster and she crashes to the ground, pain sparking up her knees as they hit the asphalt.

The new ghost tilts its head, curious about the winged being dying before it.

A lover of epics and legends, Ethel thinks back to the tale of Icarus, marvels at how the Roman poet, Ovid, would describe her in his Metamorphoses.

Would I be a fallen angel? The Ghost Girl muses as her vision begins to blur. Or would I be an ambitious fool who’s ego couldn’t handle the reality of her own limitations?

Distracting oneself from one’s impending death by mentally recounting famous Greek myths is a rather foolproof strategy, Ethel learns as her blood pools onto the street, collecting in little puddles in between the thin cracks of the road. She falls forward, cheek slamming against the unforgiving surface, brain rattling in her skull.

If nothing else hurt, if she weren’t more than halfway to having another Tally under her name, she’d whimper at the crunch in her cheekbone. She’d shake her head fiercely, surely giving herself even more of a concussion, just to force some clarity back behind her eyes.

The new ghost has calmed down, though, and Ethel doesn’t have the strength to fight any longer, so she lets go, succumbing to the cold and comforting embrace of death.

Far, far away, in an office in the sky, Mother Nyx scowls as she inks a sixth Tally under one of her student’s names. Ethel. Name scrawled in the kind of classy cursive only queens could have, six straight lines underneath.

And though she knows Ethel cannot hear, Mother Nyx utters a warning all the same.

“Four lives left, little one,” she drawls from her office in the stars, far too menacing for an immortal with the title of “mother”.

If Ethel spends more than a minute with a still heart, she’d never know.

Eyes flying open as she surges forward, gasping for breath. The mid-day sun burns her eyes and she squints, lips curled into a grimace. Eyes narrowed against the offensive brightness, she scans her surroundings.

“Uhm, hello,” the ghost says, voice soft with hesitation. “Are you okay?”

Normally, she’d lie. Normally, Ethel would paint on a smile, push herself up off the ground despite the residual ache where her wounds once were, and insist that she was perfectly okay.

Am I okay?

She laughs, the sound bitter and rough, at the pure absurdity of everything in her tumultuous life. “I will be,” she says by way of an answer. Ethel looks up at the ghost. “What’s your name?”

The ghost hesitates. “Grace. My name is Grace and I died a few hours ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Grace.”

Grace tilts her head to the side, the picture of confusion as long hair falls over her shoulders. “Isn’t that something you say to the family of the deceased?”

Ethel shrugs. “I guess, but it was your life too, right? You’re allowed to be sad for the life you lost.”

Something in her heart twinges at that, perhaps commenting on the irony that she was the one to say such a thing, that she deigned to speak about mourning the loss of opportunity, freedom, and normalcy.

But Grace has gone silent. “I suppose you’re right,” she whispers. “I don’t- I don’t remember much of the last hour, but I thought you had wings before.”

The Ghost Girl looks over her shoulder then, slightly disappointed by the lack of black feathers stretching far behind. “I did have wings. They’re gone now,” she responds shortly, pulling herself to her feet. “I also had a sword, but it’s gone now too.”

Grace is quiet once more. “Did I hurt you?” she breathes, shame bleeding through each word. “I’m sorry if I did.”

“You did. It wasn’t your fault though, Grace. You were a new ghost. New ghosts hurt people. I’ll be okay.” Ethel’s response is automatic, not an ounce of genuine feeling or emotion behind it.

“I’m still sorry.”

In her decades of Spirit-speaking, in her countless years of helping ghosts pass on to the Afterworld, never has a ghost apologized for their violence. Not sincerely, at least. Grace is the first ghost who’s apology manages to strike a chord in Ethel’s heart.

“If I may ask, Grace, how did you die? Who is grieving you now?”

Again, Grace goes quiet, far gentler than the majority of the other ghosts Ethel has ever dealt with.

“I died in a car accident. My best friend was in the driver’s seat, but I know she’s fine.”

“She lost you,” Ethel points out. “If you were best friends, well and truly, she’s not going to be ‘fine’ for a while- same with your family.”

A single, silvery tear slips down Grace’s cheek, falling from her chin. It fizzles out in the air before the translucent drop of melancholy can hit the road. “I had so much more time left. We were supposed to have a whole life by each other’s sides,” she sobs. “I ruined her dream.”

Ethel steps forward, opening her arms and pulling Grace’s ghostly body into an embrace. “She would never blame you. Never, never, never.” She frowns sympathetically as the young ghost trembles in her hold. “You’re a good friend, Grace, and I know she knows that too.”

“I wish I was better.”

If her heart breaks then and there, if she earns another Tally because of the pure impact those five words have, she wouldn’t be surprised.

But Ethel has to mask her shakiness once again to soothe a spirit, has to hold back the hurricane of thoughts and feelings raging in her heart and mind in order to do her “sacred” job of ferrying the dead.

She hugs Grace tighter.

“Don’t get attached to them, Ethel,” Mother Nyx loved to remind her. “You are simply there to help them pass over to the Afterworld, nothing else.”

You are not their therapist, Ethel wrote in that special black journal when she got home.

She disregards that for a moment, though, to comfort the shaking spirit.

“You are very kind,” Grace whispers, words breaking off at the end, voice too weak to handle the heaviness of heartbreak and loss. She hides her face in the spot where Ethel’s neck meets her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“If life had lined up differently,” Ethel starts slowly, “I think we could have been good friends.”

Grace exhales deeply, something sad and broken having been soothed inside her soul. Her eyes fall closed and her body begins to fade even more, figure shrinking with every passing heartbeat.

Every Ghost Girl knows what this is; a Passage.

Every Ghost Girl has grown accustomed to the sight of pain leaving a ghost’s face as they begin to pass over.

Not every Ghost Girl watches this moment of healing with envy. They don’t wonder how it would feel to be comforted in the same way, every internal wound eased with simple words, but Ethel does and it makes her feel like even more of a failure.

Ethel’s arms pass through the ghost’s body as she fades even more, fades so much she’s invisible.

Ignoring any pangs of melancholy in her traitorous heart, Ethel chants the Passage incantation, the ancient words that allow a ghost to move on to the Afterworld. Just another string of syllables she must remember and recite.

Goodbye Grace, the girl thinks quietly to herself. You would have been a great friend.

Ethel picks up her groceries and continues her walk home.

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2 - The Price of Wasting Your Life

Ethel knows the bookstore like the back of her hand, could easily navigate it with her eyes closed. She’d done it once, when an old friend had challenged her. She did it flawlessly. The friend had tried it too.

They left with a few scrapes and bruises and a heart warm with laughter.

Occupying the first two floors of an old brownstone, Hawthorne’s Book Shop was kept well-lit. Every wall was occupied by mahogany shelves stretching all the way to the ceiling. The rolling ladder is creaky, but it’s fun to use. Every time a new customer walks in, Ethel has to stop herself from pointing out the little intricacies of the store.

“Look up,” she once whispered to a little boy whose eyes were already wide with excitement the moment he’d walked in the door with his father. “Do you see the birds and flowers?” Ethel pointed up at the top of the bookcases, where richly-colored wood was carved into intricate nature scenes.

The little boy smiled widely when he saw. Ethel grinned at his joy, listening as he giddily told his father to look up too.

When the two came to check out a few minutes later, Ethel learned a little more about their life simply by listening as she gift-wrapped the novel the father had picked out. He was getting it for his wife. It was her birthday. The little boy just got a book because he loved to read.

If Mr. Hawthorne, who had been unboxing a new shipment of books a little ways away as Ethel worked the register, noticed the girl slip in an extra few bookmarks into the family’s bag, he didn’t say anything.

He loved his bookstore and every little detail of the cozy space, even the too-kind employee he had hired just a few months ago.

Ethel loves it too, loves the smell of books surrounding her as she shelves, dusts, and organizes. Loves the beanbags in every little alcove of the store, waiting for a reader far too eager to read a book they’d selected from the countless shelves to wait until they’d arrived back home.

Music plays softly through speakers set into the ceiling, every single song coming off of a playlist that Ethel carefully curated.

Phoebe Bridgers croons softly as Ethel sets up the little counter at the back of the store. She sings along, words just barely discernible as she plugs in the electric kettle. Garden Song is melancholy, that’s for sure, but it’s a peaceful accompaniment to arranging and organizing all the different tea bags in the clear container, she finds.

“They’re gluing roses on a flatbed. You should see it, I mean thousands.”

She pauses for a moment, listening for the deep male voice hidden beside Phoebe’s. He starts some of the lyrics milliseconds earlier, just enough to be heard.

Ethel returns to organizing the tea bags, mentally checking off each different kind.

Rooibos, Earl Grey, Chamomile, Lemon and Ginger, English Breakfast, and Green tea.

The sound of an opening door makes her look up, over her shoulder, towards the front of the store. Mr. Hawthorne walks in, eyes crinkling as he smiles. He sets two big boxes on the floor near the register, exhaling heavily when they hit the ground.

“Good morning, Ethel!” He says, cheery as ever, despite the early hour. “How are you?”

Ethel walks over, sitting down on the floor. “Morning, Mr. Hawthorne,” she says back, beginning to open the first box. “I’m doing alright,” the girl answers, trying not to think of the faint scars on her torso. “How about you?”

Mr. Hawthorne smiles even wider. “My family is coming to visit next week. Maisie and I are setting up the house so everything goes well.” He looks at Ethel, watches as she takes out books from the box and stacks them on the floor beside her. “Bringing that box up to the counter might be better,” he suggests, gray eyes sparkling with mirth.

Stifling a groan at the soreness in her body, Ethel stands, bringing the stack of books with her. Mr. Hawthorne hefts up the box she was unpacking, it lands on the wood surface with a heavy thud, cardboard bending under the weight of the many pages.

Distantly, Ethel hears the song switch to something by Lana Del Rey. It’s too early to know which song, she concludes with a note of disappointment.

Cardboard flaps are folded out of the way as Mr. Hawthorne takes out the rest of the books, assembling two of his own stacks.

“Lots of historical fiction today,” he remarks. “Those books have been getting really popular online, so I ordered a bunch. There’s more boxes in my car, these are just display books.” The final book is withdrawn and the man drops the empty box back on the floor. “I think the shipment of Young Adult novels is set to come in tomorrow.”

The keyboard clacks as Ethel types in the password to the bookstore’s computer, nodding her acknowledgement. The screen opens to the store’s inventory logs. She clicks her way to the right page, blindly picking the first book off of the nearest stack.

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue is heavy in her hands as she types it in.

“I think this book is my favorite,” she says suddenly, setting it to the side and picking up another one. “I just always liked the characters.”

Mr. Hawthorne looks over to see which story she was referring to before nodding thoughtfully. “Schwab has a beautiful writing style.” He pauses, contemplative. “If I recall, though, Addie LaRue is quite sad, right?”

Ethel hums. “It definitely is, but it’s sad in a way that makes you think.” She picks up the next book, types it in the system too. “I like Greek Mythology for the same reason.”

The man tilts his head, taking in this new little bit of information she has given up. “I didn’t know you like the old myths,” he finally says. “What’s your favorite story?”

“There are so many,” Ethel starts, “I can’t choose.”

She has a favorite, of course, but sharing it feels too personal.

“That makes sense,” the man concedes. He walks away from the counter, deeper into the bookstore. “By the way, Maisie is going to swing by later to drop off some stuff quickly. Do you want anything?”

Ethel shakes her head, touched by the Hawthorne couple’s kindness. “I’m good, thank you. I’m just going to finish putting everything into the system before putting everything away.”

“Bless you,” Mr. Hawthorne gushes. “I don’t know how this place would fare without you.”

It’s a compliment, Ethel knows that, but she can’t help the guilt that rings in her heart. One day, in a few years’ time, she will have to find a new job, a new place to live. Someday not far beyond the horizon, she will pack up and move, because eventually, it will be taken note of that she does not age. It will be noticed that time’s cruel hands will skip over her.

Mother Nyx will arrange a new apartment and Ethel will do the rest.

She moved to Riverview five years ago. It will likely be a year, at most, before she moves again.

Just once, I’d like to be able to truly have a home, someplace endless.

I think London would be nice. She thinks of Addie LaRue. Or maybe, New York City.

Ben Hawthorne knows nothing of Ghost Girls, though, so Ethel just smiles and feigns flustered pride. It works. She’s gotten good at hiding her misgivings. Practice makes perfect, after all.

Mr. Hawthorne turns and walks out of the bookstore. Through the windows, Ethel watches out of the corner of her eyes as he opens his car door.

Ethel continues adding books to the system.

---

The sun has passed its highest point in the sky when Ethel runs into another ghost.

The electric kettle is four cups of water emptier than it was at the start of the day and tea packet wrappers have found new homes in the trash can by the counter. The playlist has looped a few times. It’s been switched to something else, something that isn’t fresh enough in everyone’s mind to be annoying.

Ethel kneels down, fibers of her black leggings catching on the edges of the wood floorboards where her knee touches the floor. Holding back a few books from falling with one hand, she slides in five new books one by one. Already, the new titles look familiar, emerald, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, and onyx blending in with the others.

The girl rises to her feet, knees popping as she stands. Her head swims, the space behind her eyes throbbing as the blood rushes to her head. Groaning in annoyance as she rubs the bridge of her nose, Ethel turns around on her heel to go back to the storage room and grab more books to shelve. She stumbles backwards at the sight of silvery translucence, the floating figure of a ghost having startled her.

New ghosts would be violent, wandering ghosts are the quiet ones.

Under her breath, she whispers the concealment incantation.

To others, it will continue to appear as if she is adjusting the books on the shelves, dusting mahogany surfaces, anything normal that isn’t talking to a ghost.

“Hello?” she hisses, because sound is harder to hide, its fluctuations too unpredictable even for eldritch magic. “Can I help you?”

That was rather unfriendly, she remarks in the safety of her own headspace.

Fortunately, the ghost is not scared off by her less-than-warm greeting. It turns its head, revealing the face of an old man, wrinkled features twisted into the picture of melancholy. “You can see me?” His voice trembles.

If Ethel wasn’t used to the desperate hope of a wandering ghost being seen for the first time, if she was any younger, any more inexperienced, she might have cried. But Ethel is used to being a Ghost Girl, has grown into her dislike of the responsibility.

“Of course I can,” she replies. “What is your name?”

The ghost’s face falls, expression darkening with the added weight of more sadness. “I wish I had done more, had put myself out there more so people would know my name already,” he confesses, because death has a way of pulling the truth out of people.

“What do you mean?

He gestures to the books on the shelves, as if they hold the answers to everything.

“I wanted to be an author. I could have been a good one too,” he pauses, too lost in the memories to continue for a moment, “but I gave it all up to pursue a different career, one that’d make my family happy.” He smiles sadly, because such oxymoronic combinations have the power to exist in this cruel world.

Ethel knows what she needs to ask, knows what questions will make this ghost realize just enough about himself to be able to move on to the Afterworld, but it’s humiliatingly ironic.

Hesitation isn’t an approved option, so she asks anyway. “Why did you prioritize their happiness over yours?”

“Because I didn’t think I had another choice.”

I think I’m going to be writing down something new in my journal tonight.

Floundering for a proper response, Ethel hums, trying to sound contemplative instead of caught off guard. “Did you at least enjoy your life a little bit?” she tries, inwardly cringing at how pathetic it sounds.

“No.” Dejected, the ghost falls a bit, hovering closer to the floor. “There were some good moments with the people important to me, but I was miserable.”

Ethel is taken back to the memories of the people she considers important, the ones who have made her feel more seen than a microscope ever could. A childhood best friend who felt more like a sister, a group of friends in college that never failed to make her laugh, and another friend who she met later on. A partner whose love she’ll forever miss.

“I suppose people you love can always make you feel happier.”

The ghost sighs. “They may make you feel happier, but they can’t make you be happy. That’s something only you can control.” He looks at the books again, wistfulness clouding over his eyes. “I realized that a little too late.”

A dead man’s life can be ruined no further than it already has been, Ethel realizes as she prepares to ask a more personal question, steels herself against the horror of being vulnerable. Just ask.

“How do you know when you’re too late?” she chokes out. “To be happy, I mean.”

The answer is far simpler than the question, she finds.

“When you’re dead. Spend every second of your life trying to be happy,” the ghost urges. “I will simply have to exist knowing I didn’t do that.”

Ethel should be helping him pass on to the Afterworld, but she has a feeling he’d have a more peaceful time if she lets him heal with time.

“You’re okay with wandering alone? Okay with dealing with your struggles?”

He nods. “I think it’s the price I have to pay for wasting my life.”

There are more questions Ethel desperately wants to ask, more guidance she seeks, but being a Ghost Girl isn’t supposed to entail learning from the dead, that’s for historians, archaeologists, and mortals too concerned with the past.

She is neither a historian, an archaeologist, nor a mortal, so Ethel swallows down her questions and apologizes instead.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

The ghost laughs, the sound’s bitter amusement grating against Ethel’s ears. “There’s nothing you could have done to help me, I’m afraid.”

“Well….” Ethel looks around the bookshop. Anxiety leaps into her throat at the sight of a woman walking past, but logic subdues it. She doesn’t see anything unusual. Calm down.

“Well,” she starts again, having regained the words, “You’ve already wasted your life, so try not to do the same with your death.” She smiles. “Explore. You’re limitless like this.”

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3 - The Afterlife Isn't So Far Away

A mug of hot coffee waits on the small, wood table. Its strong scent is carried into the air with the steam. Ethel breathes it in with a grimace as she spreads the strawberry jam on the second slice of toast.

She hates coffee, finds it too strong, but it keeps her awake, so she drinks it anyway.

From her speaker sitting on the marble kitchen counter, plays a slow guitar song. The girl listens closer, picking out the lyrics and trying to identify what exactly she’s listening to. After a few seconds of stillness, she recognizes it as Last Words of Shooting Star by Mitski.

“And while my dreams made music in the night, carefully I was going to live.”

In a New York University hoodie that’s probably a size too big for her and a pair of athletic shorts she’s taken to wearing around her apartment, Ethel takes her plate of toast and sits down by her coffee, taking the warm mug in her hands.

On the wall across from her, hangs a photograph.

She’d taken it herself, a decade ago. She’d taken her phone from her pocket and snapped the photo of her lover dashing across an open meadow. Their figure in the distance was blurry, but it made looking at the memory a little less painful to look at.

Mitski’s voice fades away, replaced by something more masculine.

It startles Ethel out of her reminiscing.

She doesn’t bother trying to recognize the song this time, just takes a bite of toast.

The seconds continue to slip by and Ethel eats her breakfast. It’s a sad excuse for a meal, she’d admit, but the strawberry jam is just sweet enough to counteract the awful bitterness of her coffee. Even with the added milk and sugar, it’s horrendous, but collapsing in the middle of the day doesn’t sound very appealing.

Ethel takes a sip from the mug, grimacing. Her next bite of toast acts like a chaser.

This feels awfully backwards, she laughs to herself before repeating the cycle yet again. Sip of coffee, bite of toast. Sip of coffee, bite of toast. Sip of coffee, bite of toast, over and over again until she’s finished breakfast.

Only when the song changes again does she snap out of her daze. Ethel looks up at the clock on the wall, the silver numbers, hands, and outside frame set against a white background.

To the tune of If I’m Being Honest by Dodie, she cleans up.

Ethel hums along as she rinses her plate off in the sink, watching crumbs and tiny splotches of strawberry jam disappear under the faucet’s stream of water. She sets it down in the sink, moving slowly because it’s too early for the loud sound of dishes clinking together.

The white mug she merely rinses, just enough to get the coffee out completely before walking over to her electric kettle. Socks against the gray, hardwood floor make steps soundless as boiling water is poured into a now-clean cup.

The girl doesn’t bother reading the label of her tea bag, just drops it in.

With a mug full of a far less foul drink, Ethel makes her way to her living room, sitting down carefully so as to not spill her tea.

Dodie’s voice fills the quiet space.

“How did I get here? It’s all so quick and I feel sick.”

The corners of her lips quirk downwards with displeasure. Ethel reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out her phone, quickly unlocking it and switching to her music app to change the song to something less relatable.

Before she gets to truly enjoy a second of peace, though, someone rings her doorbell.

Frown deepening, Ethel sets her steeping tea down on her living room table and walks to her front door. Because she’s heard enough horror stories, she takes a moment to peer through the peephole in the solid wood.

An exasperated groan falls from her lips at the sight of her visitor before she can stop it.

Ethel opens the door. “What on Earth could you possibly want?” she asks, every word dripping with obvious impatience.

Mother Nyx smiles. “That’s no way to welcome someone into your home, is it?” The woman’s dark eyes gleam, pools of obsidian set against shining pearl. Everything about her is flawless, from the angular cut of her sharp cheekbones to the crisp lines of her well-tailored black suit.

Mastering the art of intimidation requires you to pay attention to detail, Ethel remembers being told by the very being before her, remembers writing it in her journal when she got home.

Sighing, she steps aside, opening the door wider. “Come inside, I can make you a mug of tea, if you’d like.”

“That’d be lovely, Ethel. Thank you,” is the saccharine response.

The two women enter the apartment. Mother Nyx sits on a stool at the kitchen island, Ethel just walks to the counter to prepare the tea she offered.

Frustration boiling hotter than the water in her kettle, Ethel reaches up and grabs another white mug. She fills it silently, and for a fleeting moment, she wonders what would happen if she simply walked out of her apartment, if she spent the rest of the day in the park.

Maybe Mr. Hawthorne would let me stay in the bookshop even though it’s a Monday.

“You know,” Mother Nyx starts, a teasing lilt to her voice, “you don’t have to make that for me if you don’t want to.”

It takes an alarming amount of self control to keep from hurling the mug at the woman’s face. Ethel clenches her teeth and grips its handle tighter, watching as her knuckles turn white. “What kind of tea would you like?” she manages to ask without snapping.

“Do you have black tea, by any chance?”

Ethel doesn’t dignify the question with an answer as she plucks the tea from its container. Refusing to make eye contact, she rips the packet open - perhaps a tad more violently than necessary, she concedes - and lets the tea bag fall into the hot water.

It feels like a resignation of something when she slides the mug across the island.

The girl opens her mouth to speak, to attempt small talk, but she’s cut off.

“Let’s not bother with the pleasantries, my dear, we have important matters to talk about and I am a very busy woman.”

Is it possible to break your teeth from clenching them together too hard?

“What important matters are you talking about?”

Mother Nyx looks down at her tea for a brief moment, looks back up again to finally meet Ethel’s eyes. “You’ve been awfully careless recently.” She blows on the tea, pauses for a moment to watch how the steam dissipates. “There are six Tallies under your name- six. That means you have only four lives left.”

Ethel looks around the counter, searching for something to occupy her hands. The bottles of soap next to the faucet are far too clunky and the not-quite-dirty-but-not-totally-clean fork isn’t good enough either. She settles for a black pen, reaching out to grab it.

Click. Click. Click.

“Ethel-”

“What?”

And Ethel draws away, backs up the slightest bit because Mother Nyx hates being disrespected. She tries again. “What?”

It’s not much better.

“Ethel.” Mother Nyx’s eyes blaze with anger.

Ethel wonders if their darkness inspired her name.

“You are being entirely careless. In a fight with a new ghost last week, you lost a life. It should not have been a fight where that happened.” The woman leans forward, making up for the little bit of separation that Ethel created. “So tell me, child, what happened?”

The truth is, nothing happened. There were no true moments of hesitation; Ethel didn’t stop to contemplate everything she was doing, surprisingly.

“Nothing. Gr- the ghost was simply too strong. What more do you want to hear?”

Mother Nyx’s eyes narrow at Ethel’s slip up. “Did you learn the ghost’s name?”

“No.”

She wishes lying was easier.

“Why did you learn the ghost’s name?” Mother Nyx asks, because she’s always been unnervingly good at sniffing out her children’s lies. “You know you’re only supposed to help them pass over.”

Click. Click. Click.

Ethel wonders if her pen will snap.

“A Passage can only occur if a ghost feels at peace enough to move on. I learned Grace’s name because I thought it’d make her feel more seen!” The girl takes a steadying breath. “Wouldn’t you want that little bit of connection before you moved on to the Afterworld?!”

Mother Nyx is terrifying in her resolute calmness. “Darling,” she starts to placate, sticky sweetness in her tone, “I am an immortal, I don’t think about my death.”

I think about mine, because it’s going to happen eventually.

“I have four lives left.”

“Yes, child, and it’s a problem.”

“What happens when I have none left?”

For the first time since she appeared at the door, Mother Nyx is caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“What happens when a Ghost Girl dies?” she tries again. “Where do we all come from?” Ethel sighs, forcing her shoulders back down. “The least you could do is answer a few questions.”

Mother Nyx blinks. She takes another sip of her tea. “What would you like to know first?”

I didn’t think it would be that easy.

Ethel’s voice is shaky, but she is sure. “The beginning; I want to do this right.”

“Alright.” Mother Nyx shifts, getting more comfortable on her stool. “You are a Ghost Girl and Ghost Girls are the daughters of the stars and the sky, made in the image of mortals.” Her gaze is piercing, impossible to look away from. “I was born alongside the dawn of humankind. If Mother Nature was real, I'd be hers. Mother Nature and Daughter Death.”

Mother Nature, Daughter Death.

Annoyance boils hotter. “That doesn’t answer anything.” Ethel draws the point of the pen across the soft skin of her other palm, watches with mild fascination as it makes its mark. “How did I come to exist?”

The woman sitting at the counter massages her temple with one hand, annoyance evident. “You and your sisters were born from supernovas, black holes, sunrises, and shooting stars- celestial phenomenons.” She blows on her mug of tea before taking another small sip. “Even I don’t know exactly. This sort of ancient magic is never straightforward.”

Ethel lets herself take in this information as she walks back into her living room, just to pick up her abandoned mug of tea, leaving the black pen behind on the kitchen counter. Her drink has cooled a lot since her last sip, she discovers with a slight frown, but the rich flavors are pleasant still, so she takes another drink.

The girl walks slowly on her way back, perhaps too wary of spilling anything on her gray floors. Her free hand finds a home in the big front pocket of her hoodie and she sits down at the island, only a single barstool in between her and Mother Nyx.

“What happens when a Ghost Girl is on her final life?” Ethel asks, breaking the tense lapse in silence. Softly-playing music was the only thing keeping them from total silence. “What happens after the final death?”

Mother Nyx’s eyes narrow, revealing more of the bronze makeup dusted on her eyelids. “The final life is the same as all the others. You don’t age, don’t wither away.”

“And the final death?” Ethel keeps pushing, staring intently at the woman before her.

“You die as any mortal would. There is nothing special about it.”

“Nothing special.” I like the sound of that.

Ethel finds herself daydreaming of that final death, of what’d it feel like to simply die instead of spending a few minutes asleep. Sure, the temporary death of a Ghost Girl isn’t actually a short nap, but it might as well have been.

Mortality teases her, darts just within her reach before scurrying back with an expression of devilish glee. To capture it would require trapping it, an arduous task.

“Can Ghost Girls only die violently?”

Mother Nyx frowns, collected mask falling away to reveal a countenance clouded with suspicion. “Why are you asking all of these questions, Ethel?” she asks slowly, warily, watching the girl’s expression for flashes of emotion.

But Ethel is too entranced by her dream of truly existing temporarily to hear the question. “Is there any way to become mortal- to be normal?”

The notion of normalcy, curious musings of mortality tip Mother Nyx over the edge. Her tranquil facade breaks, falling from her face like water sliding off of smooth stones. It’s awfully unsettling, toeing the line between scary and terrifying.

“Ethel.”

The Ghost Girl is startled from her daydreaming, color draining from her face as her eyes go wide.

When Mother Nyx speaks again, her voice is deeper, almost demonic. She sounds every bit like Mother Nature’s child, Daughter Death.

“What is it you want?” she asks, because she knows Ethel well enough to understand that she wouldn’t just ask the questions she had been without a purpose.

“I-” Ethel begins, fingers trembling against the hot surface of her white mug.

“Answer the question!”

Daughter Death, aided by pure terror, is far too good at drawing out confessions from even the most tight-lipped of people. She smiles, exposing gleaming teeth, revealing canines a bit too sharp to appear human. The grin is not genuine.

“Answer the question honestly, my child.” The words are too sweet, dripping with honey- the artificial kind that makes you feel gross.

And gross she feels. The truth is disgusting, but she shares it all the same.

“I don’t want to be immortal. I want to have a home, friends I don’t have to abandon after a few years, maybe a pet. I want to be a mortal.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

#wr3n writes #wr3n:: wips #wr3n:: writes #hope you liked this!

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