Author's note: This is a new AU supernatural Klaroline multi-chap story! After many asks, I'm expanding A Beautiful Symmetry - Chapter 58: Part 4 - Klaroween Bingo, the drabble called "Ghost Stories". Caroline is one of the preeminent spiritualists in New Orleans, but when the ghost of a little boy asks for her help getting a message to his immensely stubborn asshat of a brother, she had no idea the number of secrets one family can have.

What artwork went best with dead people? Caroline smiled wryly as her sarcastic inner voice worked itself into a tizzy as it normally did whenever she shopped for a new piece. Considering how often the dead flit in and out of her home, it felt like their aesthetic should be taken into consideration. Plus, she really should consider charging rent to some of the lazier fuckers who kept overstaying their welcome. Like the ghost of a drunken lout forever looking for his favorite Storyville brothel, flickering in and out of her place, reeking of whiskey and cigars.

Although, she supposed she was partly to blame, settling in the historic Faubourg Tremé neighborhood where Storyville once resided. But she'd fallen in love with the two-story Victorian, despite sensing and often seeing the spirits of the departed wandering throughout that area. Besides, it's not like Caroline wasn't used to ghosts. As one of the most sought-after spiritualists in New Orleans, she maintained an impressive list of clients who sought her insights and often asked her to act as an intermediary to the other side.

She'd always had her gifts, but fortunately she'd grown up in New Orleans where the unusual was celebrated, so she'd never felt like an outcast. Still, she tried not to let her day job completely take over her life, which is why she'd ventured to the local art market of St. Claude's Corridor. There was something incredibly freeing about losing herself in the work of talented local artists, and the open-air galleries always showcased the best in the region.

An especially vibrant oil painting of the Creole Townhouses that lined the French Quarter caught her eye; the artist had used an ingenious brush technique that delivered a three-dimensional effect to make the brick and stucco swirl off the canvas. "Are you a recent transplant, love," purred an accented voice beside her.

Caroline turned to see an impossibly beautiful man looking at her, his gray eyes twinkling in amusement. "You didn't assume I was a tourist," she asked curiously.

"The typical tourist doesn't venture into the Marigny and Bywater neighborhoods — they tend to stay within the Quarter," he offered with a dimpled smile.

"New Orleans born and raised," she told him with a small shrug. "With that accent, I'm assuming you're the recent transplant?"

His tone turned teasing as he lightly asked, "Is that your way of asking if I come here often, sweetheart?"

Rolling her eyes at his obvious flirt, she gestured toward the colorful paintings and explained, "I'm just here for the art. Do you happen to know the artist of this piece?"

"I've seen him around, love," he replied, raising an eyebrow as he took a closer look at the painting she'd been studying. "Seems a bit lackluster, if you ask me. Of all the works before you, why this one?"

Caroline stiffened slightly at his tone, and while she didn't have any formal training in art, she still felt passionate about it and didn't like the idea that a stranger was mocking her taste. "Why not this piece? The artist chose architecture built after the two Great Fires of the late 1700s, which to me, symbolizes a rebirth or overcoming a great burden." Gesturing at the sweeping strokes of the arched windows and ornate Spanish ironwork she explained, "The bold reds and blues seem angry to me, but the way the brushstrokes taper off gradually as they shade the bricks feel almost sad."

The handsome stranger's stunned expression gave her a small sense of satisfaction. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though reconsidering whatever he'd intended to say. Bemused, he shook his head, telling her, "Are you always so forthright, sweetheart?"

"Only when the artist of the work I'm admiring is shamelessly fishing for compliments," she quipped, enjoying the way the tips of his ears started to turn red in embarrassment.

He let out a surprised bark of laughter, his voice taking on a hint of seduction that left her a bit breathless as he answered, "Then I thank you for your honesty."

I should ask him for his number. Except I suck at reading signals. What if he's just being flirty to score more business? No one likes being hit on at work. Don't be the clingy weirdo who mistakes friendly for flirty, Caroline. Favoring him with an overly bright smile, she asked, "I'd love to buy your painting if you don't mind holding onto it for me while I finish browsing the rest of the market this morning."

"Of course, love. I'm honored," he told her with a genuine grin that made her think maybe she should try to figure out a casual way to give him her number at the very least. Hyper-focused on not tripping over her sandals as she walked away in case he was watching, she briefly paused to toss a few dollars in an open guitar case where a bluesman played. He tipped his battered fedora at her, and she felt a warmth slow over her as she sensed a gentle spirit was watching over him. A good soul, she surmised, wishing she encountered more like him in her city.

New Orleans' history was complicated, to say the least, a city stuffed full of spirits with unspeakable rage or heartbreaking sadness and even some with indescribable joy all seemed to cross her path at one time or another. When they had the presence of mind to properly manifest, they often sensed her gift and asked for her help.

The murmur of approval from a nearby crowd drew her attention, and she realized the repurposed former auto shop on the corner was hosting a body painting pop-up event. She was mesmerized by the talented group of models' choreography as they seamlessly formed two alligators swimming through a bayou. The gleaming scales and confident motion of the models described powerful animals whose beauty seemed to genuinely touch the growing crowd of spectators.

Next to that stunning art installation was a considerably more macabre painted trio of models that displayed various systems of the human body — outer layers of skin stripped away to reveal red and white muscle, the intricate blue and red spiderweb structure of the cardiovascular system, and the smooth, bleached bones of a skeleton. Despite the gruesome appearance, she was strangely fascinated, and fully intended to weave through the crowd for a closer look when the boy approached her.

He looked to be around seven or eight, his tearful eyes widening as he stood in front of her. He was absolutely terrified. "Please help me," he said in a small, broken voice, "No one wants to help me." His tears made her heart ache, but she had to remind herself not to do something foolish, like wrap him up in a hug like she desperately wished that she could.

Because he was dead.