This is kind of a strange idea to apply to a show like Glee, but I try to be original. I'm using the idea from Beetlejuice (Netherworld) and building upon it. That's all I'm borrowing. Leave a review if you like and thanks for checking the fic out!

Chapter One

Santana Lopez stared blankly at the long curled piece of paper. It read the following number:

4-994-920-009-381-835-2

When she pulled it she definitely thought there had been some type of malfunction. Way too many freakin' numbers obviously. But lo-and-behold, everyone else had similar numbers, and there was a miserably long wait. But fortunately (or unfortunate for some people), she had her thoughts to occupy her.

While others read magazines or stared off blankly, Santana was in thought. The main thought being like how or why she was dead…?

And of course she would wind up here of all places. Along with others who had unfinished business.

"2-567-341-934-6…Weaver." A receptionist called out.

Santana briefly looked the receptionist over. There was something unnatural about the woman's skin, but that wasn't why most people stared. Most people already looked out of place, but she had managed to separate herself from others. This got Santana wondering… where the people here real or just allusions? Souls maybe?

She also learned very quickly not to stare when the business woman next to her was called out loudly by a drowned man, his skin wet and rotten.

Another thing she realized was that she was wearing her high school cheerleader uniform. She hadn't worn it in a hot minute.

She then glanced around at the room she was in. There were no clocks or reflective surfaces of any kind. Just white walls with white tile and white plastic chairs. Vanity was obviously no concern here.

"2-567-341-934-7… Peru."

An older man beside Santana who had been squirming for some time now turned to her. "This is certainly a weird dream. I guess I've been thinking about death too much. Imagine if it was really like this!" he finished with an awkward laugh.

The drowned man snorted loudly.

A headless woman leaned forward. "Could you please pass me another magazine?"

Santana tried her hardest not to stare as she passed a few magazines. She vaguely wondered how this woman was talking (or reading) anyhow.

"2-567-341-934-8…Wolfrom."

Wolfrom stepped forward, whispering frantically to the receptionist, "The last thing I remember was the plane diving…"

"Keep it moving," the receptionist replied tiredly.

Santana swallowed her tongue. She wasn't the most sympathetic person in the world but this was getting ridiculous.

Dozens of more people passed through.

A sweaty man in a Sue Sylvester-esque tracksuit who had arrived before Santana awoke from a nap and looked up at the screen which displayed the numbers for the queue. He groaned loudly when he realized he was days from his appointment. "They need more caseworkers."

"It's not like you have anything else to do," commented a southern accent.

"2-567-341-998-2… Field."

While the sweaty man continued to complain about the time, Santana didn't really care. Her job as a bartender had the habit of causing her to lose track of time because she was so busy. Or had been busy.

A woman had finally had enough. "This is insane! I want to go outside right now!"

Santana just shook her head, already figuring out that there was no outside. No way of leaving the room.

"2-567-342-9143-3…O'Toole."

The anxious older man next to Santana began twiddling his thumbs. The woman's outburst had got him thinking. "This is nonsense. Dreams are always eventful. Who's ever heard of a waiting dream?"

The southern accent sighed loudly. "Jeez—I've really got to stop hanging out here with the noobs."

"Are you kidding?" Someone called out, "They're the only entertainment!"

Time dragged on slowly and eventually a young man about Santana's age approached the desk slowly. "Excuse me," he started politely, "I'm really sorry to bother you, and I know you are overworked and such, but I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions—"

The receptionist didn't even look at him. "Your caseworker will answer all your questions."

"Well that's the thing—I don't understand this caseworker thing—"

The receptionist was now forced to look at the man. "Look kid. This is purgatory. You've obviously got some unfinished business to work on. Your caseworker will fill you in, so just sit down and wait your turn. Concierge is not in my job description."

The man looked crestfallen. "Okay. Thanks anyway."

Unable to help herself, Santana gave the woman one of her famous bitch scowls. It was the look she saved for the ultimate asshole.

Noticing, the woman snapped harshly, "Problem?"

"Yeah… who sucked the life out of you?"

The receptionist smirked tiredly, "Funny thing you should ask…"

Santana awoke from a long peaceful nap. She had been dreaming about dancing. One thing cheerleading had taught her was that dancing was an awesome stress reliever. Also certain dancing blondes…

It was really beginning to bother her. She was dead—that much was a given. But how she had died—

A girl with bright pink hair that brought on memories of Quinn's punk phase turned to her. "So," she started loudly, "How'd you die?"

Perplexed, Santana answered, "Uh… I honestly have no idea."

"Ugh!" The sweaty jogger sounded irritated. "Rude much."

"Well—" the pink chatterbox shifted in her chair, as if preparing for a long conversation, "So you see, my death was rather unique in that—"

The receptionist suddenly slammed a book loudly down onto her desk, starting Santana and pink chatterbox. "That's enough! No more personal talk!" She snapped.

Pink chatterbox muttered something to the tune of 'Boring!' while crossing her arms and looking away.

Santana finally passed through the doors. The suspense was unbearable. She had no idea what to expect, but she was pretty certain it was going to be mind blowing. She had waited for what seemed like forever for this moment…

Uh….

She found herself in some kind of administration area. Some sort of office. The room was filled with desks, office workers, and a large amount of paperwork.

How anticlimactic. Utterly disappointing.

The many desks had long lines in front of them. "More waiting. How outstanding," Santana groaned as she located her line, the little wind she had gathered into her sail now gone.

But fortunately for Santana, her line was moving twice as fast as the other lines. The good looking admin officer she'd been assigned to was just plowing through paperwork like it was nobody's business. The other workers were nowhere near the speed of this chick.

"We're lucky to have this woman," commented a redhead.

"Well at least our feet can't hurt," a young woman added in envy as she looked at Santana's line. Santana just gave her a tired smile. Sure, the body didn't hurt anymore, but that didn't stop a weary soul…

Closer now, Santana studied the glorified paper pusher's face. She looked absolutely exhausted and incredibly absent, yet her hands were quickly going through the motions with determination. While Santana didn't hesitate to call her good looking, even if she did look as old as a college freshman, she looked terribly disheveled. She made no conversation and was clearly overworked. She had dark circles under her eyes, her blonde hair was a mess and her tie and shirt collar was very loose. She looked like she'd been to hell and back again. Nevertheless she worked with a quick and methodical efficiency.

Finally, Santana found herself sitting across from the woman. As she processed her papers she didn't even bother to look up or acknowledge her. This instantly reminded her of the irritable receptionist.

"The jackwagon receptionist does nothing to make this dang transition any easier. You'd think they would find a better way for people to transition eh?"

As expected, the woman ignored her completely. She was as disconnected as the receptionist had been. Santana swallowed uncomfortably. These workers all seemed exhausted and pretty pissy. Were they even real people or souls like herself, or were they just illusions made to drive the system? She was half tempted to straight up ask if the woman if she was real or not. Santana had always been the one to speak her mind, and that had been her greatest downfall.

Already dead, she didn't see the harm. "So what gives eh?" she tried.

"Hmm?" the woman's eyes glanced up, hands still quickly working. Her eyes were serious and very tired, but Santana could see that there was once fire in those eyes.

"What happens now?" She repeated, kind of surprised that she had gotten a response.

"You're on Tipton's caseload," she shuffled the papers. "And I'm here to take care of the paperwork that's involved."

Tipton? Santana swore she had heard of that name before.

"So this Tipton character will help me address my personal issues so I can get to where I'm headed?"

"Yes. Have her sign all these forms and return them to me promptly." The admin wasn't even looking at her anymore.

This woman intrigued Santana. She was a train wreck like the others no doubt, but she was clearly a survivor. There was nothing pathetic about this chick. She was a mess, but she certainly was persevering. She had an underlying determination that Santana could definitely appreciate.

"Third door on the right. Have a good one." The blonde still wasn't looking up.

"Duces," Santana sloppily saluted, taking that as her cue to leave, and she started to walk away.

"Yo!" the woman called sharply.

Santana whirled around quickly, feeling a strange familiarity.

"Your papers." She held out the papers.

She stared at the caseworker in confusion. The déjà vu was unmistakable.

"Uh, have we met before?" Santana asked slowly.

The woman didn't look fazed at all. She had probably been asked this question several times from confused newcomers. She glanced back, absent and unfeeling. "I don't believe so."

Santana hesitated for a moment before blurting out, "Do you ever leave your desk?"

She finally locked eyes with Santana which was held for only a moment. Finally—"Third door on the right. Have a good one."

"Sorry," Santana mumbled as she took her papers, knowing she had overstepped her bounds. But still… "Later."

Santana was momentarily lost but eventually came to the third door on the right marked 'TIPTON'.

She knocked, and when there was no answer, she slowly pushed the door open…