Chapter 2: A Touch of Death
Cynthia Velasquez suddenly woke up after what felt like a lifetime. Her gasp for air was cut off by a sudden surge of blood that demanded a release out of her throat. At least, she hoped it was blood, as it choked its way out of her.
She cradled her face with a shaking hand as she began to cry from shock, and curled up on a bench somewhere. She saw that she was still wearing the outfit from that mostly terrible night, but she was cleaned up. No more blood, no more stab wounds. How? Why?
She sat on the bench, as her whole body shook. Her mind tried to grasp its surroundings. It was a town, during the daytime. Foggy. What she could see was shades of gray everywhere.
A few minutes later, her shaking subsided a little, and she crossed the street to a garage. A middle-aged trucker was walking around red fuel truck that was parked inside of it.
She meekly approached him. "Um...? Mister? Hello?"
He didn't notice her.
She tried asking a little more forcefully. "Hello? Mister?"
He failed to notice her again, as he was examining the truck.
Desperate, Cynthia grabbed his arm and begged, "Please!"
Suddenly, he gasped and turned around to see who had grabbed him. But he just looked on in confusion for a few seconds.
"...Must be gettin' jumpy in my old age," he dismissed, before returning to his duties.
Cynthia was hurt. In her time of need, how could he not notice her? Men rarely didn't, when she was alive.
When she was alive...
Oh, no...
A wave of tearfulness visited upon her, before she was filled with dread at a sudden realization in regards to her condition. What if...
She bolted from the garage to the nearest public bathroom. She went into the restroom appropriate for her gender, although it hardly mattered if her suspicion was correct.
Her reflection in the mirror seemed to pass muster. At the very least, she wasn't a vampire. She could feel her own hand on her face, but why was she so cold? There wasn't a feeling of being a real, live human inside or about her.
She decided she would have to do something drastic.
Wandering further from the garage, she found the South Ashfield Funeral Parlor, at least determining where she was. She went inside and found a pen attached to a chain on a table in the reception. Looking around to see if she would have an audience first, she yanked the pen out of its rest and began to scribble all over the newspapers and magazines spread across the table.
A middle-aged woman sitting in one of the chairs at the table saw something out of the corner of her eye, and looked up from her magazine. Her eyes grew wide, and she slowly edged her way out of the chair, away from the table, and out of the parlor.
Cynthia watched her get up and leave. What she didn't want to be confirmed, was, and she heaved a sigh as she slowly hung her head back in distress.
A ghost.
She had no idea what to do with that. A flurry of "what ifs?" entered her mind.
What if I stay this way? What if I don't "pass on"? What if there's no way to "properly" die? Is this because of how I died? What should I do...?
For some reason, she suddenly thought of the man who had been nice to her that night, Henry. She didn't think he could give her any answers, but she wanted to see him. But where did he even live?
She had to look him up in the phonebook at a telephone booth. To her dismay, she had neglected to find a quarter for the call. She realized that, in her condition, she could take whatever she wanted, but that felt wrong. Indeed, if she were to pass on, stealing wouldn't get her to a better place.
To get a quarter, she needed to take a pen from an office – hey, they were free anyway – and a stray piece of paper. Then, she left a note for a slightly distracted man waiting for the bus.
The note read, "Please help – I need a quarter for the phone to call a ride home". The man paused before digging in his pocket for some change. He looked around for someone to with whom to leave it, but Cynthia took it while he was looking in the opposite direction. Cynthia then hastily scribbled a thank-you note and left it next to the man.
Change in tow, Cynthia double-checked Henry Townshend's number in the phonebook and made her call.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
She grew worried with the passing of the tones. What if he wasn't home? What if that man caught up to him, and he never got to leave the subway that night, either?
A breath later, someone on the other side of the line picked up. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end was definitely Henry's. He sounded rather tired.
"H... Henry?" she asked. "Is it you?"
