Based on the comic book 'Ghost' published, alas no longer, by Dark Horse Comics.
Triaxx2: Not any more. It'll be ongoing, but updates will happen irregularly.
Thanks to: Ace Lannigan, gargoylesama and WWLAOS.
I finally accept my...condition. I'm not sure how long that takes - I find it very difficult to keep track of time.
Partly that's because there is no day or night for me now, just this miserable, unending twilight.
The main reason is that the time I'm 'out' after the shadows rush in seems to vary. Again, I'm not sure how much, and I haven't noticed a pattern yet, but so far it seems to vary from as little as a few minutes to as much as a couple of weeks.
Every time, though, I end up back in the women's restroom at Club Desire. In a way it makes sense. After all, it is where I...died. And being bound to the place were their lives ended is what ghosts do.
Ghosts. If I am a ghost, why do I seem to be the only one? I have yet to see anything or anyone that I'd say was a fellow departed soul. Shouldn't they be all over? I find myself wishing I would meet one, if only to get some pointers on what to do next.
That, and they'd take my mind off the things I see that are definitely not people. Remember that I told you before how the twilight fades to true darkness at a certain distance? It's about a quarter of a mile, and seems to be centered on me, moving with me as I move. At least, the darkness never gets any closer to me.
For that, I am profoundly grateful. You see, there are things in the dark. At the boundary between twilight and deep darkness I can occasionally catch a glimpse of them. What they are I can't even guess. Or rather, I don't want to guess. They are amorphous blobs of complete, utter blackness, darker even than the background, and I find them terrifying.
Fortunately they seem to be uncommon. I don't see them all the time, and only once have I seen more than one. Still, I keep an eye on the boundary.
Just in case.
How do I finally accept that I'm dead? That is a journey of three stages. First, I go home. Or rather, to my apartment. It isn't far from the Times, which I find convenient, not having a car and all. A nice little one bedroom place, with a good view of the city and only excruciatingly expensive, rent-wise. As I climb the stairs I take some comfort from the familiarity of the walls. But there is also a sense of apprehension, small but unshakable.
I pass through the door of my apartment...
...and find a man, a stranger, unpacking boxes and arranging furniture. My reporters eye notes details. Mid twenties, six feet, medium build, dark hair, blue eyes, moderately good looking. He whistles while he works. For some reason that annoys me.
"Who are you?" I demand.
Like everyone else I've met, he ignores me. I look around. All of my stuff is gone. Understandable in retrospect. After all, it wasn't like I had gone missing or anything, and the landlord had a business to run, but still.
I start to get angry.
"What have you done with my stuff?" The words come out, not in a yell, but more of a restrained shout. Again, he goes about his business oblivious to my presence. He takes a tray of silverware out of a box and heads to the kitchen. He starts pulling open drawers, hunting for the perfect place to put it, no doubt. He pauses, reaches into one of the drawers and pulls out a large spoon.
It's my Nana Spoon. It's nothing special to look at, just a cheap piece of flatware whose chrome coating has long since worn away, leaving it mostly a dingy yellow. But my maternal grandmother gave it to me as a housewarming gift, and as a child I had watched her stir cake and cookie mixes with it. Whenever the Nana Spoon came out, I knew goodies were on the way. It's very special to me, and...
...that bastard turns and tosses it in his garbage can without a second thought!
I lose it.
"THAT'S MINE!" I rage. "HOW DARE YOU THROW IT AWAY?"
Tears are pouring down my cheeks when something amazing happens.
He straightens up and turns around, a puzzled look on his face. My tears stop. I stare in shock and wonder as he looks and listens. Moving with a touch of wariness he checks that he is, in fact, alone, then relaxes, shrugs his shoulders and says to no one, "That was weird."
He heard me! He must have! But how? Was it because I yelled? Or because I was angry? Or maybe both?
I scream at the top of my lungs, my only motive volume.
Nothing.
Ok, we'll try anger. Back in college I spent a little time as a man hating feminist, before a friend pointed out that misandry was just as stupid and wrong as misogyny. I'd put that all behind me (hoping that it would be forgotten, as the whole episode was extremely embarrassing in hindsight) but calling on those memories allows me to create anger. Once you put yourself in the right frame of mind it doesn't take much to see rape imagery everywhere, even in the mundane act of him putting his silverware tray in my drawer. You get the idea.
Once I get the ball rolling I find other things to be angry at: having to walk around naked, not having control over my destiny any more, being unable to touch things. In no time at all I am in a towering, if somewhat artificial, rage.
"THIS IS MY APARTMENT YOU BASTARD! GET OUT!" I put all the passion I can into the words.
I don't know if he is on edge from before, or if the effect was more intense, but this time he turns around faster. Not a lot faster, but now he seems...more concerned, I guess. His eyes narrow, darting to and fro. His hand steals out, his fingers closing on the handle of a butcher knife. Stealthily, warily, he goes hunting. On his way out of the kitchen he walks right through me, unaware of the collision. I watch silently, letting my anger fade, as he checks every room, looks in every closet, behind every open door. Finally satisfied that he's alone, he gives the apartment one last glance, then resumes his unpacking.
I'm not sure what to do next. This guy hasn't done anything wrong, and there's nothing of mine here anymore. My stuff is probably back at my parents' house anyway. I'll go there next.
Turning to leave I remember the Nana Spoon. I can't go without at least trying. When I thought I'd lost it I was frantic, and looked everywhere. Ok, obviously not everywhere. And to be honest I feel a little stupid now for not looking at the back of the drawer, but...
In the kitchen I look down into the garbage can while my apartment replacement goes about his unpacking. The spoon is lying on top off everything else. Now if I can just...
My fingers pass through it, and I want to scream in frustration. I try again and again, without success. Finally despair overwhelms me, and I give up. Weeping, I look down at the treasured memento of my childhood. Gently I slide one hand through the garbage underneath it and reach down with the other. If I can't actually touch it, I can at least pretend too. My fingers brush through the air just above it.
"Goodbye, Nana Spoon," I say, my voice breaking. "I'm sorry." Then filled with sadness, I straighten up. The spoon comes with me.
I'm so shocked that I let out a surprised yelp and drop the spoon. It doesn't slide through my fingers. I let go of it. It lands on the floor with a clatter, startling the new occupant so much he almost drops the plates he's putting away.
While his eyes seek the source of the noise I back into a corner. Finally he notices the spoon, still wobbling on the floor. He picks it up, stares at it a bit, looks around, then carefully returns the spoon to the garbage.
Ever an optimist, I try again. After all, I did it once, even though I no idea how.
I reach down. My fingers pass through the spoon. Frustration tries for a comeback, but I suppress it. Instead, I think. I've touched three things since...it...happened. What was I doing when I touched them? After I while it hits me. I wasn't thinking about touching them. I just did it. But then, I also just did it when I tried for the doorknob in the restroom that first time, and that didn't work. And emotion was involved too. Leaning on the vanity, I was confused. Opening the folder at the Times, I was apprehensive. Just now with the spoon I was sad.
Strong emotion and an absence of desire? That makes no sense. But I seem to be stuck with it. Slowly I slid my hand beneath the spoon again. I close my eyes, and try not to want to pick the spoon up, while at the same time trying to recreate the sorrow I felt.
Somehow, it works. The joy that sweeps through me is overwhelming. I have some control over my world again. Not much, but it's a start. A start to what end, I don't know yet, but it's a start.
I hug the Nana Spoon to my breast, then kiss it I'm so happy. It's then that the new tenant goes to throw something away. He starts to toss the item in the garbage, hesitates, then bends forward with a disbelieving look on his face. His hand probes in the garbage.
"What the Hell?" he asks. "I just put it..."
"Don't worry," I say, "I'll take good care of it."
He almost jumps out of his skin. I do too, but manage to hold onto the spoon and not say anything else.
"Who said that?" he demands, his voice quavering.
I head for the door, my prize in hand. "Sorry," I call back, "I won't bother you again!"
His shouted, "Where are you?" is muted in mid sentence by me passing through the door into the hall. I head for the stairs, resolved to go to my parents' house.
What I find there extinguishes my happiness.