A/N: Sorry for the time between updates; I'm not very well again!
I hope the 'flash-mares' aren't going to confuse anyone, but, hey, dreams are confusing.
I spent about half-hour editing this, got nearly to the end and then the page refreshed and deleted all my edits. I tried to go back and fix all that I remembered editing, so I hope I got everything, but I hope you'll understand if some bits need a second-look.


Chapter Seven

Some things in the Neitherworld weren't all that different from the Outerworld – showers, for example; though sometimes Lydia wondered just how many Neitherworldians used them.
Before heading back to the room with Beetlejuice, she stepped into one of the poolside cubicles to wash off the muddy contents of the rot tub, eager to clean up before the slime caked to her body hardened. Naturally, Beetlejuice hadn't joined her in the shower –he had his curiously funny way of reappearing in his usual clothes without a speck of dirt on him. Lydia smiled to herself at the very thought. Really, getting 'clean' and his fear of bathing seemed to be purely water-related. He had no problem zapping himself clean – or was that just her imagination?

Tilting her head back eagerly under the steady flow of cooling water, she let out a deep breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, one that felt so good to release that she wondered if she'd been bottling it up since the piranha-scare fiasco. Now that a brief window of time had passed, she played the scene back in her mind and already saw it with new eyes. The lifeguard had merely done his job, nothing more, and nothing less. He'd saved her, why was she regarding him with such anxiety? Because he had magic? Beetlejuice wasn't the only ghoul to possess magic. She was getting worked up for no good reason, because she was sneaking around behind her parents' backs, and because she wanted to avoid Beetlejuice's relatives – all circumstances that made her feel guilty and on edge. This chance to get away, to escape from the stresses of college work that now even haunted her at home, should be a welcome relief.

As she turned the shower off, she could hear Beetlejuice whistling absently outside the cubicles, waiting for her. Wrapping herself up in a towel after giving herself a quick dry-down, she stepped out, feeling like her usual self again.
Beetlejuice turned, hands in his trouser pockets. He was only half-dressed; his suit jacket was nowhere to be seen and his magenta shirt's top two buttons were unfastened, while the tie circling his collar was undone. He looked scruffy and half-assed. Lydia had never seen him look so attractive.
"Y'ready, Lyds?"
"Yep," She replied brightly, stepping over to him.
Mid-distance her towel and swimsuit vanished, replaced instead by a black, kimono-cut kaftan that was cut low at the front. The garment only barely met the hotel and pool-area's dress code; it looked more like a piece of lingerie than tunic-style beachwear. Lydia blinked down at herself in surprise, before levying Beetlejuice a critical look. "What's all this?"

"What's wha-at?" He cooed innocently.
"This," She motioned to herself. The dress completely covered her arms and waist, but not much else. It only fell to her mid-thighs, and was quite sheer in places (though thankfully not around the chest area.) She folded her arms, but she was smiling, so Beetlejuice at least knew he wasn't in too much trouble.
Lydia arched a dark eyebrow. "What happened to the clothes I wore down here?"
Casual as ever, Beetlejuice just shrugged and gesticulated vaguely in the direction of the hotel tower block. "Oh, they're in the room, babes. Same as m'jacket,"
He deliberately didn't acknowledge her choice of wardrobe, but Lydia hadn't expected a full answer from him anyway.

Shaking her head in defeat, she linked her arm with his before the two began walking determinedly towards the hotel lobby. They both knew Beetlejuice could simply make them appear in their room, but that would spoil the fun - the walk was pleasantly agonizing.
With each step closer to the hotel and elevator foyer, their pace quickened. By the time they reached the elevators and had stepped inside one, they were both close to panting for air, casting eager glances at the other.

"You know, I don't know why you bothered changing my clothes when you're just going to take them straight off of me," Lydia purred as the lift began to ascend.
They were kissing before they reached the next floor.


Despite it being Lydia who had insisted that they should cap the noise, even though her parents weren't residing in the room next door (and, currently, nobody was), it had ultimately been her that had broken her own 'rule'.

Now, dark hair mussed and wild, she rested her head on Beetlejuice's chest, smiling a faint, contented smile that lit up the entirety of her flushed pink face.
A rare but needed blanket of quiet smothered the room as the two regained their composure.
One of Beetlejuice's hands rested on the small of her back, the other tucked beneath his own head as he relaxed. Though Lydia was led over him, pressed flush to the contours of his body, he felt no shame as he had their first time together nor as he had when his father had berated him. Pot–belly or no, Lydia had a beaming smile on her face and that was good enough for him.

It soon dawned on Beetlejuice what the time was, and that they'd barely eaten since that morning. If he didn't answer the empty feeling in his stomach soon he was sure it would begin to nag him. Literally.
"Hungry, babes?" He asked finally.
"Starving," Lydia admitted, her stomach growling in acknowledgement.

Beetlejuice freed the hand that had been trapped beneath his head, and elongated his arm in the direction of the side-table on the opposite side of the bed. His extended hand then picked up the phone that resided there and snapped it back to the side of his face. He called for room service and within ten minutes (and after both of them had reluctantly and leisurely dressed) there came a hesitant knock on their door that Lydia answered. Wearing little more than Beetlejuice's shirt (which hung baggy on her) and a pair of black shorts she'd nearly forgot she'd brought with her on vacation, Lydia blushed and quickly removed the 'do not disturb' sign from around the door handle before accepting the food from the hotel attendant. Glancing back over her shoulder to ask Beetlejuice for some money, a wad of Neitherworldian dollars appeared in her hand before she could open her mouth. The skittish little man in a white tuxedo suit took the money from her, before apologising for disturbing them and dashing off.

Propped up on the bed, a hand entangled in his messy blond hair, Beetlejuice's eyebrows slanted upwards in interest. "Beetle-burgers?"
"Fresh off the grill," Lydia nodded once she'd clicked the door shut, before clambering back onto to the bed beside him and handing him his bun.
Beetlejuice took it from her and licked his lips eagerly, reclining back into the bed pillows. "Aaah... Y'know, babes, this is the life,"
"Afterlife," Lydia put in helpfully after taking a bite out of her burger.
"You know what I me-ean,"

They half-sat, half-rested together, eating their last-minute meals lazily. By the time they were both finished they were too comfortable to move.
A calm stillness befell the two of them, and eventually Lydia let out a contented sigh. Beetlejuice was leaning against her, and so she proceeded to absent-mindedly play with his hair, eyes fixed on the bed canopy, but not focused. When he let her continue with this display of affection she felt giddy with warmth.

"Y'know, Beej, I don't think I feel up to meeting Mom and Dad. Let's just stay here, okay?"

He felt slightly heavy against her; it seemed he'd completely relaxed to the point of not even bothering to keep his weight off of her small frame, which was unusual for him. What was more, he wasn't answering her, and he was making light breathing noises.

Wait a minute…

"Beej?"

This time her only answer was a well-timed snore.


With sunlight pooling in from the windows that lined the panelled walls of the bar, B. J. was sat playing the piano in the one shadowed corner of the room, his mind elsewhere. A good attention span wasn't exactly something he'd been born with, and his imagination was running away with him, eyes trained on the open newspaper he had in place of music sheets on the stand before him, mentally chuckling at the "Chiseller Strikes Again!" headline. While his scams were gaining publicity he had to increasingly come up with better, more extravagant schemes that, at the same time, couldn't be traced back to him. Being a conman was easy, but doing it with style was something entirely different.

The bar wasn't particularly busy this lunchtime. In fact, B. J. was beginning to wonder exactly what audience he was playing for. He was looking for any excuse to go home; each time a customer rose from their seat and exited the building he wondered how much of an argument he had with Tommy about being able to do the same thing.

He hated work, it was something he'd never been prepared for. As a child he'd always been told by his parents to believe in his imagination, and he'd been damned sure that life would promise to be a whole lot more. It wasn't until he hit adulthood that he realised it had all been a lie. Nothing had ever come of his dreams. His imagination was limited to his mind only, it wasn't enough to alter the world around him into what he wanted it to be. He couldn't even change who he was – a slob with no prospects and no social life.

B. J. was just… different. Even though he exuded charm there was something about him that unsettled most - he was into things that, generally, most people weren't into. He'd seen Dracula, Frankenstein and the Bride of Frankenstein as many times as he could afford to when they had played at the cinema, had – at times – a morbid sense of humour, and carried around a pocket edition of Poe's Greatest Works wherever he went.
He was generally considered to have been born either hundreds of years too late or a hundred years too early. He didn't see the point in growing up, he didn't even see the point in being serious. Even with a war going on, he wanted to make people see the world the way he saw it – you have to live for the laughs.

Somewhere behind the counter, where his boss was pouring the odd drink for those seated around him, the telephone began to ring; piercing bells, loud and obnoxious. Tommy flinched so hard that he jumped, before excusing himself from his customer and answering the call.
B. J. glanced up casually from where he was playing, watching as Tommy's face turned ashen, then grave.
"Yes, I understand. I'll let him know, ma'am,"

Unable to hear the other end of the conversation, B. J. turned back to the newspaper, trying to focus on the broadsheet's small print. His curiosity was piqued however, and his heart began to drum quickly in his chest as Tommy placed the cup-receiver back where the phone was mounted on the wall and came out from behind the counter. He was walking over to him.

B. J. began to panic. No woman would call for him, except his mother. What if someone had worked out he was a hustler? What if he was going to prison? He couldn't go to prison.
"B. J.," Tommy said carefully as soon as he was close enough. His voice was uncharacteristically soft. Odd. Tommy didn't normally call him by name. "It's your father,"

The blond's brows wrinkled in confusion as B. J. looked up at his boss, struggling to process his words. Pops? But... I sure as hell heard him say "ma'am" on the phone. What's he talking a— Oh. No.
B. J. turned cold, and his fingers ceased up, unable to finish the piano piece on a good note.
No, his father hadn't called, his mother had. It was about Dad.

Voice thick, struggling to find the words with the dawning realisation and fear, he turned to face his boss. "Uh… y-yeah?"

Tommy's thick grey eyebrows knotted together sadly. "Your mother called. The doctor is over there right now. I... think you had better go home."
B. J. instantly regretted wanting to be sent home early. There was an old saying: 'be careful what you wish for' and suddenly he knew what it meant. As he stood up, his legs felt weak. "R-Right," He said, stomach churning.

His father hadn't been well for weeks. He'd developed a bad, chesty cough, and Bea had been taking care of him as best she could since he'd taken ill. B. J. had always known it was serious, but he'd not for one moment thought it was that serious. His father was a tank; he could never kick the bucket, he'd miss nagging his eldest son too much.

He numbly picked up the folded broadsheet, glanced down at it, then handed it to Tommy absently. His boss accepted it without a word, face firm yet oddly supportive.
As he headed for the door, B. J. pulled his suit jacket from the coat stand at the bar's entrance before leaving - not as he had envisaged earlier - but solemnly and quietly.

He wasn't good at emotional stuff; Donny had always been the one with the good nature and pleasantries – uh… at least until he'd gone ahead and crashed his plane in the war. Being the eldest son had always meant that B. J. was supposed to be the responsible one but that had never happened in practice. Since Donny's death, he'd had no choice.

It was a long journey back home to Winter River; he could only hope his pops would hold out until then. He didn't have a car, he couldn't afford one, so he used whatever means he could.
He caught a train to the nearest station, but had to walk the rest of the way on foot. As he paced the empty Connecticut countryside paths he realised that he should be running. Why wasn't he? Every second that slipped by equaled to yet another grain of sand slipping down the funnel in the hourglass of his father's life - time was running out. Yet somehow he knew that if he ran, he'd panic, and he'd be admitting to himself that this really was It.

Having taken his usual route home, B. J. eventually reached the large Victorian-era house that had been built on the hill. Like a guardian, it watched silently over the entirety of Winter River, and had become a local landmark of sorts.
Funny. The walk from the station to the outskirts of the village centre should have taken an hour, but it seemed like he'd arrived here much sooner than that. Anxious about what would be waiting for him when he got home, he stopped and stared up at this whitewashed, timeworn building in longing. He'd always wanted to live there, even as a child when it had still looked fresh and new, before it had been abandoned. It looked so… so creepy yet so… regal. With the large tower section of the building going up into the dark attic space, steep triangular roofs and more porches and stairs than were necessary, B. J. had always asserted that if he couldn't have that house in life, then, heck, he'd have it in death.

As he stared up at it now, he noticed something for the first time - there was a girl sat on the porch facing him. A beautiful girl. She didn't conform to the forties standards of an ideal pin-up, no, but she ticked all of his boxes. Her dark hair was long, curling at the tips in various directions, her skin like porcelain and her frame so slight and thin.
He'd seen her somewhere before. But not here, never here. He suddenly felt like a second reality had layered over this first one.
He found he was walking over to her. No, not walking, hovering. How could he do that?

The girl was wearing a red dress with a cobweb pattern and off-the-shoulder sheer black straps, the thickest dark tights he'd ever seen and ballet pumps that almost disappeared entirely into her tights. They were the most bizarre clothes he'd ever seen. He loved them.

As soon as he got close enough, the girl looked up at him with intense brown eyes.
"B. J.," Her voice was soft, yet muffled as though it came from Outside. But outside where he couldn't be sure.
Without knowing how he knew, he suddenly realised that this house was hers, and he knew her name. It was Lydia.

B. J. wasn't sure of who he was anymore. He wasn't sure of when he was anymore.
"Lyds?" He gibbered dubiously.
He wanted to say something to her, something outrageously odd – she shouldn't be here. Not that he didn't want her here, but it didn't make any sense.

Lydia stood up, tilted her head on the side and smiled at him. It was a smile that made his heart ache with want. "Wake up, Beej,"

"Wuh?" B. J. hesitated, confused.
He felt the brush of fingers stroking his cheek and flinched from the feel of it, even though it was pleasant. No hand was at his face; Lydia was still a good few feet away from him.

The explanation she offered made everything fall into place. "You're dreaming,"

Oh.
B. J. looked down at his feet, levitating almost a foot above the ground. Blinking down at himself, he nodded in acknowledgement. "Makes sense,"

Lydia let out a breath that came out as a laugh.

With this new understanding that he was dreaming, yet without the capacity to recall his present-day-memories in this manipulative dreamscape, B. J. felt torn. His brows furrowed, face stricken. He knew this was something he shouldn't want to dream, knew that he should get out quick now while he still had the chance, knew that if he walked towards Lydia he would be saved a lot of pain, but…
"Babes…" Why was he calling her that? Was that her nickname? "I have somewhere I gotta be," He said regretfully.

Lydia's face fell, but only a little. She looked both bitterly sad and happy at the same time. "Oh." She said quietly. She looked at him for a long, lingering moment, and again B. J. felt that same caress on his cheek. He didn't flinch this time, only relaxed.
Lydia smiled at him tenderly. "Will you… tell me about it? Later?"

He didn't understand what she meant exactly, but B. J. nodded anyway. "Sure," He said, and felt a jolt as his feet landed back on solid ground.

Lydia's image on the porch had become ghostly, and was beginning to fade.
B. J. distantly realised she was no longer wearing her red, cobwebbed dress, but was instead wearing an oversized pink shirt and shorts. She was lowering herself back down into a sitting position, clasping her hands in her lap as though deciding to sit and wait patiently. "Okay." She breathed, her voice very compelling. "Sleep tight,"

When B. J. blinked next, Lydia was gone entirely. In fact, both the entire house and his surroundings were gone. Instead, he found himself stood in the doorway of a dimly lit, box bedroom, surrounded by floral patterns; a room where three people felt like a crowd. His mother was stood at the foot of the cast iron bed that dominated most of the room, and a man was gently excusing himself from her presence – the doctor.

Somehow, he'd arrived in his parent's bedroom. After letting the doctor brush past him, B. J. shifted awkwardly.

It wasn't long before his mother noticed him stood in the doorway and, tears in her eyes, turned to throw her arms around him. "Junior! You made it!" She tried to sound brave, but still seemed as though she could break down at any given moment. B. J. numbly embraced her, before patting his mother on the back. He didn't want to confirm what he already knew, but he still looked up. Sure enough, lying in bed and supported by a stack of pillows, his father was resting, the life draining out of him.
The shock of seeing his father like this left B. J. numb to the very core.
"Pops…" He disentangled from his mother, before stepping around the side of the bed, face grave, hands in his pockets. "How are ya feeling?"

Nat looked awful, he could barely raise his head to look up at him. His fine blond hair, greying heavily in places, was stuck to his skin with feverish perspiration. "Tired, son." He said in his gravelly voice.
B. J. frowned sadly.

"Junior-"

"Yeah?"

Nat tried to sit up, but failed. His face lined as he tried to focus on what he had to say, visibly struggling. "Promise me you'll loo—" He broke off into wheezes and hacking coughs, and B. J. winced, hating the sound of it yet hating the criticism he knew was coming. Only… it didn't. "– l-look after your mother,"
This frank request left B. J. feeling entirely hollow inside. His eyes widened, face paling. The grief he felt in that one instant was too painful for him to process. He felt helpless, but worst of all he felt void of all emotion - he felt nothing.

"Now, dear, don't talk like that…" Bea scolded from the opposite side of the bed, patting Nat's hand and giving it an affectionate rub.
"Y-Yeah, Pops." B. J. tried to laugh. "You've got a long way to go yet,"

Silence ensued. All three of them knew that wasn't the case.

Eventually, after Nat broke the quiet with yet another series of coughs, he turned his head ever so slightly in B. J.'s direction. "Junior,"
B. J. didn't know whether to perch on the edge of the bed or kneel on the floor. Standing felt wrong. He leant closer to his father, a lump forming in his throat. "Yeah?"
Nat's eyes, now firmly shut, tightened, as though in great pain. Struggling for breath, but trying to pace himself so he could manage what he needed to say, he squeezed his wife's hand tenderly. "I'm… proud of you, son,"
Bea's breath caught, and it almost sounded like a whimper, but her son was too taken aback to otherwise respond. His eyes stung with tears that refused to fall.

No, you're not, Pops. Don't waste your last breath on a lie. Everything I do - you criticise. I was always the mistake that had to be fixed; that was why you had Donny. That was why you—

Nat wasn't lying. There was no way he would go out on anything but the truth. If anything, B. J.'s father was brutally honest, and he knew he would be to the end.
Humbled and broken, B. J. could only watch as his father slipped away before him, and hated himself because he couldn't shed a single tear.

Bea wouldn't let go of Nat's hand, her eyes brimming with witness, the first sobs beginning to pass her lips.
Once his father had breathed his last, B. J. solemnly made his way around to the other side of the bed, and put an arm around his mother's shoulders.
"... At least Donny's got some company now." He said softly, hoping it was appropriate.
Bea sniffled miserably. "T-T-That's right, dear."

After numbly holding his mother, allowing her to grieve, B. J. looked down at his feet, feeling physically and mentally drained. How would his mother cope alone now? He couldn't imagine her by herself in this house, with all the memories suffocating her. She'd need some company at the very least.

"Uh, Mom, I know it's a bad time but, uh… d'ya mind if I move back in? I'm… havin' a bit of money trouble," He asked carefully.

Bea knew him too well. There was no money trouble. "Oh, you don't have to do that, dear. I'll- I'll be all right on my own." She tried to assert, voice almost breaking mid-sentence as she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

B. J. cracked a rare, gentle smile. "It's a big house, Ma. Y'won't even notice me."
At this, Bea's face broke down, the tears coming steadily yet accompanied by a grateful, wide grin. She threw her arms around her son, pulling him down to her petite height, and held onto him for dear life.


B. J. had needed a walk, and it just so happened that the moon had not bleached the stars out of the sky this particular evening. He had only a passing interest in astronomy, but one star always stuck out to him, and he could always pinpoint it in the sky just from memory.

Stepping out of his family home, leaving his mother to orchestrate arrangements with the doctor and the undertaker, he let the cold, night air wash over him. Considering it had felt like only an hour ago that he'd been at work, nightfall had hit fast. He glanced up now at the stars mapped out full in the sky, and focused on the one, red-tinted star that had always captured his attention. Betelgeuse.

As a kid, he'd always thought it had sounded cool. He'd always wrongly spelt it as it sounded too, as 'Beetlejuice'. And, as a kid, fed up with just initials for a name, he'd secretly wanted it to be his real name; after all, 'Juice' sounded close enough to his surname. He'd always had the idea of adopting it as an adult, but in this world of business and money it would never have worked. His only achievement as a child was managing to persuade his younger brother to use it as a nickname, but Donny was the only person that would – he'd always been eager to please his big brother.

Too busy looking up at the night sky as he walked, B. J. bumped into someone, hard. As their shoulders collided, the man – who wasn't that much younger than B. J. himself – snapped.
"Hey, watch where you're goin'!" He cried.
Taken aback by the guy's attitude, B. J. went right on the offensive. "You walked right into me," He barked in return. He didn't need this guy's lip, he'd just lost his father for Pete's sake.

Despite it being the middle of winter, the man was curiously wearing a white tank top and long red shorts in some kind of uniform. It didn't suit him. It didn't even suit the period.

The two men stared each other down for a lingering, tense moment, before they both surrendered simultaneously, deciding they had more pressing matters to attend to, and continued walking in opposite directions.

When B. J. eventually made the journey home, the seasons seemed to change around him as he walked, like someone had pressed fast-forward on his environment and yet he'd remained at the same pace. Someone had put him on a timeline, and had jumped him ahead a good year or so.
He remembered, distantly, that this wasn't reality, that he was dreaming, and yet- this was a dream he had no control over.

When he opened up the front door, the family home felt different. Cosy, but still empty. The interior was so clean that it didn't look as though it had been lived in; his mother must have gone on yet another compulsive cleaning spree.
"Ma?" He called into the hallway.
"In the living room, dear," Came her weak voice from the first door off the hall.

As B. J. joined her where she sat settled by the fire, falling down into the chair opposite her in exhaustion, he noticed how drained his mother looked. She was hunched over in her armchair, and had been reading the newspaper. Today's headline was "Net Closing on Local Conman?", and it made B. J. want to scoff arrogantly. They weren't even close.
When he realised his mother was watching him, he felt instantly guilty.

"Are you all right, dear?" Bea asked, even though it should have been B. J. asking her that question. Her son nodded, hoping she couldn't read the guilt in his face. "I'm fine, Mom,"

A peculiar smell had drifted up to meet Bea's nose and it wrinkled slightly as it tried to process it. Finally, she placed the paper on the table beside her. "Dear… when was the last time you had a bath?" She fussed.
B. J. glanced heavenward. "Uh…"
His mother didn't bother to wait for an excuse or an outright lie. She tutted, shaking her head in disbelief. "What did I say about your hair? If you have it long, you have to take care of it."
Dumbfounded, B. J. stared back at her. His arms felt as though they had weights tied to them, and that they were dragging him down to the floor. "Mom, I'm 34 years old!" He objected, incredulous.

Bea's face softened, smiling in a way that creased her face and emphasised all her wrinkles. She looked old. She looked unwell. "Doesn't matter how old you are, dear. You're still my boy."

B. J. grumbled, and the conversation ended at that.
The only sounds that then emanated through the air was the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Eventually, Bea glanced at the fireplace, staring deeply into the writhing flames in the hearth, lost in thought. B. J. had almost begun to doze off in his chair when his mother spoke again. "Junior, when are you going to settle down and find a nice girl?"
His answer rolled off of his tongue before he could process what it was he was even saying. "And what's Lyds?" He retorted. "Invisible?"

Wait…

He paused, thinking about what it was he'd just said. Realities were mixing again. He shouldn't have said that, Lydia wasn't actually here. The real answer was… well, he couldn't remember what the real answer had been.

Bea looked up, but she didn't appear to have heard him. "You know, I always wanted to be a grandmother," She said, voice full of longing.
B. J. felt that same stabbing guilt again. He hesitated. "There's… time for that, Ma,"
Bea closed her eyes and let out a faint sigh. "Not anymore, dear," She said in a calm, soothing voice.
Looking down, B. J. twiddled with his thumbs. "No. I guess not." He said, half-laughing. Then, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he wasn't actually letting down his mother, he was letting down himself. Nevertheless, his eyebrows drew together sadly, and he managed to phrase the words he had always had trouble saying. "… I'm- sorry, Ma," He managed, glancing up.

Bea had fallen asleep.

Somehow B. J. knew she wouldn't wake up again.
How did he know? Because he had lived this all before.

At first he simply felt empty, hollow, but then he began to feel a surging frustration that quickly turned to anger.

This was a dream.

This was a fucking dream.

He wasn't B. J. anymore, he was Beetlejuice now. He'd been Reset; he'd had a better life in the Neitherworld, one that was more him, one without pain, one without suffering. He'd tried to forget these memories, and for good reason; they were painful. Why was he reliving these now? Why, since he'd been dead all this time, was he just having these dreams now? He didn't want to remember his miserable and dull life, he'd never achieved anything, he'd only ever failed, had only ever lost.
He hadn't been bitter when he'd died because he'd had nothing to lose, but now, in his afterlife, he had things he couldn't stand to lose. He had Lydia.
At the thought of her he tried to force himself awake, desperate to get back to her, but much as he wanted to, he couldn't manage it. He was stuck here.

He charged out onto the street and made a break for what wasn't yet the Deetz's house but where he had seen Lydia earlier, where she had stirred him from his dreams in an attempt to rescue him. When he reached the spot where the house should have been his feet came to a blundering, skidding halt. The hill wasn't even there. A block of buildings that towered high, as far as the eye could see, were there instead, but the buildings weren't important, it was what was between them. The network of alleys.

"Lydia?" Beetlejuice called down one of them, his voice echoing into the shadows. When no reply met his ears, he steeled himself and walked blindly down it, a heady foreboding feeling washing over him.
He navigated the bleak labyrinth, eyes adjusting to the dark, desperate. He didn't know what he was looking for – Lydia, a door with an 'exit' sign above it, a bright light... as long as whatever it was could snap him out of this dream.

He finally reached the mouth of a dead-end alley. This one was particularly dark, so dark that at first Beetlejuice had to squint before he could make anything out. When he finally could, his skin crawled. The man he had bumped into earlier was at the back of the alley, but he wasn't alone. He had a cocked pistol in hand, finger on the trigger, and an arm around a girl, a hostage. Beetlejuice's pupils, which had been dilated to absorb any traces of light, quickly withdrew to the size of pinpricks. The girl was Lydia, and the man's gun was pressed flush to her right temple.

Beetlejuice suddenly felt as though he, Lydia and the madman with the pistol were all standing on a very, very thin line, and a yawning chasm had opened up beneath them.
When the armed man eventually spoke, Beetlejuice flinched."Bit young for you, isn't she?" He said, voice steely cold. "Practically half your age. What are you, some kind of pervert?"

The ghost felt very helpless indeed. He had no 'juice' here, in fact, he had no control here whatsoever. "Let her go," He said as firmly as he could.
The man's cold blue eyes narrowed. "You gonna squeal on me, Juice?"
"No!"

He pressed the gun closer to Lydia's head, enough to leave an impression, and so hard that she let out a whimper. Her usually deep brown eyes were glazing over, pale, in her fear.
"She isn't dead yet. Not like you or me. I can fix that. I'd be helping you out in a way,"

Horrified, Beetlejuice balled his hands up into fists. "I don't want that!"
"Why not? You wouldn't have to worry about her getting tired of a dead guy… finding someone her own age… running off. She'd be all yours. Forever."

Beetlejuice's throat felt very dry. This man – he was grasping at names, trying to remember him, trying to recall who he was – had never said any of this in life, because Lydia had never been around in either of their lives. Why was he saying it here if this dream was a fabricated flashback?
The idea that this might be some part of Beetlejuice's subconscious speaking through this man was perhaps more terrifying than the thought of it being the real man himself invading his dreams.

"Are you out of yer mind?" Beetlejuice shrieked.

Lydia, standing tense, let her hands tremble at her sides. "B. J., wake up," She begged quietly.

A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Black. The man's surname was Black.
"If she loves you, she's going to off herself to be with you anyway," He said, not illogically.
"Lyds wouldn't do that! I wouldn't let her do that," Beetlejuice nevertheless objected.
Black's eyes glittered darkly as he sneered at him over Lydia's shoulder. "Why, because she makes you feel alive again?"

Lydia tipped her head heavenward, her eyes tightly shut. When she spoke, her voice took on that Outside tone, like a person talking through a closed door. "B. J., please wake up. You're scaring me,"

Beetlejuice shook his head firmly. He couldn't let him think that he was arguing with himself. He was not Black, there was no way he could ever associate himself with him, and there was no way he would ever think the same way he did. "'Cause I know what she'd be missin'! What you took away from me!" He cried.

"Beetlejuice?" Lydia pleaded.

Black sniffed. "You shouldn't have stuck your nose in someone else's business. Who do you think you are? You think you're better than me? You were a criminal too,"
"I was never a murderer, pal,"

"Beetlejuice!"

One arm tightening around Lydia, Black's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to find you, Juice," He threatened.
In his fear, Beetlejuice half-snorted and half-laughed hysterically. "Good luck with that one," He dismissed.
"And when I do, you and your little girlfriend are history,"
"Leave her out of this, Black!"

The unwanted figure from his past began to cackle madly. Dark hair sticking up all around his head, his eyes took on the wild glint of someone who needed to be locked up, and fast. "I can't. Do you know why? I lost everything because of your meddling."
Beetlejuice dared to take a few steps forward. "Harry–"

Black wasn't interested in how close Beetlejuice came, he'd already set his mind as to what was needed. Voice taking on a hard, cold edge, his face drained of all human empathy. "I want you to know what that feels like, B. J., now that you have something to lose."

His finger was caressing the trigger.

"Starting right—"

Beetlejuice's eyes widened. "No, wait–"

"— now—"

"Beetleju—!"

It was only a little push, but it was enough.
The trigger clicked back into place, and the horrific sound of the gun firing scarred itself forever into Beetlejuice's immortal memory.