Hey guys! It's been a while, this I know, but I never made any promises as far as this story went. But after I saw your reviews, and pretty much all of them were positive, I figured what the hell. I haven't been on here for a while, so this chapter has been kind of half-finished for a while, but recently something someone said to me inspired me. So…here it is!

George woke up the next morning, lying still and straight and straining his ears for the sound that woke him up. He was alone—he couldn't bring himself to go out after the day he'd had yesterday—so there shouldn't have been anyone in his flat. Hesitantly, he sat up, letting the covers drop off of him.

He felt ridiculous tip-toeing through his empty apartment, sure that he must have imagined or dreamed the sound. Checking the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, even the cupboard where he kept all his favorite high calorie snack food didn't help one bit. He still felt strange, and when his mind had finally decided that he'd thought up the whole thing, he allowed himself to re-enter his bedroom, grabbing his guitar as he went.

Carefully, he laid back against his pillows, peering out the French doors that separated the living room from his bedroom. There was nothing there. Feeling rather silly, he slid the guitar more firmly into his lap, enjoying the way the cool, smooth wood felt against his bare chest.

"Eh-hem."

There it was, the same throat-clearing noise that he had earlier. It had startled his Catherine-filled dream away, not that he was upset by that. Everything about yesterday still sat heavily in his mind, as much as he tried to forget it. The ambulance showing up, carting away her lifeless body. The press that swarmed him and asked him what relation he had to the girl, where he had met her, how long he had known her, if they had been official, and if they had been official why hadn't George ever said anything about her? The hot shower he took while still dressed in his not-so-white-anymore tee shirt and loose sweats. The blood that ran down the drain for three hours straight. The phone call from Brian, asking him what the hell was going on.

He shook his head quickly, trying to rid himself of the plague of memories. Right now, all he wanted to do was play his guitar and forget the world. And that little noise that he kept imagining.

As he played, he hummed tunelessly, imagining lyrics to go along with this melody. Lyrics were something he struggled on. Making them meaningful enough not to get turned down by John and Paul was a constant struggle.

"I like that."

George jumped about a foot, his guitar sliding off his lap and hitting the ground with a hollow thud. "Who's there?" he asked loudly, his voice coming out slightly squeakier than he intended. He swallowed quickly, his eyes darting around him.

"George, I'm right here."

The voice came from on the bed, right next to him. He turned his head slowly, as though in a horror movie, and the soft featured face came into view. He screamed like a little girl, jumping off the bed and scrambling to find his footing on the ground.

"What the fuck is going on?" he screeched.

The woman looked confused, leaning back and resting her weight on her palms. The fluffy duvet didn't even crinkle under her touch. "Jesus Christ, calm down."

George just stood there, his mouth hanging open like something out of a cartoon. He couldn't believe his eyes. There she was, sitting there just as she had yesterday. Long legs, curvy figure, wide blue eyes, long auburn curly hair, pale skin. Her lips parted in wonder at him.

"Catherine?"

"Hi."

He shook his head frantically, knowing that he must be hallucinating. This could not be happening. No. He was dreaming, sound asleep right now. This was only happening in his mind. It was the shock of seeing someone die up close and personal, that's all this was. It wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't real.

And then she reached out and touched him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, her face contorted in concern.

"Are you alright?"

No, he was fucking NOT alright. DID HE LOOK ALRIGHT?

"You…no. This isn't happening. This isn't real. You can't…how are you touching me?"

She gave him a nervous look, removing her hand slowly from his shoulder. "Better?" she asked, the way a patronizing adult might ask a frightened child.

"No, that's not better, because you can't be here, you can't be real, you can't be…you're—"

"I'm what?"

"DEAD! You are dead. I saw you die with my own eyes, yesterday. I felt your heart stop beating." George's own heart was going rapid fire at this point.

"Oh. That. Is that why you're freaking out?"

George was too stricken to say a word. Instead, he just stood there, trying not to hyperventilate, wondering who would believe him if he told them that he had a dead girl in his bedroom. The lads would probably pass it off as an acid trip gone wrong, Brian would dismiss it as shock. The media would have a field day if it ever got out though. He could just see the headline now:

POP STAR GOES NUTTY—HAS FAME GOTTEN TO HIS HEAD?

"If it makes you feel better, I made some coffee," she offered.

"It doesn't make me feel better."

"Oh."

He shook his head slowly, eyes wide, hands shaking. "Dead people can't make coffee."

Catherine merely shrugged, sliding off the bed and standing across from him. "Don't knock it til you try it."

It was then that George realized that he was practically naked, save for a pair of tighty whities that barely covered anything. He blushed, looking down at himself without really thinking about what he was doing. He could feel Catherine's eyes move with his.

"Stop looking," he mumbled, turning around to dig in his drawers for a clean tee shirt.

"Really, it's not all that bad. You could use a tan—then again, couldn't we all?—and maybe stand to gain a few pounds, but really you're not all that bad to look at."

"Stop." He could feel the heat from his face spreading down the back of his neck.

"I don't know why you're bothering. I've seen a LOT more than that."

"Catherine, please."

"Speaking of that—you know, THAT—I actually was pleasantly surprised. Little guys like you don't usually pack a punch, but I guess you have to add in the height factor." She paused, surveying his thin body. "I could just see you with a tattoo of a tiger. Like…right above your ass."

He spun around, his hand coming to rest on the small of his back. "What?"

She let out a deep, loud chuckle that seemed to emanate right from her belly. It was a laugh that very much did not fit her face. "C'mon, Georgie. You're not afraid of a little tattoo, are you?"

"That's not really the issue."

"Oh, so you don't like tigers? Sorry, I thought I read that somewhere once. What about a dragon? No? An armadillo, then. I can see one of those right about your pale little ass che—"

"Shut it!"

He stormed out of the room, quite appalled by her vulgar sense of humor. In his room, he could still make out her carefree belly laughter, so loud that the neighbors on both sides could probably hear. And Peter downstairs.

He darted into the kitchen, fast walking over to the phone and pulling it off its cradle. He dialed a number quickly—one of the only ones he knew by heart. It had barely registered to him that the laughter had stopped before Catherine appeared there, in his kitchen, sitting at the table and giving him an amused look.

"Are you really gonna call him, George?"

George didn't answer, merely tapping his foot and waiting for the ringing to start. He glared impatiently at the receiver, as though it was its fault that Paul was so slow to get to the phone.

"And what are you gonna tell him? That the dead girl that you slept with yesterday is in your apartment?"

He froze, phone still to his ear, Catherine's words echoing around in his head. She had a good point, he had to admit it. And honestly, it was a little farfetched. If he had been hearing this story himself, he would have dismissed it as too many drugs. Hallucinations. Anything that wouldn't defy the impossible; sorry, the improbable.

Just as a muffled "Hello" escaped the phone, George slammed it back on its cradle. What was he going to do now? He couldn't tell anybody, he wasn't sure if he could show anybody, and…just shit. Fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit. Why did things like this always happen to him?

Okay, not always. That was a stretch.

He sat down at the table after a long period of deliberation, unsure of what exactly to say. Catherine sat across from him, staring unabashedly right back into his eyes. Her fingers tapped the tabletop quickly and pattered out a rhythm. George had never felt more uncomfortable in his life.

"So…er…do you want something to eat?"

"No."

"Are you sure, 'cause I've got—"

"I'm dead, George. Eating isn't number one on my list of things to do."

A heavy silence fell over them, and George found himself looking towards the cabinets, trying to breathe evenly and calm his mind. Clear his thoughts. Try and figure out what the hell to do. Suddenly, he started to crave another of the marshmallows that he knew to be stored in the cupboard above the sink. In his mind, he planned out just how he was going to reach those wonderful, fluffy objects of mouthwatering perfection. Just as he was about to get up, Catherine started talking.

"Don't you have any questions for me?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. His eyes darted up towards the cupboard once more. "No."

"You really don't say much, do you," she thought aloud, surveying him blatantly. She snorted when he eyes moved past the table and she saw that he still didn't have any pants on. George could pretty much see her thoughts on her forehead: ARMADILLO TRAMP STAMP.

"Can anyone else see you?" he asked her, merely to distract her from thoughts about his body and any tattoos that might even adorn it in the near or distant future. "Like, besides me?"

She shrugged, examining nails that would probably never grow again. "I don't know. But I would suspect not, seeing as that would ruin the point."

"And the point is…?"

She looked at him like instead of saying "And the point is…?" he had jumped up on the table, ripped his shirt off, and started reciting the whole of his first album's lyrics whilst doing the conga with invisible partners and a mule.

"And the point is, my dear intercourse accomplice, I'm haunting you now."

And that's it. Sooo…bye?