Young soul, put off your flesh and come with me into the quiet tomb. Our bed is lovely, dark and sweet.

No one could deny that Lydia Deetz had the eyes of a young and passionate artist. She spent her free time seeing- and admiring- the world through the narrowed scope of her camera lens. While most photographers spent an extensive amount of trying trying to cut out all that was death and decay from their idealistic portraits, Lydia was the one that was pursuing something unconventional. Something marcarbe, perhaps dark in content matter rather than lighting.

The earth will swing us as she goes, beneath our coverlid of snows and the warm leaden sheet.

Yet, even with her unique perspective, there was not one thing aesthetically pleasing about the situation that she found herself in. It was that of a nightmare. Wherever she was, it could not be classified as a room. There were no corners to suggest length or width, but it still felt like an enclosed space. Even so, as far as she could see there was one thing: Red. The color was so vibrant that it felt like a glaring confrontation. The kind that bathed her body in the dark room in the basement. This time she got the sense that nothing would be created from a color like this, only destroyed.

Dear and dear is their poisoned note, the little snakes of silver throat.

She's suspended in thin air, a sensation she remembers all too well from the moments before cheerleading practice had gone terribly wrong. In this nightmare, she exists outside of the physical realm. It was as if someone had spat on Sir Isaac Newton's grave and the theories of gravity he developed. Higher, higher, she went in a place where she wasn't even sure that was capable of being measured. It was endless, and her body appeared to be non-existent.

In mossy skulls that nest and lie- Ever singing, "Die, Oh die!"

Minutes dragged onto an eternity. If this young and youthful teen had the vocabulary to describe the afterlife, this is the experience she would find the words to illustrate. It was more like hell, if anything. There was something sinister about the color, something that was hidden in the hues.

It started with you, Lydia, and it will end with you.

Lydia Deetz awakens, but not with a jolt. She finds herself sitting on her bed, the sheets entangled around her pale limbs. The red numbers on her alarm clock alert her to the fact that it is three in the morning. She feels an overwhelming sense of tranquility wash over her, and for some reason she feels the urge to look in the mirror. She had no intention of looking at her reflection, however, she just gets the sense that she was meant to do so. She never expected to see a pair of eyes staring back at her and one thing was for sure...They weren't her own.

"BeetleJuice, BeetleJuice, BeetleJuice."

Winter River High School

Claire Brewster was not the type of girl to spend her time pondering the existence of an afterlife. In fact, if someone had asked her what her religious beliefs were she would have answered with a shrug. She was young, wild, and free from that morbid way of thinking- she did not have the time nor the dedication to practice a religion or stress over an answer that would become clear sooner or later. As it turns out, that answer reared its ugly face sooner rather than later. At the ripe age of eighteen, Claire stared down the Handbook for the Recently Deceased as tears welled in her eyes.

At that exact moment in time, some people felt the chill of the sorrow from someone far beyond the grave. Even so, they remained entranced in the teacher's lesson- not because she had anything particularly interesting to say, but because the empty seat beside them weighed heavy on their minds. Love or hate Claire, she was an active part of Winter River High School and it reminded all the youth of their ever present mortality.

For Claire, it was not a chill that could be swayed by adding another layer of clothing. The realization of her death brought on a whole wave of emotions she couldn't even begin to sort through alone, even if she had a million years to do so. All was still in the classroom before the teenage ghost began to frantically thumb through the pages of the handbook, scanning the text for keywords that popped out.

A hundred pages or so into her search, the pages became blank. Like empty canvases, awaiting the direction of an artist capable of mass creation. At which point Claire would most certainly give up on her search for answers, but the book had a mind of its own and decided to continue on without her direction. Long after her hands had left the pages, they continued to flip. Faster and faster until it was a blur of white. Seconds felt like eons, and that's when a butterfly began to elegantly drift across the pages. It appeared like a flip-book, an optical illusion of some kind. Yet this wasn't choppy like pencil marks, there was one fluid motion that made the butterfly seem so life-like, and the colors! Could an artist really replicate something like this? Even a skilled one?

The teenage ghost sat glued to her seat, her mouth agape. The butterfly was an unearthly beauty, meant for someone to behold but never to carass. It represented utmost purity, and Claire got the sense that this would be her savior- such a small, tiny fragile creature would lead her to every answer she would need. This knowledge was imprinted into her mind, telepathically, and just as she finished the thought she realized that the butterfly was beginning to take a three-dimensional form. It left the pages, as a real winged insect, and began to glide through the classroom. It looped around her teacher's head, and then walked through the closed door as if it had no physical form.

"Are you my angel, little guy?" The words on her lips left her breathless, although she supposed there was nothing practical about the use of her lungs. Not anymore.

It felt as if she was five years old all over again, Claire was pursuing the creature with a childish curiosity- Stumbling around desks, tripping along the way as if she was a newborn fawn talking his first few steps. Not even the door was about to stop her, and she found that she, too, could phase through it with a form of elegance she had never experienced. She traveled across the campus in this same manner, only catching glimpses of the wings of the butterfly as she went. The golden glow of yellow welcomed her, and challenged her to weave through the empty hallways.

The butterfly lead her to a familiar hallway, one that she spent a great deal of her time in during each morning and afternoon. It was the one that her locker was located in. Once she reached her destination, she scanned the hallways for a moment to truly soak in what she was witnessing with her own eyes. Her locker was covered from floor to ceiling with notes, and in the midst of the gaudy atrocity was a wreath, embellished with a snapshot of Claire

Not just any wreath or snapshot, they stuck out like a sore thumb in her mind. The wreath was composed of entirely red roses, possibly her least favorite color and flower, and the photograph was taken by none other than Lydia Deetz. She knew this for a fact, it was taken in a rather unflattering angle and she could just hear that damned girl laughing up a storm in the red room with her punk friends. All whilst all the staff members of the school praised her for such a refreshing and realistic approach to photography.

"Yeah right, what a bitch." Claire grimaced and looked around, suddenly realizing that the butterfly was nowhere to be seen,"What did you want to show me?"

It was like a game of I Spy with my Little Eye, except there was no one to make necessary corrections. She wandered around the hallway, snooping through lockers (it looked like the pill-popping fad hadn't passed) and reading through some of the letters addressed to her. The names of her ex boyfriends, fellow cheerleaders, and classmates all blended together- Every last sorrow imprinted on the page a regurgitation of the last one, with nothing to set it aside. She was just about ready to rip out her hair when she noticed a poster on the wall that hadn't been there before. It read as the following:

Hope for the Hopeless. If you seek an afterlife caseworker, chant and then call out my name three times.

Below it is a striking illustration of the very same butterfly, and it suddenly dawned on Claire that it wasn't just an imitation but the exact same creature that had lead her here in the first place. The poster had become his eternal tomb, framing his beauty for a lifetime- or rather eternity, given that they were already deceased to begin with. Claire shuddered at the thought before plucking the paper from the wall, squinting against the text for further instruction. It was all too cryptic, and she did not die in front of the whole cheer team just to play games with some ghost. Yet, desperate times called for desperate measures so she had little choice but to recite the only chant that was pounded into her head:

"Two, four, six, eight, Winter River's really great?" Even if it was the verse that she had spent her time perfecting, the words did not have the same passion in this time. They came out as a question, rather than a statement to the integrity of her high school. What was so great about the school that killed her, anyway?

A quick glance to the poster reminded her that she wasn't finished yet. She had to call on this ghost's name, whatever that was. All whilst that still portrait of the butterfly looked up at her, mocking her with silence. For a moment, she even suspected that his wings fluttered but ever so slightly. It almost seemed like a que.

"Monarch, Vanessa- Come on, it's not like I took a class on butterfly names." Claire chewed on her lip, searching her brain for the name of this particular butterfly. It was a difficult task, given that not even Claire considered herself very bright. She hesitated, before reciting the only name that seemed possible:

"Swallowtail, Swallowtail, Swallowtail."

There was a sudden banging from within her locker, and the volume of the sound caused Claire to shriek out. Her body flung herself into fight or flight mode, and even without the fear of death looming overhead she scrambled to the other side of the room for protection. Not only was the clanging within an assault on her eardrums, but there was a bright light shining through the slits in the locker door. She found that it was far too bright to gaze into, and shielding her face with her arm did little to solve the problem.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, all became still. The lights dimmed, the struggle from within ceased, and the door creaked open to reveal the figure of a tall man. So tall, in fact, that he had to crouch down to even fit in the door frame. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, he stretched out to reveal his full height. He was well sculpted- quite literally! His face was easily recognizable from the statues depicting the archangel Gabriel, and Claire could do little but look in a mix of awe and confusion. She was drowning in a sea of dejavu and she couldn't tell if it was because she had seen him in another life, or if she had seen his face depicted in folklore.

"You," She began, raising a finger to indicate the man across from her, but she failed to produce any other words. Claire was babbling like a madwoman in front of him, and she was incredibly flustered.

Despite the less than stellar impression she had made as of yet, Swallowtail brushed it off and instead focused his attention on the notes pasted around her locker. He picked a few off and looked over them. There was something about his movements that was so ethereal, it wasn't like anyone Claire had encountered. He cleared his throat, clearly feeling the eyes of the teen ghost on him."What is the nature of your request?"

Claire was taken aback by the blunt nature of his question, and crossed her arms over her chest. She suddenly felt exposed in her tiny cheerleading uniform, although this man- her caseworker- hadn't even so much as glanced in her general area."...That it? You make your grand entrance-" She waved her hand to gesture to the locker and the area surrounding it,"And you're just diving right into it?"

Swallowtail raised his head, and for a split second they finally made eye contact. A warm smile spread across his face, but it seemed to indicate pity. As if this strange, young girl in front of him was without the slightest clue."...Ah, yes, my bad." He waved away the contents in his hand, and they floated there for a moment. He took a bow, but the movement was an exaggeration, as if he was putting on a show for Claire's satisfaction."Swallowtail, at your service for all your afterlife casework needs! Simply refer to me as-"

"-Gabriel," she interrupted whilst furrowing her eyebrows,"Now drop the sarcasm. What does your job title include? What was with all the chanting?"

"Hm, seems I'm not the only one to get straight to the point." He remarked, but he was thankful to be on the same page. Teenage ghosts were hit and miss at times, and although Claire seemed snippy she was surprisingly well put together compared to the angst he had dealt with in the past.

"Consider me a social worker," Gabriel continued," The transition into the afterlife can be quite jarring, but I'm here to cushion the blow so to speak. We normally don't handle cases this early on- you see, there's a strict regime, waiting lists, self-help booklets, insurance applications," He rattled off, counting the things he had listed on his hand."...But you, my dear Claire, are the exception."

Claire made a face as if she had unexpectedly bit into something sour,"Well, I'm truly honored by your presence, Gabe. What's so special about me? You still haven't explained the whole thing about the chanting, either. You're supposed to be the one with answers."

Gabriel was hesitant to divulge the details surrounding his unlikely encounter with the freshly deceased ghost, but she certainly had his attention now. With a wave of his hand, he sent the papers from her locker back into their rightful place."That's mostly confidential, I'm afraid. You're currently under investigation for a wrongful death. According to your file, you were destined to live another twenty years. This is...considered impossible, by our standards. The only way this can happen is through divine intervention."

Claire made no attempt to speak, she had certainly bitten off more than she could chew with this interrogation session. She had gotten almost all of the answers she had requested, but now she was wishing her quest for knowledge had been cut short. The injustice of the situation was just now setting in, and even then she couldn't quite wrap her head around it. Claire shook her head for a moment and took a seat on the cold hard ground. Gabriel, sensing her unease could only offer comfort in his presence. He took a seat right beside her, but gave her an arms length of distance.

"...I'm not required to have my clients chant. When you live for as long as I do, the same old routine becomes stale. That's why I enjoy my job so much. I get to meet every kind of person there is, and every decade I'm always introduced to something new and exciting. If there's something I enjoy the most, it's the poetry and the music. I can glean so much information about my clients just by what they sing and how they do it.

"So tell me Claire Brewster, what is it like to be a teenager in the year 1986? Are there flying cars yet?"

A/N

I really enjoyed writing this chapter. It was a challenge to combine some of my favorite lore, interesting symbolism, and some references to the BeetleJuice cartoon into one chapter. If you think you have an idea what I'm referencing, feel free to point it out in the review section. I'm really interested to see if people understand the point I'm making.

Lastly, here's a big shout out to The Art of Suicide and sm4567. I really appreciate your feedback and it really motivated me to finish this chapter. Seriously, go check these two out. They're excellent writers.