It's like being caught in a turbulent sea: a battle of wills, of good and evil, of yin and yang, of balance. But balance has never been my strong suit. For me, everything is a whirlwind of extremes—extreme reactions, extreme planning, quick to anger and war.
I find myself in a place that's not quite here, not quite there. A place in between places? The uncertainty and the shifting realities mirror the chaos within me, the struggle to find calm amidst the storm. The air is heavy with a strange energy, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone and that many eyes are watching me from within the foggy depths.
There is a clearing in the fog, and I cautiously follow it. As the fog closes behind me, I find myself in an atrium, a gathering hall filled with people. It's a place that exists outside of time and space. It's an outdoor theatre, but the stone stairs, seats, and stage are made of a material that glows softly, emitting a gentle hum. A giant chandelier, not just illuminated but pulsating with an unknown light source, looms above us, suspended in midair by nothing. This place emits a strange magic, not my forte. I enter the hall and recognize familiar faces. It's a dream, a lie, and an intersecting truth. The hall is full of one person: me. A Golden armoured me, the Green Goblin me, an older me, myself as a child, a teenaged me, me from a few years ago; I think some of these are from the greater multiverse … infinite versions of me. They look up simultaneously, a hall of blue-eyed men watching me in deafening silence, their gazes filled with an unsettling familiarity. I continue to walk, approaching the stage in the center of the theatre.
Breaking the silence, a child, the most diminutive figure in the group, speaks. His voice, though soft, carries a weight of authority that belies his size. "Welcome, Norman Osborn, to the place between places," his words a cryptic riddle. He draws something in the sand with a stick, his movements deliberate. "You can stay, or you can leave. The choice is yours to make. But you should leave. The monster always finds you if you stay too long." His blue eyes meet mine, and I see my fear mirrored in his eyes. If I'm right, this is me from when my father lost our family fortune, the me who saw his anger for the first time. The me who endured beatings and verbal abuse, the me who suffered. His warning about the monster is not a precaution but a chilling prophecy that sends shivers down my spine, a warning that echoes in the depths of my soul.
I don't want to ask, but my lips form the word before I can stop myself. "Monster?" I repeat, but I know what he means before asking the question. I've always known the monster.
There is an unearthly silence while I watch the child me drawing; his strokes are purposeful, his creation taking shape in the sand. It's a complex machine whose purpose is unknown to me, but it seems essential, something I should remember. He seems uninterested in further interaction, but the intense scrutiny from the others feels suffocating. I try to ignore their gazes, and my desire to immerse myself in the world the child creates is growing stronger.
"You should leave." His words echo in my mind. Leave while you still can—unlike the others, unlike those whose fates are already set. These are the unspoken words that I can fill in for myself.
I feel an armoured hand on my shoulder, causing me to turn around. My face reflected at me in a smooth golden helmet that was barely arm's length away. I look like I always do, except my expression is exhausted, and I can see dark purple bags under my sad eyes. It's my face, only Norman Osborn. It's only the person I hate the most.
The gold-plated man looks me over, searching for a hint of how I fit into this grouping. "Which one are you?" the Gold Goblin asks. He points at the child. For example, the one drawing is Kid Norman, a manifestation of our past, our pain, and an all-around cynical soul." He puts a gold-plated hand on his chest and adds, "I'm Sinfree Norman. The Norman Osborn that was born of being cleansed by the Sin Eater, the one trying to become a hero."
I don't answer, casting my gaze to the side. I'm not used to looking at myself. I avoid mirrors because I can see the ghosts, my guilt, following me. They get closer than I'd like… always whispering in the dark corners. I can't face them constantly. The face reflected in the amour I usually wear is incredibly disorienting; there are no shadows or shapes, just me. I can't face myself. I hate being alone with my thoughts.
"What does it matter? It all ends the same way." The oldest Norman snaps, interrupting the non-conversation. I never imagined what I'd look like as an elderly man or that my face would be disfigured and scarred. The scars are deep, angry, and red, a mixture of burns and other trauma. A look of disgust and disdain permanently etched into my aged features. He scowls at infinite versions of me gathered in this strange space. I turn my attention to the old man; his voice is like sandpaper. "You're not better than any of us. We always end at the same point. Norman Osborn is evil incarnate, and fighting that is futile and stupid." He points to the Green Goblin, silently leaning over the others on his glider above them all. The Goblin's fingers are connected to thin, almost invisible threads, linking to everyone gathered except me. I feel intensely uncomfortable, and I turn back to the child me, who is now drawing a giant flaming pumpkin with its gnarled mouth open, swallowing a spider.
"It always comes back to this," the child whispers. "We are nothing without a nemesis, an enemy. Killing is our nature. Death, destruction, power—that's what we are. We are chained to this fate."
I notice the threads expand and tighten into flaming red chains. They are all chained to the Goblin. I need to leave; I have to escape before he chains me, too. I plead with the child, "I… I don't know how I got here. I need to get back to… to…" To where? I can't remember anymore. I stand in silent confusion.
The child turns around and gives me a warped grin, a smile filled with venom. In shock, I feel myself stumble back, bumping into the Gold Goblin. I turn away and see the Gold Goblin remove his helmet with the same expression. I'm surrounded by snarling, dangerous insanity. My wrist begins to burn. A shackle tightens around my wrist, red, hot, and painful, yanking me upward. I try to pull off the shackle as I'm hoisted into the air and pulled face-to-face with the Green Goblin. The Goblin chuckles, amused by my inability to recall anything and too helpless to escape or retaliate. I look down, dangling high above the ground. At this height, I might break more than a few ribs.
He reaches out a purple-gloved hand, stroking my cheek with feigned affection. I'm forced to turn my attention back to my cruel captor. His voice taunts me, and I have nowhere to run. "Poor Norman Osborn. You can't remember anything anymore, can't think, can't fight, can barely survive." He swoops the glider at a steep angle down to the stage, hovering briefly before he tosses me center stage. The force he throws me with is enough to wind me. I clutch what feels like a bruised rib as my lungs attempt to breathe air. He is making an example out of those who defy fate.
"You always were pathetic without me." He chuckles, amused, as I struggle to rise to my feet, kicking me between the shoulders so I fall flat on my face. My left side braced with my right arm, trying to prevent further damage. "You're a loser, Norman; you think you're fine without me? Do you think there isn't a certainty, a universal constant, or an ending that has been written and cannot change? Fate is real. You have to follow the path that is written for you. Some debts must be repaid in blood, and if you refuse to spill that blood, well…" He chuckles, watching me get back up, standing shakily on bruised legs. "I don't need to explain everything, do I? You should know this."
He steps off the glider, grabs my shirt collar and hoists me to meet his eyes. I'm in so much pain my vision blurs. He cups my chin forcefully to meet his gaze, "Every universe keeps one thing consistent. You're an evil fucked up son of a bitch. You can hide behind whatever excuses you want, but this-" He snaps his fingers, and suddenly, my memories appear, holographic images of every waking moment of my life. As they flit about, he gestures to countless images of death and destruction, all by my hand. "This is who you are. You get one shot, and you chose to be someone who kills and maims for fun. This is who you are and who you will always be." He releases me and pats me on the cheek. "Now run along and continue the cycle, Osborn. The ending is entertaining."
I crumble to the ground. I've had so much taken from me, yet I won't take this. My body screams in pain as I turn onto my right side and glare defiantly at the Green Goblin. "No… I don't need you anymore. I can be whoever I want. I will do better than you."
The Green Goblin removes his mask, but it's not my demented face staring back at me. It's Peter, he's older, his face creased with madness. No. No, no, no, no, no. He shouldn't be like this. What happened?! Peter, you're better than everyone, better than me you can't be. Did I cause this? This isn't real. This isn't how it ends; he always bests me and stops me. Peter isn't the Goblin. He can't be. Peter Parker will never be a villain. Goblin Peter chuckles, the shock on my face plain.
"No, Peter, I… What happened?" This must be a nightmare—a delusion. "No… this isn't how it ends for you. You would never give in; you always win against the Goblin and me. This is a lie."
"A lie, Norman; everything here is a glimpse into truth, past, present, and future. Besides, who do you think scarred his face?" Goblin Peter points his gloved hand toward the Old Norman, glaring at us. I fall to the ground and slam the stone flooring in anger and despair, causing a ripple of blue energy to move outward into the hall. Goblin Peter gives me a look fueled with mock pity. I try in vain to stand, but I'm stuck on my knees in shock. I feel hot tears falling down my face.
"Oh, Norman, are you sad? Shouldn't you be happier? Isn't this what you always wanted? You made me into exactly who you always wanted me to be. All it took was sharing your sins. Isn't that exactly what you've always dreamed of? The perfect successor, your perfect partner." He chuckles, watching me collapse in horror. He jumps off the glider, landing inches in front of me.
Goblin Peter yanks me to my feet, "Honestly, Norman, didn't you ever wonder where those sins went? Or what happens when your sins come back to roost? What happens when you're forced to reckon with who you are? This is who you will help me become. Do you think pretending the Green Goblin is gone will save you? Do you honestly think you can change? Carry the weight of your transgressions alone? Do you really think anything you do will ever atone for the people whose lives you've ruined?" Peter grabs me roughly by the collar. I'm forced to stare into the eyes of madness, reminding me once again that I cannot escape. "Don't forget, Norman. You had a chance, and you chose to blow it. Welcome to hell, you sick bastard." He roughly pulls my hands behind my back and forces the goblin mask over my head. I stumble backward, struggling to remove it, but it feels like the mask is moulded to my face, searing pain as I claw at the twisted features. I can't get it off; it's stuck. It hurts; I feel it infecting my mind. Kill Peter, no maim him, teach that little bastard who's in charge. He's not allowed to take control of you!
The Green Goblin laughs, "You're a wonderful mentor, Norman, but there isn't enough room for two goblins. Let's face it: You relish the time when I tried to kill you to own your empire. You're nothing more than a figurehead for me in the end, someone to be the face of the company while I take control. You act bitter, but we both know you couldn't be prouder of your true successor. Stop pretending you can blame everything on insanity or a lab accident. You know the truth. Your sins? They're still here, and you've done nothing to help anyone or make a difference. You're nothing without the Green Goblin and…" he whispers directly in my ear, "You can't escape your nature."
I freeze, knowing he's right. I stop struggling, remove my hands from the mask, and meet Goblin Peter's gaze. Heh. Heh Heh Heh. Hah hah hah hah. I start laughing uncontrollably. He condescendingly pats my cheek,
"Good man; thank you for making me and giving my life purpose as well."
Something stirs within me. In a final act of defiance, I throw a punch, but my heart's not in it, and he quickly catches my fist. This Peter doesn't hold back, and I can feel every bone in my hand break as he crushes my fist. I clutch the ruined appendage in my left hand, screaming in agony. Peter looks genuinely hurt, "How sad, Norman, you became your worst self; oh well, that will be remedied soon."
Everything hurts. I'm paralyzed by pain. The Goblin laughs, taunting me endlessly. The fog is green. Endless green until it morphs into a bearded man with thick glasses and a clipboard. Is this part of the dream, too? I look around weakly. I am in an office. I am trying to remember how I got here. I don't know what's happening.
"Are you seeing things? Your friends and family are worried." The dark-haired professional is speaking to me. Have I been here long? My head is pounding. Brain zaps make my vision pop in and out of focus; everything feels wrong. My body is in agony.
The man continues to write in a small notebook. It's just us in this room. Wait… I recognize this office; it looks like one of the ones for my employees. Are we at Oscorp?
I hear myself speaking to this man, but I feel barely conscious. This feels fake. "I don't have friends."
Who is this man? This isn't an actual therapist unless we hired a new one while I was away. The man closes the clipboard folder, looking thoughtfully at me. "These sessions won't work if you refuse to share anything. You requested someone to talk to."
I feel scared. Something is wrong. Panic is setting in. Wasn't I with Liz? Wasn't I at home? "I don't need therapy." I don't know who this is… It feels like a trap.
He sighs and puts down the clipboard. "Let's begin again."
He rises from the chair and grabs me by the wrist. My hand isn't broken, but I can still feel the burn mark from the wrist shackle. The strange man leads me to a bookcase; he picks up a book, and I hear a click. He leads me into the darkness, flicking on a light. He pauses a moment, showing me to a workbench. I know this place. I built it: a secret room, a goblin lab.
"I need you to focus and be present. We can try again soon." The man looks like my son for a moment. Then, like Kindred. Peter? No… Gwen Stacy? My brain is so scrambled. There might not be anyone here.
In my secret lab, I have a bit of my old medication left. I take it; it clears some fog enough for me to synthesize more medication. I put the pills in my coat pocket. I need to get home and find Gwen. Tell Harry I'm sorry. No, this feels off somehow. Is any of this real? Am I alive? I don't under-
I woke up in a hospital room, feeling connected to my body and relieved to be alive. But my privacy didn't last long as medical staff quickly rushed in to check on me. My doctor asked me questions to test my awareness, and Liz and Peter also came in to talk to me. They were worried about my recent behaviour and asked if it was related to my past struggles. I reassured them that I was adjusting and promised to do better. After the conversation, the doctor ushered them out, and I was left tired and drained. I sigh. It's always like this: people get weird about mental health, even when they say they care or they want to help. Yes, I get that it was scary for outsiders, but I lost my grip on reality; it's worse for me.
It's a different day, and Liz and Peter are back again. Liz asks me to see a psychiatrist. She discusses therapy, mental health, and how men must embrace emotions. I try to explain to her that typical medications aren't compatible with my body anymore—only the pills I make work for my mental well-being. We argue, and I repeatedly explain that it isn't a trick. Finally, I convinced Liz and Peter that it would be best for everyone if I made my medications on the condition that Peter supervises, ensuring I'm not going to go green on everyone. It's not a trick.
I want to leave. Hospital recovery isn't restful for me. The longer I'm forced to stay here, the busier my mind feels. I keep thinking about what happened and the strange dreams and hallucinations. Am I headed toward disaster? Is this all an elaborate plot?
Everything blurs together when you're in the hospital. I don't know how or when I got here, but I keep finding the medications I formulated by my bed. I track the changing days by pills taken, making notes in a small journal. I found the journal in my bag, and someone brought me a bag. I assume Peter's been getting the medication for me. Unlike work or heroics, he pops in whenever he feels like it. Peter is my regular visitor, but I won't delude myself into thinking it's out of fellowship. I haven't earned his forgiveness.
I piece together as much as possible in the small leather-bound book. Attacks are getting to be more frequent. Everyone is ten steps ahead of me. A small part at the back of my mind thinks this is all I deserve and should give up. A louder voice reminds me I was never as sloppy as the Green Goblin. Was madness the only reason I could outmatch the others for so long?
I sigh and put the journal down. I pull out the requested work laptop. I have almost two months' worth of emails to catch up on, including the ones I answered during my psychosis.
I've already gone through my phone, and surprisingly, none of my conversations seemed out of character. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm sane or if I rotate through different forms of insanity.
I hear a tap on the open window and look over to see a red and blue costumed figure. I noticed Peter had a to-go tray with two drinks in it. The Spider enters through my window, catching me in bed on my work laptop. His eye lenses adjust as he listens to the click of the keyboard. I can tell he's unimpressed to see me working, even behind the mask. I hid the laptop during the day; I didn't want him to see me neglecting my health.
"I thought you were still recovering. The doctor said you need at least four more rest days." I can hear him frowning. He walks over to the bed.
I focus on the screen before me, finishing the sentence I'm typing for a report. "Doctors never consider my unique circumstances. I've recovered. I have to wait for the test results to show I'm completely well, and then I'm out." I finish the sentence and close the laptop, turning to face Peter. "Oscorp still has deadlines to meet. I've almost missed two months of work, and we have the jet engines to finish. But you're not here to talk about work. I'm assuming this isn't a social call?"
Pete sighed and offered me one of the drinks. "Here, I thought you'd be up, so I figured you'd want this." I brush his fingertips with mine as I thank him. I'm so desperate for human contact that tiny electrical pulses of warmth shoot up my arms into my heart. Touch starved… I miss human contact.
When I was the Green Goblin, I used women all the time. They were for me to use and discard, to manipulate and destroy. But now… I'm alone. Since Sin Eater blasted me, I can't bring myself to be around anyone in an intimate fashion. I've become something of a recluse, barely keeping any staff at home anymore, avoiding the corrupt contacts I had. I don't have friends.
Peter snaps me out of my spiralling thoughts, "Norman, I came here without Liz because I hoped you would be honest with me. I know there are certain secrets you still keep to yourself." Peter leans against the bed and places my laptop on the side table. I don't like lying in bed to have serious chats. I swing my legs over the side of the hospital bed; I've been unhooked from the IV drip and other medical equipment, so it's easy to walk over to the side table and chairs. I gesture for Peter to sit across from me.
"You think I'm lying to you?" I can't keep the note of hurt from my otherwise emotionless tone. "After the incident with Kingsley, I learned my lesson: complete transparency and honesty."
The Spider-themed hero follows me, still masked. This feels strange; it doesn't feel equal when he's Spider-man, and I'm a hospital patient. Then again, I don't need a costume to hide my true intentions. Peter sits across from me, drumming his fingertips on the table. His coffee stays untouched.
"I'm trying to piece together what's happening, Norman. In the past year, we've dealt several villains targeting you, often beating the shit out of you, not to mention the incident with Limbo, and we've both been beaten half to death multiple times." He lifts the mask slightly to drink his takeaway coffee. "Most recently, there was the last month and a half, you had a mental collapse, and the worst part is I didn't catch it. I spend every day working with you or teaming up against some villain. I'm supposed to be watching you. I took the job with you to keep you accountable, yet I didn't notice. I should have noticed."
I swirl the coffee in my hands. It's time for some honesty, I guess. "Peter, it's not your fault when I have problems. I have bipolar disorder. Sometimes, it makes me feel like a god who can do anything because I'm exceptional. Other times, I hate myself so completely that I want to fade into oblivion. I was diagnosed years ago, even before Harry was born. The Goblin serum makes it hard to match medications properly, so I don't think anyone could have prevented it." I feel annoyed and attacked. I'm not just Bipolar, but I'm not about to disclose every mental illness to Peter. "Are you here to lecture me on mental health, Parker?" There's an unintentional edge to my voice.
Peter sighs, "Norman, no, I'm not here to lecture you. I've been doing some investigating, and the fact is you were never taking mental health medications. I found a few pills that fell between your furniture, and… well, besides the pain medications and sleeping pills, you had nothing but placebos in your apartment. The doctor you've been seeing seems to be gone without a trace. To top it off I found traces of hallucinogenic vapours in your bedroom. Norman, you were set up. Someone is trying to get to you."
"That… that can't be right," I mutter, turning to the window. My brow is furrowed in concentration.
"Norman, I don't know how, but your medications were tampered with. That's why I've been ensuring I keep them safe and well… you seem better now." He sips his coffee again and turns away. "Look, I uh… I didn't mean to insinuate that you weren't taking your medication on purpose. I think you're being targeted, and this looks like a plot to break you."
I stiffen. Kindred. The delusions I've been having. Harry… But Harry is dead. Should I tell Peter about my suspicions? But if it is Harry, can I put Peter through more pain? Do I want to hurt someone I love with unfounded ideas? I get up and walk back to the bed. Peter jumps in front of me. I can't look at him right now. I need to think.
His voice softens, "Look, Norman, I don't want to freak you out, and I know Liz didn't say anything, but there is a reason you're in the hospital beyond the mental illness scare. You were missing for a day and a half after I tried to get you to go home. When Liz found you, sure, you were beyond disoriented, but… you kept talking about being hunted, about being stalked and harassed. You've been jumping at shadows for a while, but this was beyond anything we've discussed. Are you sure you don't remember anything else?"
I lock eyes with his mask, my stare intense and determined. I've made my decision. "No. I don't remember anything." But I intend to find out. I let the unsaid part linger. I don't need to threaten to go on a search for a spectre that may or may not exist.
Peter meets my blue eyes with his mirrored lenses. After a tense stare-down, Peter relents. The Spider sighs, pulling his mask back over his mouth. "Be safe, Norman. I'll continue to help you with your medications. Your instructions are easy to follow, and the stuff you made works."
"It has been for 20 years now." I mutter louder, saying, "You should go; it's after hours." It's a flimsy excuse, but I can't do this now. I need time to think.
I can't tell what he's thinking behind the red webbed mask, but he stands and stares for a minute before throwing out his paper coffee cup. Peter nods and turns away, sliding the window open. He hesitates a moment before he jumps out the window. I hear the familiar thwip of his webs as he swings into the night.
I try to relax, but what Peter says sticks with me. I was missing for a day and a half and have no recollection. My mind knits itself back in bits and pieces, but it almost feels like reality and fiction are melding together. I know I'm a target.I've got the medical records to prove it after the last few beatings. I'm not stupid, but I have been complacent. Peter checking in on me is appreciated. But I can't let him fix my messes. Once I leave the hospital, I'll take care of this on my own. However, I wonder if I can do that anymore. I don't feel capable. I barely feel competent. Maybe it's not even that. Maybe I want someone to punish me. If anything, it's what I deserve.
I'm discharged in the morning and allowed to return home. I want to go back to Oscorp, but Liz gives me that mama bear glare she breaks out when she's ready to force the outcome she wants. Instead, I started learning wellness techniques, which mostly feel like ways of tricking people into ignoring their problems.
One week. Two weeks… I've stabilized again. The ghosts are quieter. My outbursts at work haven't affected my day-to-day life. They spun it as "Even the boss needs to care for his mental health" or other motivational messaging. People treat me the same as always, regardless of what happened, except for useless platitudes suddenly popping up in my inbox on Fridays.
Peter sometimes asks if I took my medication and then adds that drinking water is good, too. Each time, I show him the reminders on my phone. He sat in to watch me synthesize my medication. He knows I won't mess up again. After week two, Peter relaxed around me. He cracks jokes and doesn't knock when he enters my office. He has been an asset in the lab, so I ignore this constant intrusion into my private space. It's nice to have him around. I've been hopeful our friendship can continue to develop.
Outside of work, I'm trying mindfulness now. I don't think it'll help. Once a day, I sit by myself, and I close my eyes, breathing slowly, emptying my mind. I'm trying to be free of distractions, not the honking horns below, not the buzzing of electronics everywhere, not my thoughts. I'm alone, up in my penthouse, alone in my home, alone with just me, just my thoughts. I was sitting in my chair; meaningless objects surrounded me in my sitting room, like the coffee table, TV, fireplace, and art pieces. Curtains are drawn to block out distractions. I sigh after what feels like hours, but it's only a few minutes. I can't relax like this. It's too silent now.
I go to my home workshop. Here, I can relax amongst my projects and lose myself in fixes and ideas—a real escape. I'm ready to begin, but then there is a buzzing on the table. It's a cellphone. I don't think it's mine, but I pick it up anyway.
The screen lights up in my hand, and I notice the phone is unlocked. The background picture isn't unfamiliar to me. It's Peter and May. It's Peter's phone; I should put it down, but I'm looking at the picture, wondering when this was taken and how May is doing. Then suddenly, a text bubble popped up, and I didn't mean to look, but you know how it happens sometimes?
Peter: Stormin' Norman is back to "normal." ️
Peter: Mr. Sunshine ️
*Cartoon gif of a grumpy squid"*
Liz: No more at-work meltdowns? You've been keeping an eye on him like we agreed?
Peter shared a photo from this afternoon with Liz. I told him to stop taking selfies in classified areas, but he didn't listen. Peter Parker grins, his hair messy. He's overly casual with jeans and a polo shirt. At least Pete's wearing an Oscorp Lab Coat. He's throwing up a peace sign in the workshop. You can see me wearing a lab coat over my suit in the Background. My brow is furrowed in concentration as I've got pictures and video from Spider-man's latest altercation up the screens. I've been deciding how to decrease property damage. He could at least pretend to listen when I'm talking.
I roll my eyes at this and continue scrolling.
Liz: That's good. He's taking his medication, then. I'm glad you're there for him.
Peter: Babysitting the boss isn't so bad. Whatever keeps him out of trouble, right?
I put the phone down, annoyed at how they talk about me as if I'm a ticking time bomb. My emotions are overwhelming. I feel embarrassed that I read as much as I did. I've violated Peter's privacy. I didn't mean to, but I did. I keep fucking up, slipping back into destructive habits, and making stupid mistakes. I'm not the victim in this situation but the bad guy.
"You're not fooling anyone."
I'll add it to the growing list of proof that I'm no better than before. Peter's out there investigating the city to find who is sabotaging me, but I already know who it is.
"And yet you refuse to tell him. Needlessly endangering yourself to keep others safe. How quaint." )
Don't acknowledge him. Ignore it until you're sure.
"You know if you say anything, he won't believe you. Hell you don't even believe yourself." )
I feel a cold hand on my shoulder. I close my eyes tight and try breathing exercises: Breathe for 5, hold for 6, exhale for 7, repeat, and breathe again. I repeat my mantra out loud: "You are safe. You are grounded. Ghosts can't hurt you."
I feel his lips move a fraction of a hair away from my ear. "Good thing I'm so much more than a ghost then, isn't it." )