Everywhere at the End of Time

Chapter One - Penelope

Angel:
Cornside was a haunted house. I knew this of course because I was the reason it was haunted.

I died just over two weeks ago now, a distressing death for sure however it could always have been a worse death. And as I waited staring up at the moon, I knew that forever I would be remembered a lonely soul, trapped in an unforgiving world - I would be remembered wrong.

I knew I would die before I was thirty, I didn't know I would die before I was twenty. But in my final days it became clear to me that I should die now, that way I can get back to my life sooner, no longer would I have to wake up washed in guilt, followed by the memories of the day she died. Now we could be together again, we could be reunited and everything would be how it was before. This was the way my life had been planned.

Hazel died half a year ago, something I knew was coming and yet it hurt all the same. I try not to dwell. When she found out she was going to die she slowly began to descend into what I now see as madness. A slow, painful fall into the well of madness. She began to study what may follow death, heaven or hell, reincarnation, anything. What she discovered among others were ghosts. A way of latching onto the world without a corporal body. And after that, we knew our path in life. We would both die, soon, and when we do we would meet at her favourite place, a large art gallery in our home city - the arched veranda home of art. Then we could be together forever, the way we always should have been.

Despite the way Hazel had died, I knew I could not hold the way she was in her final weeks against her, that was not her. It becomes difficult to grasp onto sanity when the world you know begins to break apart.

After her death, I realised how bland our hometown was which is how I ended up at Cornside, a rather large country house far away from the city. It wasn't exactly my planned destination to die however it worked out.

When I woke after my death I was in the attic of the house, being cradled by another ghost. His hair was shaggy and unkempt - fit for a birds nest. His eyes had large black bags under them as if he hadn't slept in months. To my surprise, he slept a lot. His eyes were a forest green, the only splash of colour he held, starkly contrasting the cold blacks and whites covering the rest of his body.

Nate Zinke became the only person I could talk to inside the house - everyone else was alive. Nate taught me a lot about life as a ghost, the way that interacting with humans was generally a bad idea, the way we could appear before people and disappear as we wished... He also taught me an abundance of things I wished soon after to unlearn, how to smoke, steal, lie, manipulate... The list is endless. I would scold him constantly for his thieving, usually, he would steal cigarettes from a briefcase that changed positions after every pack that would go missing. Ben Harbour was the owner of said briefcase and cigarettes. I realised after a few days I didn't like him. The missing packs upon packs of cigarettes Ben put down to theft from his daughter Penelope who would be searched after every single one that disappeared. She wouldn't get caught with any, of course, this was because Nate was sitting in the attic smoking them. Despite my distaste for his stealing, I did begin myself. The eldest child, Harriet, would buy plants every day on her way home from school, and so every night I would wait until everyone was sleeping and creep downstairs into her room to collect them. I created a corner in the attic where they all rest. I also made sure to name them all, my favourite a slightly purple succulent in a pristine terracotta pot who I named Gracie.

So now I find myself, wading through the house, slowly, hovering across the pine floorboards. It becomes mildly easier to find Harriet's room every day. I slowly creak open the door, concentrating as hard as possible to not be visible. I'm not sure if I am visible or not however I like to believe it works, I have no reason not to. I scan the room, a place that by now I am far too familiar with, two plants lay resting on the windowsill, illuminated in the pale moonlight. I make my way over to them, placing both of them in my arms before making my way out of the room and back up to the attic. My midnight ritual.