where ghosts wander || ONC 2022

chapter one; purple hearts and bothersome ghosts

It's not that I don't like ghosts — I like them just fine, most of the time. 

And if I manage to not let on that I can see them, I even more-than-like them, in a distant sort of way. 

I like how the soft bluish glow of their aura reflects in store front glass and flashes off of early-morning dew. 

I like how they flicker in the woods, there and gone again like a trick of the light, a shadowy companion. 

I even like to help them out, sometimes, when they ask me for it.

I do not, however, like it when they crowd me in tiny corner stores or in the middle of the busiest streets in the city.

"And you're sure you can see me?" the man asks, again.

I suppress a groan, and remind myself again of why I'm even bothering with this in the first place. It will be worth it.

But I still regret it, a little, that I haven't just chosen the easy way of simply ignoring him, especially after I've already been through two Encounters today.

Even the sticky-ice sensation of putting my hand right through his belly to grab a box of the heart-shaped purple lollipops off the shelf behind him may have been better than this.

But no, of course I had to ask him to step aside, please. The curse of good manners.

A curse that doesn't let me roll my eyes, nor any hint of sarcasm to slip into my voice when I say, "Yes, sir, I'm sure." Good manners, and common sense, because it wouldn't do me any good to get into a fight here.

All access to my precious lollipops would be on the line, after all, should yet another store-owner decide to issue a lifetime ban on the crazy, talking-to-herself girl with the magic knife. And that would be a disaster in the making.

But, manners aside, I take care to keep my gaze fixed on his hands and feet, on the distribution of his weight. While this particular ghost doesn't give off the very-bad-no-good-pretty-evil vibes that I've encountered before (and usually know to steer well clear of), he doesn't exactly look friendly.

Big and burly, hairline receding, face lined from sneers rather than laughter, he mostly seems like an aged bully.

"Hmpf."

He doesn't sound happy with my answer, but I don't know what else he expected me to say. I just blink at him, and wait.

His shirt's color is a blue dark enough that I only notice the blood stains now. And now it's obvious to see how they spill down his front and side and cling to his sleeve. And even though his death was clearly a rather violent one, there's no wound to mark the exact cause of it — but there rarely ever is.

I shiver at the feel of his (too intent) stare on me and shift my weight, reconsidering my estimation of him as simply "not very friendly".

I move my right arm behind my back, palm turned up, a spell ready on my lips.

Something about this doesn't feel right. I want to check if there are any other customers around, or maybe even an employee that I'd have to protect (or protect myself from, depending), but don't dare to look away from the ghost for even that long.

But despite all this, I'm not prepared for the question he ends up asking, and my carefully blank expression slips.