Calliope Chained

Chapter Two: Washing Machines and Revenge

I wish I'd died in September."

"What?"

"I wished I died in September after school started, then I'd have something to do, even if it was just watching boring rich kids fail their way through a math class.

As far as afterlives went-- mine might have been worse. Beaver's mom worked as a politician, so that stirred my interest a bit. I'd stick my head up through her desk to watch as she composed emails for some old white guy's campaign. She wanted to run against him in a few terms, but not yet.

You learn a lot about a person reading their personal correspondence; her life became like my favorite TV program.

She'd moved into one of those swanky joints in Calamity Hills in the early 2000s and a few months later adopted Beaver for PR reasons. Their relationship worked, she liked him enough for picture opportunities, and he got all the free crap he wanted: a video game room, every book on the planet, and one of those cool rumbas.

Beaver told me the rumba was a tool, not a toy, but when you're dead, you take what entertainment you can get.

There. Is. Nothing. To. Do.

I learned real quick why ghosts haunt people, and it's not because of unfinished business; it's boredom, pure and simple.

You can't eat. You can't talk to anyone unless you possess them or whatever. All you do is float around, and occasionally stacking chairs and flickering lights offers a brief wave of entertainment.

Or at least I thought it would if I could figure out how to do it.

I knew there had to be a way to haunt because ever since my teeth got introduced to the edge of Beaver's bumper-- something about my vision had changed.

Every now and then, out of the corner of my eye-- I'd catch a vague glimmer of light, a green or gold halo dancing around the strangest objects, a pencil, or an antique teapot.

It faded too fast to catch, but there was something there, something to that glittering color that set my ectoplasm shivering.

It gave me the same wonderful rush as a well cast spell. It felt like magic.

I spent a lot of time looking for those glowing auras. Coincidentally, Beaver's annoyance at me swelled.

"I'm bored," I griped.

Beaver did not look my way. He tapped, like always, on his keyboard.

"Boarddd." I floated above his head.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"BOARD!"

He closed his laptop.

"Well," he ran his hands through his hair, "what do you want me to do about it?"

"Put on a scary movie."

He rolled his eyes.

In the week we'd lived together, we had silently discovered a way to coexist.

Beaver constantly wanted to play video games.

I hated video games.

So, I'd let him be if he turned a ghost film on.

Our hushed contract succeeded for two reasons: he wanted to pretend I didn't exist. And I wanted to learn how to scare his mom's hair white. (Not that he needed to know that. Why would he?)

While Beaver spent his days buried in flashing screens and headsets, I took careful note of classic ghosts.

I studied muted color poltergeists, slasher white ladies, podcasty cold spots, and comedic ectoplasmic residue. Why?