Pretty In Scarlet

September 3rd, 2012: Three Years, Six Months and Nineteen Days Dead

At first, the plan had been simple: haunt her roommate and tell her about the killer lurking around the campus. Get vengeance. Move on to whatever afterlife may or may not await her.

The school had quickly thwarted that plan. Ashley had been moved to another room, her belongings retrieved by custodial staff and ushered to wherever Headmistress Logan had seen fit. Nikki never saw her again, not even on the quad outside. Mary suggested her parents had pulled her from the school entirely, which was plausible. Ashley's family-so-called "old money"-had probably shipped her off to Switzerland.

Amended plan: tell the next resident of room 308 about the murderer in their midst.

That, too, soon proved impossible. Aside from a monthly perfunctory clean-up, the room remained vacant the following year. The distant laughter from surrounding rooms was their only companion during endless days and nights of despair.

"They're waiting for your friends to graduate," Mary theorized as they played cards one afternoon. "They kept it empty for three years after I died."

Nikki frowned as she flipped over the top card of the deck. Busted. She sucked at Blackjack, but it was Mary's turn to choose the game.

"At least there's two of us now," Mary continued. "And these cards. Why did you have them under the bed?"

"No idea. If I'd known I'd be stuck here for eternity, I would have hidden a laptop. We could watch videos online."

Mary shuffled the cards expertly, showing off a little with a one-handed maneuver she'd picked up from an ex-boyfriend. We called him SoCo, like the drink, she'd told Nikki one night as they'd stared at the stars. His real name was George. It was an upgrade. SoCo was a little loco, by Nikki's estimation, but in a way she understood. He'd spent his time playing poker with rough guys no teen should mess with.

Speaking of dangerous men, Nikki had amended her plan a second time on that Autumn afternoon: Wait for Mr. Killer to make his phony grief pilgrimage, and kill him myself.

She'd spent the next two years practicing her new Ghost Skills, often to Mary's annoyance. Moving objects came easily enough: within a few months, Nikki was able to wield heavy objects without hesitation or delay. Every month, she swiped objects from the custodian cart to play with, although the screwdriver remained her prized possession.

Right through those creepy, stalker eyes, she'd think to herself, turning it over in her hands.

She also worked at leaving the room, curious about Alyssa and the other potential poltergeists on campus. Mary's warnings held true: it was a horrible feeling. There was the physical sensation of pushing through a sticky membrane to contend with, like piercing an enormous, uncooked egg white. Her skin felt taut and strained with sunburn-like stiffness. She could ignore these for the sake of her mission. It was the feeling of her insides being inflated, twisted and torn asunder that drove her to abandon the idea after a few steps beyond the door of 308.

Nikki understood now why Mary had only seen Rachel and Alyssa once in the decades she'd spent trapped here.

The days continued to pass in a monotonous blur, particularly in the summer, when the only student left on campus was some quiet kid in Trudeau. Nikki watched him, listening to the quiet strumming of his guitar on hot July nights. He dabbled in classic rock, but sometimes riffed on the pop station flavour of the week.

During the school years, she looked for Meg, wondering if she was okay. That practiced smile was usually in place, but sometimes, Nikki swore she could hear her outside of the door, listening as she once did for signs of life.