Beyond The Grave

(5) Beyond The Grave

There's This Guy. He Lives In My Room. Oh, Yeah, And He's A Ghost.

Miles POV

It's strange being dead.

Being a ghost.

I can't describe it, not really. It's like I'm real, but I'm not, at the same time.

When people look right through me, my heart hurts.

I thought I'd have to spend the whole of eternity (however long that is) stuck here, not heard, not seen.

But that was before Taylor.

When I'm with her, I feel almost real.

She can see me.

Hear me.

Feel me. (Not that she's done that.)

But no matter how much that makes me happy, I can never forget.

I try not to be sad, though, because sadness eats you.

I try to focus on the positive things in life.

Like Her.

And the possibility that today, just maybe, might be the day that Finn opens his eyes and BELIEVES.

Let it commence.

Finn POV

No matter how much I try, I can't get my encounter with that GIRL, Taylor, out of my head.

How dare she just march in here, babbling on about how my deceased brother is a ghost. How DARE she?!

Does she know how much it hurts?

I try not to think about it, it only makes it hurt more, but I can't help it, I really can't.

Right. I need something to do.

Okay. Room. Clean my room.

I go to my room, and look at the state it's got into.

It never used to be like this, it was always Miles's room that was a tip, not mine.

But ever since... you know, I just haven't been bothered.

Anyway.

I spend a good hour on my room, cleaning, tidying.

Just when I finish, the door bell rings.

It always rings, these days.

I pretty much always people from across the street, bring us things, things to help us 'repair' our losses.

It always makes me so angry.

Nothing can repair this loss. Miles was a person! We can't just get another one!

I finish straightening my bed, and then I head downstairs.

Like expected, it's Mrs Fowler, from across the road, bringing a fruit cake.

I thank her, then go back to my room.

And I stop dead.

My bed, which I had made neatly, was now crumpled, and the cover is strewn across the floor.

I check, the window, which is still firmly closed. As I had been at the door, no one could have got in. Weird.

It's lunchtime, so I go downstairs, and get out my ingredients for a sandwich.

I get bread, and grapes, and set them on the counter.

I stick my head in the fridge, hunting for the lettuce.

I finally hunt it down, and I carefully take it out the fridge.

Where I promptly drop it on the floor.

The bread and grapes, which I had neatly spread out over the counter, is gone.

And I mean seriously, gone.

Once again, I check that the windows and doors are firmly closed, which they are.

Frowning, I once again collect the ingredients, and start making the sandwich.

Typically, the doorbell rings again.

It's Mrs Fowler again, asking me if I would like some biscuits with my fruit cake.

I politely turn her down, and head into the kitchen once again.

It's gone.

My sandwich, it's gone.

I spin around, calling out. "Hello? Is anyone there?" I ask, fear in my voice.

No answer.

Is this some kind of lame trick?

Because I'm certainly not laughing.

There's no way no one else is in the house. I've checked all the windows and doors at least five times. There's no way they could get in.

I go to the fridge once again, and when I retrieve each object I slam it down hard onto the counter.

When I close the fried door, I shut it so hard that it shakes.

I almost scream with frustration when the doorbell rings again.

I stamp into the hall way, yanking open the front door.

No one's there.

I step out, looking around.

Nope, definitely no one.

I close the door, and turn around, but before I can take a step, the doorbell rings again.

I'm not surprised when there is no one there.

I go back into the kitchen, and I am surprised to see that my sandwich has not disappeared.

Instead, it is made, sitting neatly on the counter.

I stop.

Wait a minute.

I didn't finish making the sandwich.

I slowly step closer, as if this mere sandwich is a deathly bomb.

To me, it is.

When I get to it, I carefully peel back the first layer of bread, and suck in a short gasp.

Because, carefully arranged out of neatly cut grapes, is the word 'Miles.'

I faint.