Haunting Margalo

Afterlife Chic

Margalo lay down on the pink and yellow patchwork quilt of her bed and stared at the ceiling. Even if the people she was staying with were absolutely perfect, it still would have been a bad situation—she wouldn’t trade her home in Stanville for the world. But the fact that her little cousin didn’t have the basic respect not to play an awful prank on her was the icing on the awful goddamn cake. Ouija boards weren’t real. Margalo knew that. And she had done everything she could to be as passive as possible and not let her subconscious interfere. When Tara asked the spirit for her name, Margalo had even taken her hand off the planchette. That left only one explanation. Tara was playing a joke on her, probably the worst joke she could play. 

Throughout the day, Aunt Catherine tried to coax Margalo out of her shell, but she stayed in her room, reading, unpacking her bags, or using her laptop—anything to try and distract herself from thoughts of her past in Bellton. She came out only for meals, and once to have a quick chat with Aunt Cathy when she got really worried. And even that wasn’t very illuminating; Margalo assured her that she was fine, just having a little trouble adjusting, and then hurried back to her room.  

At dinner, Margalo ate her meal in near silence. It was seafood pasta, her favourite, but she could barely taste it with the lump that had been in her throat all day.

“So,” said her aunt, hoping to pull a little conversation out of her. “Are you enjoying being back in Bellton so far?”  

Margalo nodded politely. “It’s nice,” she said half heartedly. “Bellton is a really pretty town.” 

“Isn’t it picturesque?” said Aunt Catherine excitedly. “We’ll have to take you to the arboretum this weekend, you’ll love it. That is, if we’re not too swamped signing you up for school on such short notice.” 

“Oh, right, I meant to ask—which school am I going to?” 

“Well, Bellton High is closest, so that would probably be the easiest choice.” 

Discreetly checking her phone to see which school Parker had asked her about, Margalo was suddenly overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. On one hand, the idea of seeing him again cheered her up a little. On the other, it was nerve wracking to wonder where the two of them stood—it had been impossible to tell what Parker thought of her from the short conversation they’d had over text.

“Sounds good,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. 

“Mom,” said Tara. “I just remembered I need to pick up a journal for English tomorrow. Can you take me to the store?” 

Aunt Catherine yawned. “Oh, Tara, I’m so tired.” 

“Please, Mom? I really need it—I was supposed to have it yesterday.” 

“Well, alright. But it’ll be quick.” 

“That’s okay.” 

Margalo scraped up the last few strands of pasta and popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Is it okay if I stay here? I’m exhausted.” 

“Of course,” her aunt said. “Make yourself at home.”

After Tara and Margalo washed the dishes, Aunt Cathy and Tara put their coats on and walked out the door. Margalo walked into the living room and put her favourite bridal reality show on TV. She turned it off after a few minutes. It just wasn’t the same without her friends. 

She headed back to her room, hoping to put on some pajamas and call it a night. Margalo opened her closet where she had hung most of her clothes up neatly. It took her a moment to notice it. And then, there it was—a figure crouched at the bottom of her closet, hugging its knees to its chest.  Margalo screamed and fell backwards, sliding across the ground away from her closet door. “Aunt Cathy!” she called instinctively, then remembered that she was gone and swore loudly. The door drifted open, as if by a draft through the window, but Margalo’s window was closed. The figure came closer to her, and then everything went black. 

When Margalo came to, the figure was sitting across from her, staring at her with mild interest. Shaking with fear, Margalo rubbed her eyes. It was definitely, definitely there. It was slightly transparent, looking almost human, but not quite. What was more, it—she—looked like a teenage girl. 

Her hazy blue eyes blinked back at Margalo. She wore a Bellton Junior High uniform, and her stick-straight dark hair fell just past her waist. On the side of her face was a burn mark, not unlike the ones on Margalo’s arms. 

Margalo pinched herself over and over, willing herself to wake up from the nightmare. But the truth was unmistakeable—the girl was Violet.  

“Just take some deep breaths,” said Violet, smirking. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” 

Stunned, Margalo did what she was told. You really know you’ve lost it when you’re taking advice from a ghost, she thought to herself. After she had stopped hyperventilating, she choked out a few words. “I thought you were dead.” 

“Oh, no. This whole transparent thing is just my new look,” Violet said sarcastically. “It’s called afterlife chic. Of course I’m dead, Margalo, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be here.” 

Margalo jumped onto her bed. She was sure this wasn’t really happening, but just in case, she kept a safe distance away from Violet. “This—this is a dream,” she stammered. “I’m going to wake up any minute.” 

“Are you, though?” Violet grinned, seeming to enjoy herself. She reached out and pinched Margalo firmly on the arm. “Hmm. Doesn’t really seem like it.”

“If Violet really was a ghost, she wouldn’t come to me,” said Margalo. “She hates me.” 

“Au contraire. I’m here because I hate you. You’re familiar with the concept of haunting, aren’t you?”

Margalo crossed her arms over her chest. “So you’re dead, and you still want to be a pain in my ass?” 

Violet shrugged. “Well, that’s part of it, sure. But I have some unfinished business here on Earth, and it’s not really a fun task, so you’re going to do it for me.” 

“Why on earth would I do that?” 

“That’s simple. I’m not going away until you do.”