Phantasm [Brallon-ish]

__________

[hi I'm in English class. Dying. Being dead. Love it.
There're probably a lot of mistakes in here tbh. I don't have the attention span to edit alllllll of this rn so. That's good. This is the result of my procrastination. I don't think somethings match up & a few things end loosely. There a few plot holes I think but. I don't care.
If you have questions I'll try my best to answer them and maybe create new plot holes in the process but hey what're u gonna do. Idk.
But this definitely is not my best work, but it was an interesting concept to me and I actually finished it. The most editing I did was grammatical errors and spell checks, not more development or section additions. So here u go. Have fun with my midnight self writing and thinking up things instead of studying for AP tests. Good times.]

"Hello?"

Miss Jones held on to my hand even tighter than before at the sound of my voice. My fingers turned a pale shade of red I could feel without opening my eyes. She was scared - everyone usually was.

"Hello." The voice was a low whisper, a tone to be carried away in the wind, melted under heat, too soft to hear without deliberately trying.

"Good afternoon, Mister Jones." I said, and when I finally gathered the courage to look, he was sitting in the open seat across from his wife. He nodded once with a cold stare, opaque fingers settling to my open palm.

"Miss Jones, if you have any questions for Christopher, I'd advise you to ask them now while he's here-"

"Do you forgive me?" She sputtered, speaking quickly so she wouldn't stumble over her words or convey more grief than I was seeing.

I turned to her late husband for an answer. He glared at her before turning to me and shaking his head. "I don't forgive her."

I couldn't give her that response, not if I wanted to be paid. "He forgives you."

A smile split her chapped lips caked with bright pink lipstick, tears rolling down her cheeks. The room echoed with the pleasant breath to a happy laugh until the candles decorating the table all blew out, spare the few electric ones scattered about in the case of a situation like the Jones's.

Christopher was standing in the corner of the room, transparent shadow bathed in maroon. "I will never forgive her."

Tension filled the room, a heavy feeling Miss Jones wouldn't be able to feel. "What did she do to you, Christopher?"

His wife's grip tightened more, full of anxiety and terror. "What's he saying? Is everything okay? What do you-"

"Everything is fine, Miss Jones," I said in hopes she would relax and allow blood to reach my fingertips again, "we're just experiencing a few... misconceptions at the moment-"

"Misconceptions? I'm dead! I'm dead because of her miserly habits!" Christopher howled. One of the electric candles closest to him shorted out. I shrunk back a little in my seat. "You can check for yourself, I'm buried out back between the tulips and petunias! She wanted the money I'd refused to give to her!"

"C'mon now, Christopher. Settle down."

Maroon bled to dark red, enveloping the room I could see, leaving Miss Jones to her own imagination while I squeezed her hand twice as hard. The many violent spirits I came in contact with were always the same, but it never meant they rarely terrified me as well.

The first of many outbursts was cut short the second the table slammed against the wall across the room, undoubtedly breaking a few electric candles to bits. I'd have Pete fix them later - even though he was dead, he was still an expert at repair.