Death. What happens after it? What lies beneath the surface?
Poor Arielle Daniels stumbled through dangerous hoops to figure this out. She wakes in a new place--the Void--and discovers that what waits after death are layers, dimensions, and sadly...
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Arielle had been a fairly patient person when alive. She'd dealt with a lot, after all, and had learned how to process it, how to not let it weigh her down. She'd worked with therapists, watched meditation videos, did yoga, jogged, and danced. For the most part, she didn't let impatience rule her life.
But here, in this Void, encircled by gray walls, levitating over faded brown floors, surrounded by swallowing darkness, and forbidden to venture upstairs for a change of scenery, she was sick of waiting. Sick of wandering around staring at the same stains on the facade. Of staring at the same cobwebs crowding the corners, at the same flimsy curtains she still had no means to touch.
And she'd tried to touch them, several times since Penelope had left. She'd done all the steps—the concentration, the attempt to suck in all the surrounding energy, the closing of the eyes, the opening of the eyes. But nothing transpired. Her hand whooshed through the drapes, through the wall once or twice, too, and she never managed to grip the fabric.
At one point, she wondered if the curtains were the problem. They were too thin, too slippery, and even a living being might have had trouble holding on to them. So she switched to the sofa, focusing on grasping one of its plump cushions. But she failed there, too. She drew in heavy whiffs of stale air and gulped and concentrated, but her fingers fused into the fibers and she felt nothing. Nothing.
After a few hours—or a few minutes, she couldn't tell time well in this realm—she posed at the bottom of the stairs, stomach on edge as she considered her options. Yes, she'd promised Penelope that she wouldn't tackle anything so perilous, but fuck, she was bored. Bored with this bland building and its bland atmosphere and its bland scents. So what if she voyaged upwards and something more exciting awaited? Some color, some newer smells—or another ghost?
Her eyebrows shot up. "Wait—what if that damn bully is up there?" She rubbed her chin, gliding backwards to not emphasize her already pounding migraine. She'd almost gotten used to the nausea that resided in her throat, but didn't wish for it to worsen either, from the proximity to the steps.
With some distance, her back inches from the farthest wall, she was able to look up at the balcony without too much strain. The pain was there, but dulled down, somewhat tolerable.
The balcony railings shone in the faint moonlight pouring in from the overhead window. It was the first time since her death that Arielle had seen real light. Even when she'd gone on her stroll the night before, she hadn't perceived it. And when peeping out the window during the day, she'd barely glimpsed a spotlight of sunrays, and it hurt her eyes to admire it.
Everything on the upper floor had a gloomy glow to it; a sepia-toned sheen giving the wooden banister a polished appearance, and the walls a blank but clean surface. It all seemed so innocent, so simple—so why would she not be permitted to go there?
It had to be because of that monster ghost, the one she'd accused of killing her, and that Penelope had defended. Did Penelope know it was up there? That it guarded the upper-floors from Arielle, and that was why her perimeter wouldn't let her through, let her voyage up?
