by Celia Crown
“Get away, Demonic Spawn!”
“I can’t leave you,” I repeat as my long legs catch up to her.
Jackie huddles to her friend who stares down at her phone, tuning out the antics of her friend.
“I’m stuck with you,” I say, and it’s the most understandable way to make her comprehend. “I’m bonded with you. I don’t know why, but you’re the only person who can see me.”
“I’ll pretend not to see you. Would you go away then?” she pleads as Danni digs out the apartment key.
“This connection won’t just disappear because you can’t accept it.”
“Accept what?” she exclaims in the darkened neighborhood of highlighted streetlights. “That I’m seeing a ghost? Being followed by a transparent cutout of a Mr. December on the calendar?”
“Accept that you can help me.”
Her lips seal tight. The summer crickets buzz around us as the keys dangle by the front door. Danni pushes it in and guides the frenzied Jackie into the apartment with a dispassionate roll of her eyes.
“Your solo role-play is going to get the cops here,” Danni toes off her shoes after she locks the door with the deadbolt and the door lock.
“I’m going to shower.”
Then she’s gone. That leaves Jackie in denial and me in silence. She’s taking off her shoes and mumbling to herself under her breath. The volume is too low for me to hear, and she’s pacing in the hall with more frantic ruffles of her hair.
My hands itch to reach out and stop her from pulling at her hair. She’s going to hurt her head too much and Jackie shouldn’t be feeling pain after having dinner. She should be out of the shower and in bed for the night. She needs it when the energy level of her body is clearly on the lower spectrum.
“I-I think I’m freaking out. Oh Jesus, this isn’t good. Oh god—no, I can’t be haunted, I’m too young to die! This is the exact movie plot where I get dosed with drugs to make me hallucinate and then the perpetrators are going to swoop in and take me as a human sacrifice—”
A course of panic flashes in me, “Hey! Calm down! Breathe!”
I kneel on the ground, and my hand goes through her when I try to touch her, but she shudders and it seems like she felt me. I don’t care about the discovery right now. She needs me to calm her down or her mental breakdown will be worst.
“Look at me,” I command her. My voice is thick with authority and strong with a sense of urgency.
She’s startled, but she’s alright as of now.
“I’m not going to hurt you, understand?” I hiss darkly, “I don’t want to hurt you. I will explain everything, but you need to calm down.”
One shaky breath after another, Jackie’s trembling returns to a couple of hiccups. She drops her ass on the ground and grunts, fingers twisting in her lap when she looks at me with defeat in her eyes.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t buy anything from a garage sale for a ghost to be attached to me.”
A growl purrs out of my chest, my eyes narrowing as a sneer rips through my sharp teeth.
“Another word and I will fucking possess you, Jacqueline.”
Chapter Three
Jacqueline
Day one went by with a slight bump towards the end of the night. Day two started out strong where I adamantly ignored the wandering ghost, and day three is when I have to accept that I’m being haunted by him.
He had explained on the first night of his presence that he doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t physically or emotionally feel, and he is there yet not there at the same time. It’s complicated to explain, but I’m the only one who sees him and is able to communicate with him.
I told him I must be a medium, but then he called me foolish because he knows that I am not. It’s funny how he knows these things but knows nothing about himself.
He keeps the name that I gave him, albeit very reluctantly with a sneer that I would be on my best behavior. I was not to make jokes or make fun of him, but I don’t listen to him; I’m too entertained by the fact that there is an actual ghost after the initial shock had worn off.
Also, he made me sit and get used to him because I would freak out every time my mind catches up with the astonishment of this situation.
He’s too symmetrically beautiful that it’s easy to stare at him. I chalk it up to watching an art piece come to life for me to admire.
“You call this art?” that disapproving, provoking voice comes from behind.
I bite my lip, tipping my head back to the chair while staring up at the transparent ghost that lingers. Lingering is putting it nicely; Eli hovers and has the audacity to tell me what to do.
He demanded that I sleep at a decent time—ten o’clock is within an acceptable range—and he won’t stop bugging me until I do. We have come up with a compromise that eleven is the right time, and two nights in a row of great sleep do wonders for my body.
He’s not going to get a compliment from me; his ego is going to inflate even more.
“Be gone with the wind, trash bag,” I fill in the little detail with a shade between purple and navy blue.
“It’s a formless disgrace of the value of history—a physical manifestation of greed.”
I bite my tongue on a snarky comment. There has been criticism about my art and the unconventional soullessness of it, that it isn’t true art when it had been altered with tools that do not reflect the artists’ skills.
Understanding the criticism from the other side took time, but I eventually came to an understanding that it was fear that had driven the madness of digital art critics.
“Enlighten me, Eli.”
He’s a man of a few words, but at times, he talks too much.
“It can be copied, replicated, and distributed for mass profit. It isn’t genuine, and the flaws come from the greed that you have for attention and money.”
My fingers tighten around the pen, never touching the screen on my desk as it would ruin the precise mark of the details that I have drawn just moments ago.
“Traditional artists want recognition and profit. They want fame because at the times of history, they treat recognition as a pathway to money and status. How am I any different?” I save my progress and back it up to an external drive that I always have plugged into my sketch pad.
“I’m going with the demands of modern times; in an environment of competition, I need to be able to pay off student loans, live up to the expectation of buying a house at twenty-five, and work a minimal paying job to support myself through classes.”
I don’t care what he is feeling right now. I’m a bit upset that he spoke of my work as unimportant.
“Yes, I did start this career as a way to make fast money. I was interested in art, but I didn’t think I would make this my goal in life. Nevertheless, life works in different ways; I ended up loving this, and it took me years of trial and error to have a group of fans who loves my work and is willing to pay for it.”
Eli stays quiet, watching me and searching through the rage in my face with his stoic expression. That makes me more irritated; he’s the one that offended me, and he has the balls to act like nothing is wrong.
“And yes, the massive downloads generate revenue, but it’s the feedback and encouragement that allow me to improve myself so I can provide the best form of creativity that they deserve because they have been with me since the beginning as a family.”
He remarks, eyes darkening to a shade of forest green rather than the glittering emerald that I wanted to use as an inspiration, “Your art will never be one unique piece to one person.”
“No, it’s never going to be,” I agree because he isn’t wrong no matter how much exasperation is boiling in my gut.
“My art is special in the eyes of the beholder. It isn’t meant to be a singularity. I make art to create a realm of fairy tales for those who want to step away from reality for a moment because they need to.”
Jerking my head back, I double save my progress again as a habit since the fir
st time I didn’t save every hour, I lost precious work and I was devastated.
By now, I have lost the serenity that comes with creating art. It’s all thanks to this ghost. I can’t stand to be near him right now and I just want to douse him with a splash of reality that it is not acceptable to insult someone and their work.
The damages of criticism can still hurt me even after years of people throwing comments at me through my social media. I have learned to ignore the ones that criticize for the sake of criticism, but I do take the ones with valid reasoning as to why they don’t agree with my published art. It broadens my views to understand why people are against it, but I never respond to them for the sake of the freedom of speech format of the internet.
Also, I’m not the one to have an argument with someone over the internet. I don’t even know them. I don’t owe them anything and the most insecure dog barks the loudest.
The sensitivity of people is out of this world.
Standing up from my work station, I stalk out of my bedroom and into the kitchen where Danni is making lunch. We alternate cook depending on what we have planned for the day. Her schedule as a medical student is still pending with the internship from a hospital. She wants to get a feel of how it works before she has to sign up for residency soon.
“What are you making?” I ask, straining my neck to look over the distance where she stands by the stove with a pot of something boiling inside.
“You sound angry,” she replies without turning to me.
I groan while shaking away the irking feeling on my skin, “I don’t want to talk about it. Eli is being Eli.”
“At least this time you won’t be needing to disassemble a disco ball.”
I had an inspiration for a character that I thought of for a fan who requested a piece of art and she paid a lot of money for it. I had to buy a disco ball from a club because it’s been in the environment that it’s meant to be, and for authenticity sake, I went to different clubs at the busiest nights to see its full effect and choose which one catches my attention.
“That character was for a fan and he was a great inspiration, but Eli is a real ghost and he’s not doing what ghosts are supposed to do—you know, knocking things over and creating scares.”
I sling my arms around Danni’s waist and bury my face into her hair. Those curls tickle my nose as she smells like a soap factory next to an Indian spice shop.
Peering down, her hand is on the ladle stirring the content of what I assume is a pot of curry by the smell and color of it.
“Do we need all that curry for two people?” I muse out loud, “Wait, is Scott coming over?”
If I had a bartender boyfriend, I would make him tell me the secret of memorization. It takes a certain type of skillset to know which mixture turns out a drink with a name and there are hundreds of varieties; bartenders would make great chemists with their level of specific measurements of ingredients.
Better yet, I can have him make the strongest drink he knows. Drowning out the stupid ghost is what I need, but Danni’s delicious food will be an alternative route without harming my body by scorching my esophagus.
“I have told you more than a dozen of times already; Scott isn’t my boyfriend.”
I roll my eyes at her denial; the chemistry between them is awful and it’s scary how one spark can ignite an explosion of a supernova.
“I have told you that Eli isn’t a fragment of my imagination.”
“I have stopped questioning what is real and what are thoughts when words come out of your mouth,” she says with a chuckle.
“Excuse you, Danni,” I sniff and nearly drool when the scent gets richer, “What’s it going to take for you to believe me?”
“When you stop believing in fairy tales.”
That is never going to happen; my belief in fairy tales is what helps me get through tough days. I can immerse myself in a world that has no problems; a happy ending, a prince charming, and an evil villain for a little bit of action.
I silently give a thank you to the first person to bring a movie to life.
“So, Scott.” I hum, my lips stretching with a grin.
She stiffens in my arms, “Jackie.”
“Why are you denying the attraction?”
Danni stirs the pot with more force, a scowl tipping her dark lips down, “It’s a one-night stand.”
“It’s love at first sight. I think you should take the chance; jump headfirst and find your way through. He’s a good guy, a protective type and he really likes you. Have one date with him and see where it goes. You could have one hour of uninterrupted time to x-ray his clothes.”
I hear a throat being cleared behind me. I wisely choose to ignore it; Eli will have my cold shoulders until he apologizes for being a douchebag.
She turns the stove off with a scoff, “I don’t want to take advice from a girl who has failed at every relationship.”
“I’m working on it!” whining into her hair, I squeeze her as a punishment for her remark.
Unjustified and indifferent, but that’s how Danni and I work together.
“Set up the table. I’m almost done,” she says as she pats my hands around her waist.
We don’t have much in the apartment for just two girls. We like to keep the apartment simple and easy to move. It’s been a habit of ours once we moved in together; every year’s lease comes to an end, which is an indication that our time spent there is done. We find new places to live as a way to keep our lives fresh and let more creativity flow.
We don’t move too far, just enough to put get fresh air and close to campus when she and I were in college. Now that we graduated, we don’t have that factor to limit our choices of a home and this year will be the first time we plan on moving a tad bit further away as her choices of residency are beginning to narrow down.
Packing with little stuff makes it easier. We don’t have to spend too much money on moving trucks for furniture when the apartments come with them. We have to buy a chair here and there, utensils get worn out and replaced, and stacks of shoes.
Danni has an infatuation with shoes; all of them are polished and maintained with the meticulous hand of a future nurse.
Or a doctor, she’s still in the midst of deciding which route she wants to go.
Money is a big thing to factor in, and we’re two young girls with income that goes to living expenses. I try to save up as much as I could, but I also want to live with the thought of money problems all the way back in my head and locked away.
“Are you going to the medical center today?” I ask, giving her a fork and a spoon.
She takes the spoon so I take the fork; the plates and the utensils are mix-matched while everything else in the apartment resembles a modern art museum. We don’t understand why we didn’t look up interior designs when we first moved in, but I do know that we were too lazy to care.
“Yeah,” she swallows a piece of chicken from her curry.
That was a huge chunk and my throat hurts in a transference of her action. I know she said she can deepthroat, but that is not something I want to witness when I’m having lunch. We share secrets, but that doesn’t mean I want to know what she does in bed with her weekend man.
She never has a man for more than one weekend, and so far, Scott had broken that rule. I’m rooting for him to be the stable boyfriend for Danni; heaven knows she’s secretly hoping he’s the one for her.
If Scott can knock some sense into her, it would be great to have him around. He’s good company and he doesn’t belittle me when my face twists weirdly. I get intense conversations with myself in my head.
“It a good time for me to introduce myself to them since I’m choosing that hospital and the one just a few miles away.”
I pull the fork from my lips, cleaning the deep flavors off while I accidentally glance over at Eli. He’s quiet and receptive when he catches my eyes as if he can sense me; the green in his eyes is clear but they aren’t readable.
He’s closed of
f and respectful not to jab his voice into our conversation.
“I’m going out after lunch too,” I tell her over the glass of water.
She cuts the potato with the edge of her spoon, “Where?”
“There is a piece of street art that happened last night, and I want to see it.”
Thinking of the news that I hear yesterday kept me up until I wore myself out from the giddiness; it’s one of the talented street artists that slips between shadows and leave their marks on buildings of big corporations.
It’s their way of fighting a war of inequalities on behalf of women and indigents.
“How do you know it’s still up?” Danni questions.
“It’s covered with a clear sealant,” I bite the fork to contain my grin, “The company needs a special-grade dissolvent to get it off and then they can remove the art.”
She chuckles, shakes her head and we finish our lunch together. We bring a conversation from one point to another, and it all depends on where the direction steers up to and it’s an easy lunch with her.
I clean the dishes while she picks up the garbage on the table; the plates and utensils are left out on a towel to dry since we don’t have a dishwasher or a dryer.
This place is cheap, but it’s better than living miles away from Danni’s residency hospital. The morning traffic will have to take another two hours out of her sleep if she doesn’t time it perfectly, but she walks most of the times and she will only take it if it’s pouring rain.
“See you at dinner!” she calls out from the front door and the door closes.
I enter my bedroom and close the door, “Stay out there!”
Eli will come through the walls if I don’t tell him that I’m changing; that man has no concept of personal space, and it’s so scary trying to sleep knowing that he’s staring at me as if he wants to dissect me.
I quickly change and take my backpack with my sketchbook inside to have something to draw in if inspiration clicks in my mind throughout the day. Finishing the commissioned art piece tonight should give me ample time and space to let my pen flow on the digital pad.
My socks glide on the smooth wood floor; it’s old but they aren’t too broken to have shards sticking up. Older apartments have a lot of fixing to do and it’s why they are inexpensive; they’re perfect for struggling students that go to the nearby college.
