Tell me, have you ever wondered what it feels like to die? For me, it was surprisingly painless, almost serene in its finality. But don’t mistake that for an endorsement—what comes afterward defines hell.
The day was December 18th, 20XX. School had just been let out for Christmas break, and Mango Summit High hummed with festive chaos. This sprawling high school drew students from nearby small towns like Applecrest and Citrus Hollow, creating a melting pot of youthful exuberance—or bitterness, depending on where you stood. Outside, the crisp winter air carried the sound of jubilant carolers, their harmonized voices cutting through the chill like knives wrapped in velvet.
“It’s the most wonderful time of the year…” they sang. Their cheerful refrain bounced off the walls, echoing through the tiled hallways like ghosts of a warmth Arthur had long forgotten.
Inside, Arthur trudged through the dimly lit corridors, the fluorescent lights flickering faintly overhead. The festive decorations felt like a cruel joke. Twinkling fairy lights lined the lockers, their soft golden glow casting halos on the polished floors. Paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling, swaying gently, as though mocking his every step.
As he approached the staircase, a memory seized him.
A boot to his ribs.
Laughter like shards of glass.
The rancid stench of spoiled milk poured over his head.
The sharp snap of his leg twisting unnaturally.
And their faces—smiling, jeering—blurred now into nameless specters.
The incident had been swept neatly under the rug, like so much dirt in a school too busy celebrating to notice the decay beneath.
He placed a foot on the first step, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The faint notes of the carolers drifted in from a nearby classroom.
“With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling you, 'Be of good cheer!'”
The irony clawed at him. His heart beat a solemn rhythm against the song’s jubilant tempo, each thud pounding the cruel chorus deeper into his thoughts. He climbed further, his breathing shallow, his gaze fixed on the dim glow spilling from the rooftop access door above.
“It’s the hap-happiest season of all…”
Another memory sliced through him like a dagger, a memory of his girlfriend, Emelia
Her face—pale, lifeless.
Her stomach—gutted, a macabre wound yawning open.
Her blood—smearing the alley wall in crude letters: YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE.
Arthur gripped the stair rail tighter, his knuckles pale and bloodless. Each step felt heavier than the last, his body dragging as if the weight of his memories had taken on a physical form. The carolers’ voices echoed faintly from below, their saccharine cheer twisting into cruel mockery in his ears.
The final flight of stairs stretched before him like a lifetime. Each creak of the old wood seemed to ask, Are you sure? Above, the faint hum of the rooftop door called to him, the air beyond promising cold, quiet absolution. Behind him, the carolers’ song lingered, growing muffled as though the world were retreating from him.
“It’s the most wonderful time of the year...”
The words dissolved into the cool stillness of the rooftop as he pushed the door open, the icy wind biting at his skin.
Another memory struck, sharp as a blade.
His mother, crumpled on the floor, bruises blooming across her skin like dark flowers. Her left eye was swollen shut, her split lip trembling as she tried to speak. The broken beer bottle glinted in the corner, its jagged edge smeared with blood.
A man lay sprawled near her, his face hauntingly familiar—Arthur’s own features, but older, twisted in death. Blood seeped from the deep gash in his back, pooling beneath him like a spreading shadow.
Arthur stood frozen in the doorway, a knife in his hand, its blade dripping red.
The memory faded, leaving only the rooftop’s desolate silence. Arthur stepped forward, the city sprawling below him in a sea of indifferent lights. The wind howled in his ears, carrying fragments of the song still rising from below.
“There’ll be much mistletoeing, and hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near…”
The irony twisted like a knife in his chest. Loved ones. Glowing hearts. A bitter laugh choked in his throat. He could see the carolers clustered by the school’s main doors, their faces alight with joy as they sang. Their final refrain rose into the night, almost drowning out the sound of his heartbeat.
“It’s the most wonderful time of the year…”
A tear slipped from Arthur’s eye, the warmth of it quickly stolen by the cold wind. His vision blurred as he stared at the ground far below, the distance between him and the earth feeling less like a fall and more like a release.
“Tell me,” a voice whispered, cold and serpentine, brushing against his ear like a breath of frost. “Are you really going to do it this time? You’ve chickened out before.”
Arthur flinched, his gaze darting to his wrist. The scars there were faint but undeniable, pale lines tracing the path of his despair. His throat tightened as he clenched his fists, the nails biting into his palms.
The voice chuckled, low and mocking, as if it lived within the recesses of his own mind. “Come on, Arthur. Nobody will notice. Nobody ever does.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He took another step forward, the cold edge of the roof biting into his soles. One more inch, and it would all be over. Below, the carolers swayed, their voices rising together in unison as they reached the crescendo of their song.
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“It’s the most wonderful time… of the year!”
The words echoed in his ears, a cruelly cheerful requiem. Tears blurred his vision as he teetered at the edge, the world’s festive spirit swirling below, utterly oblivious to the boy who had been left behind.
Then, Arthur stepped off the edge. The world tilted, the wind roared in his ears, and gravity pulled him into its cold embrace. As he plummeted, his memories surged like a twisted symphony, dissonant and relentless. Fragments of his life—his mother’s bruised face, his girlfriend’s lifeless body, the blood on his hands—flashed before him, each one more vivid and gut-wrenching than the last. They spiraled around him, mocking, accusing, driving him deeper into the abyss.
And yet... no one reacted.
The carolers sang on, their cheerful voices oblivious to the boy falling through their midst. The civilians below shuffled along, lost in their own worlds, not sparing a glance upward. Even the ground refused to greet him, his body sinking into it like a stone dropped into water.
Arthur clawed his way out, gasping for breath that no longer came. He rose shakily to his feet, only to freeze as he saw himself—his own body—still standing on the rooftop above.
It was smiling.
There was no mistaking it—it was his body. The same unruly white hair that he had never managed to tame, now catching the rooftop’s dim light like a ghostly halo. The same dull purple eyes, lifeless yet piercing, shadowed by deep, sleepless bags that seemed carved into his face. The same white school uniform, its crisp fabric marred by faint scuffs and the familiar Mango Summit emblem stitched over the chest.
It stood there, impossibly still, gazing down at him. The expression on its face—his face—sent a chill through Arthur’s ghostly form. It wasn’t his usual wearied look of quiet resignation. No, this face was different. It smiled. Not warmly, not kindly, but with an unsettling, knowing twist of the lips, as though mocking him from the very shell he had abandoned.
His face, the one he had worn every day of his life, now twisted into a grin that sent chills through his ghostly form. The figure looked down at him, its gaze piercing, and when it spoke, the voice wasn’t his own.
“Honestly, that took longer than I expected,” it said, the familiar, mocking tone of the voice that had haunted his mind for years now given form. “I was wondering if today would be the day. I had my doubts, you know.”
Arthur’s translucent hands trembled. By instinct, he floated upward, his ghostly form propelled by something beyond his understanding. “W-who are you?” he stammered, his voice quivering with fear.
The figure tilted its head, the wicked grin never faltering. “I’m you—or at least, now I am. You’ve been generous enough to hand over your body, so I’ve claimed it.”
“No,” Arthur breathed, his form flickering as panic gripped him. “Why? How? Who are you really?”
The figure—his body—laughed, a low, chilling sound that reverberated in the empty rooftop air. “So many questions. Lucky for you, I never lie. Let’s start with the how and why: I needed a body, and you didn’t want yours anymore. The moment you relinquished your life, I seized it. Simple, really.”
Arthur’s ghostly fists clenched, though his attempts to steady himself only deepened his sense of helplessness. “And your name?” he demanded, his voice rising in desperation.
The grin widened, impossibly cruel. “I am Veritas, the Archangel of Truth.”
Arthur’s form flickered, rage and despair clashing within him. “Give it back! Give me back my body!” he roared, lunging forward. His hand passed through Veritas effortlessly, as though the archangel was a shadow, or perhaps it was Arthur who was no longer real.
“What’s wrong?” Veritas taunted, his stolen voice dripping with mockery. “You wanted to die, didn’t you? You relinquished your claim to this body. You made it clear you had no use for it. So, I’ve seized possession. Consider it… repurposed.”
Arthur stumbled back, his ghostly form shuddering as tears welled in his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, but you did,” Veritas interrupted, his tone sharp and merciless. “Every step off that ledge was a declaration. You don’t get to take it back now.”
Arthur’s mind raced, grappling with the reality before him. His body, his voice, his very existence had been stolen. And the one who had taken it wore his face better than he ever could.
Veritas stepped closer to the edge, looking down at the bustling world below, his grin fading into something colder, darker. “Now, Arthur, watch closely. You may have abandoned your life, but I’ve got plans for it.”
“Oh, but let me take care of these unsightly wounds first,” Veritas said with a wicked smile. A soft, green light enveloped his body, radiating an unsettling warmth as it mended every injury, every scar. Within moments, his skin was flawless, as though the pain Arthur had endured for years had never existed. The glow faded, leaving only Veritas’s smug grin behind.
Arthur lunged again and again, his ghostly fists passing through Veritas as though he were striking smoke. The futility of his efforts only fueled the archangel’s laughter, a sound that echoed cruelly against the empty rooftop.
“Pathetic,” Veritas sneered, brushing past Arthur as though he were nothing more than a whisper in the wind. “But since I’m feeling generous, I’ll leave you with a warning.” He paused at the edge of the roof, his form outlined against the last rays of the setting sun. “When night falls, be wary of the Fallen. Their favorite meal is you—worthless, wandering souls.”
With that, Veritas stepped off the rooftop and disappeared into the twilight, leaving Arthur to crumble under the weight of his despair. He stared after him, trembling, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides.
The horizon darkened unnaturally fast. For a ghost, night came differently—horrifically.
The sky cleaved open as though torn by unseen hands, bleeding into a deep, pulsating crimson. The moon emerged, no longer a comforting beacon but a monstrous, unblinking eye that dominated the heavens. It stared down with malevolent intent, its gaze sending shivers through Arthur’s incorporeal form. Blood began to rain, thick and warm, each drop carrying the metallic scent of despair.
The living world remained oblivious to the horror. The carolers below continued their cheer, their joy undisturbed by the grotesque transformation above. But for the lost souls, the night was a different reality—a predator’s hunting ground.
Arthur’s attention snapped to the sky as something fell. Black feathers, drenched in the blood rain, drifted downward in unnatural spirals. Then came the bodies. They descended like grotesque meteors, landing with sickening thuds that shook the ghostly plane.
One of them crashed mere feet from Arthur. It was colossal, the size of a school bus, its very presence radiating malice. Its flesh was gray and sickly, marred by gaping wounds that oozed golden ichor. The creature’s head lacked eyes, but its elongated mouth split into eight jagged segments, revealing a whip-like tongue that writhed and lashed the air with grotesque hunger.
Its hands ended in scythe-like claws, curved and serrated, twitching with anticipation. Its legs, grotesque imitations of a frog’s, bent unnaturally as it began to rise. The wings on its back were not feathered but leathery husks stretched taut over bony frames, their edges frayed and torn.
The creature sniffed the air, its segmented mouth trembling as it searched for the scent of its prey. Arthur could feel it—its hunger, its intent. It wasn’t hunting the living. It was hunting him.
A deep, guttural growl rumbled from the beast as it turned its eyeless face toward him, its tongue snapping like a whip. Arthur stumbled back, his mind reeling. He was no longer just a ghost. He was prey.
And the night had only begun.