You are not alone. You may think you are, and certainly many readers indeed would seem to be rather alone. This is no rhetoric, this is not some scheme to make you look within yourself. No, dear reader, I am telling you that the dead walk among us, just beyond the what the human eye can see. Most are impotent, but do not be fooled, dear reader, there are some that would see you join their ranks.
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Museums are treasure troves for cursed or holy items. One in particular catches the eye of a young boy of seven. A green jewel set into a disk that’s been cracked in half, much of it missing to the world never to be found. The copper surrounding the emerald is weathered and beat, simply pounded out flat for the jewel, not so much as an engraving on the entire piece, a weathered strap sitting broken, tied to one hole in the amulet. The boy didn’t think the piece particularly well made, much less beautiful than the supposedly divine artifacts of Egypt or the Mayan empire, this simple disk from Mesopotamia had a gravity the boy couldn’t ignore.
The case was on open display, the boy pressing against the velvet ropes, trying to get a better look. There wasn’t much else to see, but the boy tried to get closer still.
“Get back from that,” said the boy’s father, his mother watching unamused without care. The boy didn’t want to get back, and like so many his age he heard what he wanted to, which in this case was the call of the amulet. “This is not the behavior of someone of our station.” The boy felt a hand grab the collar of the uncomfortable button-down shirt and he was pulled away.
The amulet wasn’t even pretty, there was no reason he should want to get so close, the boy reasoned. Even as he did, he found himself unable to move back of his own free will. He was pulled back from the ropes, just enough to not look odd how close he was. Appearance was everything, after all.
The boy was young, and as young boys often do, he had an idea. It was a strange idea, half baked and would most certainly not work. In fact, there was little thought put into it at all, as if it had just appeared in his mind on its own.
Suddenly the boy slid under the ropes on his knees. His father would be furious at another pair of ripped pants, but he always recovered quickly, so what’s the harm? The boy was up in a flash, wrapping a hand around the amulet and pulling it from the pedestal. It felt good, and for an eternal moment the boy thought no one cared.
The cries of “Stop him!”, “Security!”, and “What are you doing Deasin?” quickly alleviated him of those hopes.
Security came barreling from the hallway and into the exhibit where Deasin was standing and holding the amulet, jittery and clearly panicking about what he’d done. The security was dressed almost as well as the guests, but without the variety. Who would want to go into a museum with someone that wore the clothes of commoners guarding the treasures?
As kids are prone to do when they are in trouble, Deasin ran in the opposite direction, sliding under the ropes on the other side of the exhibit and sprinting out of the exhibit and into the next, security and his parents trailing behind him.
The other exhibits were beautiful, holding all sorts of pieces that the boy wanted to stop and play with, but he couldn’t, he had to keep running to avoid getting in trouble. If he could outrun them they would forget about him and he wouldn’t be in trouble anymore. He saw so many shiny relics, so many recreations and rocks he could hide behind, but he had to run, running was the best way out, if he could make it outside, just make it outside.
But the boy had never been to this museum, he had no idea where to turn to get outside, except for the entrance which was barricaded by the barrage of people chasing him. The thought went through his head, but so did there has to be a back door somewhere. There does not have to be a back door somewhere, but the kid held on to the faint hope of escape with no thought of what would come next.
The cries of “Stop!” only grew louder as the boy made a crucial mistake, running past an opening to the hallway that connects the first and final exhibits on the left-hand side of the museum. Instead he finds himself trapped between a stained-glass window and security. The security guards stop, surrounding him while many bend over to catch their breath, envious of the boy that had barely broken a sweat.
“Give that back and we can forget this ever happened,” said one of the security guards, stepping forward and holding a hand out. To his credit, Deasin did hold his hand out, pushing the amulet towards the man as if he were going to give it back.
“This never happened?” he asked, trying to loosen his grip on the relic that had started to cut his hand with its jagged edges.
“Just drop the jewel,” the security guard responded.
“You heard him, drop the jewel Deasin!” shouted the boy’s mother.
“I can’t.” Deasin reached his right hand out to try and pry his fingers off and drop the amulet into the guards waiting hand, and he would get one finger off only to move on to another and have the first finger back down with white knuckles.
“Just let go,” the guard said, his expression growing harder and his offhand reaching behind his back for the baton kept there.
Deasin started panicking again, shaking his hand and frantically yelling for help, backing up until his back was to the window and his hand struck the glass. His juvenile strength wasn’t enough to so much as crack the glass, but it was like a signal to attack, a guard quickly running and swinging for Deasin, a swing that missed and put a hole in the stained glass, letting glass fall all around the floor around Deasin. The other guards quickly moved to grab Deasin as he tried to run, tripping and falling on the floor, his arms splayed around him, his eyes looking forward.
The blood pooling around his head and his gasping breaths were the first indications of trouble. The guards flipped him over, getting blood all over their hands and suits as they did so.
“Is there a doctor here? Someone find a doctor!” shouted the guard that had broken the window as he put his hands on his head and started to panic because this was his fault.
A shard blue glass stained red by the blood of a dying child was lodged in Deasins throat, thin but deep. A guard pulled it out with a quiet suctioning sound and it was quickly followed by more blood as the shard had the bad luck to nick an artery on its way into the boy’s esophagus. The pain caused the Deasin to spasm, rolling him on his side and turning his face down where another shard, smaller than the first embedded itself in his eye in that brief instant, and now he was losing more blood.
The boy did not survive long enough to know if a doctor had come to save him, the last sensation was the sound of his parents whispering faintly “Wake up Deasin! Wake up!”
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The amulet sat in a beam of light from the hole in the window, still clutched in the boy’s palm. No one seemed to notice that in the right light one could see a boy covered in blood and missing an eye staring down at his own corpse in shock reflected in the copper of the amulet for just a moment before the relic grew dim regardless of the sunlight it was in, reflecting no light.
When it was back to normal no one could see anything reflected in its surface, not that anyone looked as they washed the blood from the surface and set it in a crate for storage while the exhibit gets cleaned and repaired.
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Ghosts, Gary decided, cannot exist. As far as Gary is concerned it had nothing to do with belief, but science. Ghosts couldn’t exist, they would have to be made of some kind of dark matter, a ridiculous concept because that would mean that souls had to exist before the universe so it could be built, and souls would have to be made of dark matter in the first place. Dark matter could also in no way contain a human mind, so even if the “soul” was made of dark matter it couldn’t possibly result in ghosts upon death.
Gary was no scientist, although aspirations after high school would make him one if he saw them through. Astrophysics was in irresistible call to Gary, innumerable questions with satisfying answers just waiting to be found so that more questions could appear. As far as Gary was concerned, finding these answers was his idea of heaven, his perfect day.
Some of his classmates were going camping in the woods on someone’s property. It wasn’t trespassing, so it wasn’t illegal, although the activities most certainly would be. Gary had no intention of attending this outing, there were only six people going, but the invitation was given and his mother caught wind.
“You don’t do anything! Go out, be young, make mistakes!” she said.
“I’m sure there will be alcohol,” Gary responded, trying to get out of it.
“Then don’t drive,” was the end of the conversation. So, Gary was going, but it had a chance to be fun. Plus, he didn’t have to drink if he didn’t want to. What’s the worst that could happen?
It was the night of the camping trip, around midday when Gary finished packing his various supplies in his rusty scrapheap of a car. He was sure someone would forget something vital and was determined to have everything they could possibly need for this excursion. It wasn’t far, only a thirty-minute drive from his house, but he wanted to be there and set up before dark.
On the way Gary listened to songs by Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges, a composer from before Beethoven that he just discovered. The ride was calm and the trees that slowly overtook the surrounding world provided a sense of calm to the world.
When he arrived, he was welcomed warmly by the few who had already been there, although they hadn’t set up much more than the pit for the bon fire, some camping chairs, and a hammock. Gary didn’t take long finding a flat spot on the ground for his little one-man tent, but by the time he did it had grown chilly in the autumn air and Gary decided to cozy up in a sweatshirt, pulling it over his head to find that everyone else had arrived and were also wearing sweatshirts of various colors.
A fire was started soon after, butane-soaked wood seeming to explode for a moment before steadying to a more stable burn, if any fire can be called stable. Beers were passed around, and soon even Gary had one open in his hand. One sip determined that it tasted like wet bread and hatred so he didn’t have any more, but others continued to drink the vile liquid.
Brownies were passed around, and again Gary didn’t partake, knowing that they were filled with weed. Everyone pretty much just sat around the fire and talked about various gossip topics that didn’t interest Gary at all, so instead he talked about a new video game that was coming out soon with Sarah, a smaller shyer girl who sat almost as alone as Gary did.
“Alright,” shouted Zeya suddenly in the middle of a conversation with someone else. “Let’s tell some spoopy stories.” Some of the more stoned kids laughed at the slurred words while her boyfriend took her beer and replaced it with a bottle of water.
“Sounds like a good idea,” said one of the guys.
Jake looked disoriented for a moment, shaking his head as if trying to clear cobwebs. “Been having a good time, haven’t we? You want a scary story? I have one I find rather frightening,” he said in a distinctly British accent. No one thought anything of it, most being drunk or high or both and those that weren’t didn’t care enough to ask questions to the boy who had lived in Mississippi his whole life that suddenly had a British accent halfway through a night out camping.
A tale started pouring from him, one about a boy, a strange amulet and running. When the boy died everyone assumed the story was over, the ghost allusion at the end not enough to make anything scary.
“Boo!” shouted a few of the spectators, Gary included.
“That wasn’t scary at all!” said Zeya.
“Oh, but the story is far from over. You see, the boy found that dead people don’t go anywhere, in fact, they just mill about, trying to find some semblance of joy in their eternal suffering.” Jake stood up, polishing off his beer with a quick swig and shattering the bottle on the edge of the firepit. “You see, the relic that got that boy killed also gave him a gift, a rare gift that few have ever received.” Jake pulled a large shard of broken bottle from the ground and ran a finger along the edge, drawing a thin line of blood across his uncalloused thumb.
“Jake, this is getting weird,” Gary said, standing up and looking with concern at the boy.
“The boy got to experience life through the skin of another. Do any of you know the most exiting moment in life?”
“Jake, this isn’t funny.” Everyone was getting uncomfortable, staring at the boy that was staring at a piece of glass with a single drop of blood waiting to drip to the dirt.
“This brings back memories. You know, of all the times I’ve killed myself, I’ve never slit my wrists.” The glass was soon driven forcefully into his wrist and then yanked out with a spray of blood.
“What are you doing!” Gary shouted, blood spraying into his hair, shock preventing anyone else from moving to stop Jake as he changed the hand the glass was in and jammed it into the artery on the other side, pulling it out again and dropping it with another spurt of blood.
Jakes eyes suddenly went wide and he started shaking violently. “I don’t know what’s happening! Get him out of me! Help!”
The words sparked panic, Gary running to him and trying to tie cloth around the wounds while Sarah tried to call the police but there was no service, no one to hear our screams, and no one that could help. Gary got within arms reach of Jake, who spasmed violently and punched Gary in the face, not letting him get close. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t stop, I can’t, he’s in my head,” Jake rambled in panic, clenching his teeth and crying.
“Just hold still!” Gary yelled, getting up from the ground with a hand on his cheek that was already starting to bruise.
“I. . . can’t. . .” Jake trailed off, rocking on his feet and falling over. He quickly passed out from blood loss, lying motionless on the floor as if he was already dead. Gary ran to him, trying to staunch the bleeding as much as he could, but he was kicked in the temple by Zeya’s booted foot, falling over again.
“GET OUT OF ME!” she shouted, walking stiffly to Jake’s truck and opening the passenger door, pulling a hunting rifle from the vehicle. “Run!” She checked for ammo and put the muzzle into her mouth and pulling the trigger, blood and grey matter raining down on the forest.
“Much better, bleeding out is no fun at all!” said Sarah before panic set into her eyes. “I can’t stop! You have to run! Gary run!”
Gary scrambled over to help her, but she rammed her head into a tree three times, each blow hard enough to put a dent in to oak. She fell dead, and one by one each of the people at the camping trip screamed about someone taking control before they killed themselves, violently turning the dirt floor to mud in the firelight.
Gary ran for his car, making it in and turning the key, not caring what he left in the woods or the blood that would surely stain the cloth seats in the piece of junk that wasn’t starting.
The last of the kids from his class died with a scream as he tried to escape the fire but couldn’t move. Gary was last, and he knew he would kill himself too, maybe run himself off a cliff, or maybe he would repeat some of the horrors in the camp site.
”I’ll wont make you do anything, this was your fault after all,” said a wet voice in his mind, like a little British boy trying to talk with a mouth full of water.
“What are you?” Gary sobbed aloud, resting his head on the steering wheel.
“I’m no thing, just a little boy with an opportunity. Do you know the most exciting moment of life, Gary?” said the voice.
“Please leave me alone,” he cried to the car, a vision of a boy with a hole in his throat bleeding eternally on his suit with ripped pants, glass still sticking from the eye socket where he was missing an eye.
“The greatest moment of every life is the end.”