Don’t believe what they tell you in movies and on TV; ghosts don’t haunt people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying there’s no such thing as ghosts, I’m just saying they don’t haunt living people – because basically they don’t know we’re here.
How do I know that? Because I can see them. I have since I was a little kid. But I didn’t have a grandmother who taught me how to help people move on, or Bruce Willis as my ghost shrink. Nope, I just got to stand around like a zombie staring at people nobody else could see, wondering if it was me or the rest of the world who was crazy.
Then, just when I’d worked out what my version of ‘normal’ was, and was content with it, Jake came along – the anomaly – the Grey who didn’t play by the rules. What was worse, he couldn’t be just any old Grey, could he? Oh no, he had to be the most gorgeous guy I’d ever laid eyes on, living or dead. And he was set on rocking my world, whether I liked it or not.
“What do I look like to you? I assume there’s some reason you think I’m a ghost,” her voice went up at the end as a question, and her pale eyebrows lifted too. Was she making fun of me?
I decided two could play at that game. “Is this where I’m supposed to say you’re pretty?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not my sister. I have no illusions about my looks. And if you said I was pretty I wouldn’t believe you. So, no. I want to know why you call me a ghost.”
I sobered up and decided to address the elephant in the park directly. “I can see through you. You aren’t solid and colourful like the rest of us. Like the tree behind us.” I hated to break it to her. After all, she said she wasn’t dead, and yet she obviously was. How was someone supposed to break something like that to a ghost?
She looked at her own hand, as if trying to see it as I did. Of course, she wouldn’t.
“It’s okay. You can go to the Light or whatever. They say it’s great on the other side,” I found myself muttering stupidly. Crap, this was not as easy as it seemed on TV.
She looked up at me, her eyes filled with compassion and empathy. “So they say. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”
I hadn’t thought about that. Wouldn’t she see me like the rest of the people around us? I mean, we’re the living, after all.
Her eyes became even more sympathetic and I began to feel like an idiot who was missing the point somehow. I could see she was fighting not to reach out and comfort me with a touch.
“You’re transparent to me, too. I call you Greys. And there aren’t fifty shades of you. You’re all just one transparent grey.”
It was my turn to look at my hand. It was as solid as it always was. Maybe she was just saying that to get even with me for breaking the news to her so badly?
“I’m as solid as those people sitting over there,” I nodded with my head to the three co-eds and one guy sitting on the grass no more than ten feet away. Already they’d looked my way a couple of times, clearly wondering who I was talking to.
“There’s nobody there. I can see two guys about to sit down to our right. But it’s too cold for most people to be out today. Spring seems to have deserted us.”
“It’s not spring. It’s September and this is an Indian summer,” I choked out. Things were deteriorating fast. She must have died in spring and was stuck in that time forever. Always chilly, never to enjoy the pleasures of summer again.
For a moment she just stared at me. That’s when it hit me. She thought I was dead. She thought I was the ghost. This was getting seriously screwed up.
After a lifetime of teaching others to appreciate the written word, Aussie author Nhys Glover finally decided to make the most of the Indie Book Revolution to get her own written word out to the world. Now, with more than 100,000 of her ebooks downloaded internationally and a winner of 2013 SFR Galaxy Award for ‘The Titan Drowns’, Nhys finds her words, too, are being appreciated. Living in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales of England, Nhys these days spends most of her time “living the dream” by looking out over the moors from her window as she writes the kind of novels she loves to read. The ones that are a little bit different and wholly romantic.