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Sometimes I ask myself if I’m happier now that I get to be an orc openly. I’m fourteen inches taller than I used to be pre-Unravelling, when glamour made me appear human. I’m bigger and stronger, but really, nothing else has changed. There’s enough orcs around the city these days that I stopped getting strange looks a year ago. Humans are unfazed by my green skin and my tusks, as they should be. Life has gone on as usual, except in fields like the entertainment industry, where there has been less inclusivity unless brands want to use us for a specific purpose, like today’s gig.
I think it’s different for the were-creatures and shifters out there. They had their inner wolves or cats or bears trapped inside them, unable to release them under the universalglamour. I’d met my flatmate Blake’s wolf form on Tuesday under the full moon; a huge white wolf with a terrifying snarl. He’d run off into the night, and then spent most of Wednesday sleeping. He’s told me before that he’s much happier post-Unravelling, and I can’t blame him. It’s just…
It’s hard not to get bitter about it all, sometimes.
QuittingHaunted feels like I’m being completely reckless, even though I have a better contract, with clear expectations and outlines, and more pay than before. It’s just strange to sever ties with the one thing that’s been a lifeline in the months when I couldn’t line up enough gigs, but Kayla’s right, I can’t stay there forever.
After staring at my screen for way too long, I hit send on my brief email to the manager before I can chicken out any further. Outside the sun has set, and I rise from my bed — my legs don’t actually fit under the current desk in here — glancing out the window and spottingherstanding in her overgrown backyard. She’s been watching me, and I’m surprisingly not bothered by it.
I should go talk to her.
It’s the craziest idea. Dumb. Foolish. Reckless. I usually have a better sense of self-preservation, but I find myself checking the house to make sure none of my flatmates are home — so they can’t see me go over there like a weirdo — and then I’m steppingout the front door and down the stairs, approaching the fence between our houses.
“Hey,” I say, trying to find that balance between being loud enough for her to hear, and quiet enough that no one else on the street hears me talking to thin air. “Is it okay if I come over and say hi?”
I think she was a blonde, back when she was alive. It’s a weird thought to have, but I’m finally at that stage where she doesn’t terrify me, and I can actually take in more than just the impression of ‘pretty ghost lady.’ I’m pretty sure she had blue eyes too, but everything is tinted a pale green now. It’s still really fucking unnerving to lookthroughher, and it’s something I actively try not to do.
Instead, I focus on her face; her pretty mouth and her big eyes, and that delicate nose. I thought she was an elf, but now I’m not quite sure.
After a moment of her staring at me wide-eyed, she nods, and I get the impression that she’s almost shy. It makes me feel better about the whole thing. She doesn’tlooklike someone that’s about to possess me. She points towards her house, stepping inside the back door a moment later, implying that I should meet her out front.
The ground is wet from an earlier downpour, the concrete shining in the light from the street lamps as I round the letterbox and cross the threshold onto the neighbouring driveway.Act normal,I remind myself, even as that cool feeling settles on my neck the same way it always does in her presence. She’s there, waiting on the porch for me.
I don’t think she’s evil. I don’t think she’s bad, or scary. I think she’s lonely — I can see it in the way her arms cross over her body protectively, and in the sadness her eyes always seem to hold. I think she’s been dead for a long time, and I don’t know why, but I want to help her if I can.
“Hey,” I say again, as I step around messy plants. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, and I was right about her small size, because here we’re standing eye to eye despite the fact that she’s on a raised platform. She may be transparent, but I can still see the strands of hair that have slipped loose from her bun. Something about that — about hownormalshe seems, despite her ghostliness — makes me feel better. “I’m Zak.”
There’s the softest smile on her lips. “Hello, Mister Zak.”
Her voice is gentle and sweet, and I grin at her use of the wordmister. “You can just call me Zak. No ‘mister’ needed. It’s my first name.”
“Hello, Zak,” she repeats quietly. Her accent is Kiwi enough, but with just a hint of British in the vowels, adding weight to my theory that she really is from another time.
“What about you? What’s your name, Miss…?” I ask, thinking back to the honourifics my character always used in that play.
Her eyes dance over my face, no longer looking so melancholy. “Miss Copthorne, but if we’re skipping formalities… my name is Rose.”
“Rose.” The name suits her. I can just imagine her as she must have been, her cheeks flushed rosy with colour, the sun on her face.
Her cheeks aren’t flushed now, and I’m at a loss for words. What do you say to a ghost?How did you die? Why are you here?
“Is this where you lived?”
The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and the sorrow is back in her eyes once more. She nods.
“Yes.”
“What happened?” When I was a kid, Mum used to always tell me off for being too nosey, but I can’t help it. I like to know about people; their motivations, what makes them tick. I want to know why this pretty ghost woman is haunting her old house.
“I don’t know.” Her voice is so small, and her fingers play with the sash on her skirt. She shrugs, staring out into the night. “I don’t know how…” Her eyes grow more distant, and the glow of her fades, her body suddenly more translucent than before.
“Hey,” I say, panicking. “Don’t go.”
“I…” She blinks rapidly, as if coming back to the present, but her body remains the same paler green. “Thank you,” she says suddenly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I let out a big exhale. “What for?”
“For seeing me.”
