Ghost Yaoi

It has been seven years since I have died. Seven years since I first felt these chains around my waist. Seven years since I have been sentenced- nay, cursed to wander this Earth endlessly, forced to witness the sufferings of others, and never be able to help them. I’ve asked myself why I never helped them in the past, when I was alive. Surely the great Jacob Marley could spare the slightest piece of his thousands of pounds of profit and donate it to charity. Or anywhere, really. Maybe it could have saved me all this walking.

Bah. I can’t undo that mistake, no matter how much I want to.

So far, I have wandered aimlessly around the British Isles with no real sense of direction. What is North, West, South and East when you have all of eternity to get where you have to be? If there’s anywhere you have to be, anyway. Nobody wants a ghost in their house.

As of right now, though… I’m not sure where I am. A forest. Somewhere in Scotland, I think. I never paid much attention to the scenery.

The forest is dark and spider infested, judging by the massive cobwebs hanging on the branches, so large that they drape onto the rocky, unkempt dirt below my feet. It would be the kind of forest that would have me fearing for my life, if I still had one.

I walked through those woods for what realistically must have been a few hours, though the creeping dread running through my nonexistent spine made it feel like days. Eventually, the sound of children laughing mischievously amongst themselves as they kicked rocks down the flattening paths reached my ears. I must have reached the outskirts.

It’s strange, though. The children are wearing black robes with deep red lining on them, the hoods down. I can see an emblem on the right breast of the robe of one of the children, who is talking animatedly to his friends. A lion. Hm. Odd school uniform, I assume.

I walk past them, behind a few boulders. They can’t see me. Probably. No human has seen me in seven years. Not even my gravestone. I can feel the moss on it.

One of them turns and starts walking backward to better illustrate the point of some trading card or something. Their tone gets quieter, for some imperceivable reason. Maybe one of them saw a particularly large spider in his peripheral, and alerted his friends. One laughs disbelievingly. I’m not paying enough attention to their conversation for any of their words to register.

That is, until one of my safes clank against a lockbox. They all stop talking. I can feel their eyes on me.

“How d’you think he died?” One of them asks in a hushed tone.

Another one replies, speculative. “Must ‘have been a loan shark or sumthin. Went too far tryin’ to get a payment an’ got punished.”

“Bloody messed up punishment.” Yet another one says. “Ya think he was choked with ‘em?”

Someone else hums a negative. “Don’t think so. Cause then he’d have ‘em on his neck and not his waist. Probably tied him up and let him starve.”

“Now that’s what I call irony.” Another comments cheekily.

I decide that’s enough and turn to face them with an unimpressed look. They might be used to seeing ghosts based on their speculation, but not so much at one silently judging them for it. They don’t look scared, though. I suppose I should be thankful for that.

“Should we take him t’see old Nick?” One of them whispers.

“Good idea. Maybe he’ll stop sulking about the bloody Headless Hunt.” He turns to address me. “Oi, ghostie! Where you headed?”

My eyebrows furrow as I try to remember how to talk. “Nowhere.” I reply eventually.

“Then follow us, eh? We have someone for you to meet.”

I nod, and they step on my chains, their feet passing right through the links. A few of them look relieved that they’re no longer walking through the forest. It felt odd.

They follow the dirt path for a little while, occasionally turning back to me, making sure I’m still following them. Odd thing to do. I wonder if ghosts here have better things to do than simply wait for the next day to come. Eventually, a town comes into view, the sounds of trumpets playing distantly across the field as the children stride across the wooden bridge that serves as the main entrance, a sign labeling this town as “Hogsmeade” hanging above the roof of the bridge.

Perhaps it was due to my ever present pessimism, but this little hamlet seemed dull. A bit too dull, in my opinion. No homeless, at least. Small mercies.

Never mind the toddlers staring at me while their parents turn their heads the other way, though it still feels odd that people can see me. Never mind the people stepping into my burdens, though it still feels odd that I’m close enough to people for that to happen. I move on as I’ve taken to doing these seven years.

The children skip down the roads, laughing to themselves as they make snark conversation. I don’t care much for what they’re saying. At least they seem confident that I’m following them now.

They take a path out of town, go uphill a bit and push the rickety old gate of a cemetery open. Ghosts, though they don’t look much like the specters I saw wandering around London (they’re chainless, for one), are tossing their heads back and forth in a zig-zag.

“Oi, Nick!” Calls the one who offered for me to see him. “Found a friend for ya!”

The ghost sitting on a tombstone with a frown on his face looks at the boy. That must be him. “If this ‘friend’ of yours-” He said sulkily. “Can somehow get me a spot on the Headless Hunt, then bring him over. If not, then you can kindly shove off!”

“Ah, don't be too salty, Nicky! They're tossin’ their heads around in there. How are you supposed to do that if you can't take yours off yer stump?”

“Oh, fine.” He huffs and crosses his arms in impatience. “Let's see the fellow, then.”

I step closer to him as he raises a vaguely curious eyebrow up at me. How do I introduce myself, again? It's been a bit more than ten years since I've had to. Every other business in London owing your firm money has people knowing who you are before they meet you. Ah, well. Doesn't matter. I'd have to keep wandering anyway.

“Jacob Marley.” Not the best opening, but it seems acceptable enough for the ghost in front of me to smirk a bit, his mustache quirking up.

“Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service! Or simply Sir Nicholas, if you prefer!” He says with a flamboyant bow. He holds a hand out, and I look at it with confusion.

Ah, right. Yes. Handshakes. I forgot about those. Seven years without human interaction can do that to a person.

I make contact with his hand, and he immediately grabs mine and shakes it vigorously. I could almost say violently, if not for the completely casual expression on his face. “Oh, your hands are cold.” He says. “I didn’t know ghosts could get cold, but here we are!” Nicholas barks a laugh out.

“Say, Marley, old chap.” He stops shaking my hand, bringing his up to my shoulder. It’s surprisingly warm. Like a weighted blanket. “You look like you've been through the ringer. How exactly did you die?”

“Fever.” I answer blankly. Why do I feel sick?

Sick doesn't quite describe it. No, it’s more tingly than anything. Warm, like the hand on my shoulder. Like I’ve turned into jelly instead of mist.

“Ahh, I see, I see.” He puts the hand up to his chin in contemplation. The feeling doesn’t go away. “Then where did you get all the…” He makes a strangled sort of noise as he gestures at the veritable pile of safes, purses, ledgers and lockboxes behind me.

“Burdens from when I was alive. You do not have them, I see.”

“Because I regret nothing! Well, except for trying to fix the good Lady Grieve's absolutely horrendous teeth.” He scratches at the line on his neck. It seems to widen as he does so. I grimace. Nicholas waves dismissively. “Oh, don't worry. It didn't hurt that much! The beheading, I mean. Well- It did, fifty seven chops to the neck with a rusty ax burnt like hellfire, but I blacked out when they reached my spine. I'm fine.”

There are several seconds of silence before the one who introduced me to Nicholas speaks. “O-kay, I'll leave you to it. See ya in the common room, Nick!” I watch him walk off before Nicholas can respond. His friends follow.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Thomas!” Nicholas waves him goodbye before turning back to me. “So!” He clears his throat. I can feel my head snap to face him on instinct. “Where did you come from? Originally, I mean.”

“London.”

“Oh, modern sort of fellow, I see. I’m from Westminster, myself.” He nods. “Old money, you see.”

I hum in understanding. Nicholas snickers. “You’re terrible at talking to people.”

“Sorry.” My fingertips feel colder than usual. There’s a faint metal clinking somewhere next to me. Dimly, I realize it’s me fidgeting with the links. “I’m out of practice.”

He pats me with the hand he has on my shoulder, a warm smile on his face. “Don’t apologize, it’s alright. What makes you say you're out of practice, anyways?”

“I have been dead these seven years, and traveling since. It did not leave much time for conversation.”

“Ah, you must have seen lots of gorgeous things in your travels, then?”

“...No.” What else am I supposed to say? All I’ve seen is the destitute cowering, starving, and dying in back alleys. That is the point of cursing me to wander, I suppose. To be forced to watch what I have ignored for so long.

Nicholas looks almost disappointed in me for saying that, though, which makes me feel something other than apathetic, or the dull electricity that I’m feeling under that. I’m not sure what to call it.

“Surely something has caught your eye?” He asks.

I shake my head, and Nicholas frowns deeper. The odd feeling returns.

“What about old Hogwarts over there?” He points to a crumbling old ruin of what must have been a large castle in the distance, turning my shoulder so I can look at it as well. “Majestic, isn’t it? Remarkable architecture. Puts a smile on my face just thinking about it.”

“I suppose. If you enjoy that sort of thing.”

“It’s beautiful!” He replies, as if he’s been personally insulted.

“It’s in ruins.” I point out blankly.

Nicholas splutters. “It’s what?”

“It’s in ruins?” I repeat. We’re both confused. “Is there something I’m missing?”

“Magic, apparently.” He huffs, arms crossed in exasperation. “You didn’t tell me you were a muggle.”

The tossing stops when he says that word, the ghosts playing turn to look at me as one snaps his head back onto his neck. My confusion only grows. “Forgive me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well-” The rattling of chains interrupts what Nicholas has to say. He makes a vaguely distressed noise instead. “Forgiven!” He shouts over the clatter.

“I must leave.” I say hurriedly. It hurts to linger. I didn’t know I could still hurt. The noises lessen the farther I stride away from the graveyard.

Nicholas floats after me. “Somewhere in particular?”

“No.”

“Ah.” He stops following me. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Marley! Until we meet again!”

I hum a half-hearted affirmative as the pain fades. Back to wandering.