Chapter 3
Gwen tugged her hood up and slid her earbuds in—not for the music, but for cover. Because when you see ghosts literally everywhere, people start to notice when you talk to walls.
The streets of New York buzzed around her. A guy on a skateboard zipped past. A woman yelled at her dog to drop a pizza crust. Taxis honked like it was a competitive sport.
And weaving through it all were ghosts. Transparent, flickering, loud ghosts.
“Ma’am, you dropped your scarf!” a translucent older woman cried, chasing after a very alive pedestrian who couldn’t hear her. “Your neck will get cold, darling!”
Gwen didn’t look. Didn’t blink. Just kept walking, trying to blend in like she wasn’t surrounded by the dead.
Aaron, of course, floated beside her like this was his casual Thursday hangout. He wore the ghostly version of a bomber jacket and had his arms crossed, drifting backward as he faced her.
“I give it twenty minutes before you snap,” he said. “Twenty. Max.”
She kept her voice low, lips barely moving. “You are not helping.”
“I’m offering moral support.”
“You’re floating above a hot dog cart and judging everyone’s toppings.”
Aaron looked down. “Relish is a crime, Gwen.”
A different ghost—this one dressed like a 1920s flapper—popped up beside her. “Excuse me, sweetheart, do you know where the opera house is? I was on my way to meet a fella—”
“I’m on the phone!” Gwen blurted, holding up her phone to no one.
The flapper blinked. “Oh. Pardon.” She glided off toward a building Gwen was pretty sure hadn’t been an opera house since the Great Depression.
Aaron cackled. “Smooth save. You’re gettin’ good at this.”
“Don’t encourage me.”
They turned onto a quieter street near Brooklyn Visions. Gwen relaxed a little—until she saw a man pacing near a bench, whispering to himself. Transparent. Bleeding from a chest wound.
He spotted her and lit up. “You can see me! Finally—”
“I am on a very important call,” Gwen said quickly, raising her phone again. “Uh-huh. Yep. Doctor’s appointment. Very private. Gotta go.”
Aaron snorted. “Did you just fake a doctor call to ghost-dodge a ghost?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Gwen whispered. “Have a heart-to-heart in the middle of the sidewalk about his tragic stabbing?”
“I mean,” Aaron said, “ghost therapy is a niche field. You’d clean up.”
“Hard pass.”
They reached the school steps and Gwen paused, trying to mentally reset. She’d gotten better at tuning them out, but it was getting worse lately. More ghosts, more pushy ones, more noise.
And then there was him.
Aaron never left.
She started up the steps, still pretending to scroll her phone as he floated lazily beside her.
“So… big question,” he said. “What if I just haunt your locker? I’ll keep it clean, guard it from thieves, leave post-it notes with wisdom like ‘Don’t trust people who microwave fish.’”
“No,” she muttered.
“What about haunting your band room? I can be your metronome.”
“Also no.”
He floated upside down, blocking her path just before the door. “Alright, new pitch: I follow you to gym class, make sure nobody cheats during dodgeball, maybe possess a volleyball or two—”
“Aaron.” She stopped, glaring at him.
He grinned like a kid caught with a stolen cookie. “What? You need comic relief. You’re like... two bad days away from becoming a brooding rooftop lurker.”
“I am not broody.”
“You literally wear fingerless gloves and play the drums in angry silence.”
“That’s not brooding, that’s called talent.”
She pushed the door open and stepped into the school. Aaron sighed and followed, muttering, “Just sayin’. If you wanna talk, I’m here. In your space. Unavoidably.”
“You never shut up,” Gwen grumbled. “Of course you’re here.”
Aaron paused, then leaned closer with a surprisingly soft expression. “I don’t gotta be. If you really want me gone…”
She hesitated.
He didn’t press.
After a moment, she rolled her eyes. “You can stay.”
He brightened immediately. “Sweet. Let’s haunt the vending machines. I wanna figure out if I can phase a Snickers into your bag.”
Gwen allowed herself a small smile. “You’re the worst.”
“I try my best.”
Brooklyn was loud, alive, and moving too fast—kind of like Miles.
He vaulted off a fire escape, spun mid-air, and stuck the landing on the side of a building, peering down at the street below. A car alarm wailed. A guy in a ski mask was sprinting with a duffel bag, weaving through traffic like he’d just unlocked cheat codes.
“Yup. That’s my cue.”
Miles launched off the wall, flipped twice, and slung a web that yanked him forward like a slingshot. The wind screamed in his ears as he zipped between buildings, adjusting his trajectory mid-flight.
He wasn’t even late for dinner this time.
He fired a web that snagged the thief’s ankle mid-sprint, sending the guy sprawling across the pavement. The duffel bag bounced out of his hands, spewing a very non-legal amount of cash into the air like confetti.
“Hope you brought your receipt!” Miles quipped, dropping down onto a streetlight like a spider in a hoodie.
The guy groaned. “Man, I just got outta jail…”
“That’s unfortunate. For you. Not for my cardio.”
He webbed the dude up like it was second nature, then yanked out his phone. A couple quick photos for the cops, one for Ganke, and maybe a quick check of the group chat. No one was online yet.
Except... one new message from drumbeats.
He paused.
She wasn’t someone he talked to much. Not yet. But there was something about her messages—real. Unfiltered. She never asked for his name. Never wanted selfies or Spider-Man gossip. Just vented.
And he kinda... liked that.
drumbeats: ever feel like you’re being watched by the universe and it’s judging you for every decision you make?
sketchshade: only every day
drumbeats: same. but like. intensely today.
Miles leaned back on the streetlight, phone tilted, thinking. The thief groaned under the webbing. A pigeon stared at him from a windowsill like it wanted beef.
sketchshade: you okay?
drumbeats: define okay.
sketchshade: not currently being crushed by expectations or existential dread.
drumbeats: lol nope. crushed for sure. but surviving.
He smiled a little under the mask. Whoever she was, she had bite. He respected that.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Time to bounce.
With a final glance at the webbed-up thief, Miles swung away, cutting across rooftops, heading nowhere in particular. Just trying to burn off the weird energy that’d been crawling under his skin lately. The pressure of school. Spider-Man. Family. Friends. Everything.
And now there was this weird connection—this girl who got it.
He didn’t even know her name.
Miles landed on the edge of a rooftop near the East River. The city stretched out below, alive and glowing. His mask peeled back with a soft hiss, and he sat down, letting the night air hit his face.
He thought about telling her his name. Just for a second. But no—better to keep it clean. Safer that way. Ganke would totally agree.
His phone buzzed again.
drumbeats: u ever feel like you’re meant for something but also like that something is gonna eat you alive
sketchshade: like every time I put on the mask
drumbeats: same but like… metaphorical mask
sketchshade: pressure’s still pressure. even if it’s invisible.
Miles exhaled. Deeply.
sketchshade: you’re not alone tho.
drumbeats: yeah. neither are you.
He stared at that last message.
Simple. But it hit.
He pulled his mask back on and stood, stretching his arms. Somewhere across the city, someone else felt like the world was too much. Someone who didn’t ask for his name. Someone who just got it.
And that was weirdly comforting.
A text popped in from Ganke.
"Dude. Did you just web a guy on 7th? That was on the news. You looked tiny? I mean… cute ig, but tiny."
Miles groaned. “Man, I am not tiny...”
He leapt into the sky again, grinning as the wind caught him.
Brooklyn buzzed around him.
And somewhere in that massive mess, a girl with sharp texts and invisible masks was probably staring at her own phone.
The cafeteria at Brooklyn Visions was too loud, too bright, and smelled vaguely like burnt cheese. Gwen stirred the limp salad on her tray and nodded absentmindedly at Gloria, who was still recounting the drama from music theory class like it was life or death.
“—and then Mr. Kent was like, ‘That’s not a tritone, that’s a mistake,’ and Betty just left the room.” Gloria laughed. “I swear, she’s never coming back.”
“Mmhmm.” Gwen nodded, smiling like she’d been listening.
She wasn’t.
Across the room, a ghost with no nose was currently trying to chew a ghost sandwich and failing. Another ghost—looked like an old-timey pilot?—kept tipping his hat at her every three seconds.
She bit down hard on her straw. “This is fine.”
“Are you talking to me?” Gloria blinked.
“No,” Gwen said too quickly. “Uh—texting. Group chat. Total disaster.”
Gloria leaned over. “With who? Mary Janes or… drumbeats' mystery pen pal?”
“Not that group chat,” Gwen mumbled.
And then she felt it—the tingle at the base of her neck that didn’t mean danger, not exactly. Just… ghost proximity. She didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Aaron Davis plopped down across from her, despite the fact that ghosts didn’t get trays. “You know you should really try not ignoring me, Gwendolyn. It’s kinda rude.”
“You’re kind of rude,” she muttered back, stabbing her salad.
“Pfft. I’m delightful.”
“Who are you talking to?” Gloria asked again, staring.
“Bluetooth,” Gwen said instantly. “Hidden mic.”
Gloria squinted at her ears. “No, you’re not—”
“So anyway!” Gwen said loudly, pushing up from her seat. “I have a… uh… trumpet lesson. Gotta go toot some brass.”
“You play the drums.”
“Right. Drum lesson.” She practically bolted from the table.
Aaron floated after her, arms crossed. “That was smooth. Real stealthy.”
“I’m serious,” she hissed as they turned a corner. “People are gonna think I’m insane.”
“They’re not wrong.”
Gwen groaned. “You’re so—!”
“Hey,” Aaron cut in, suddenly serious. “You feel that?”
“What?” she blinked, spinning around.
And then she did feel it. Cold. Like walking through a fog bank that slipped into your clothes and clung to your skin. She turned slowly, every hair on her arms standing up.
There was a guy at the end of the hallway.
Tall, lanky. Tousled brown hair. Hoodie and jeans. Sneakers that had seen better days. He wasn’t flickering like other ghosts. Wasn’t doing anything weird or shouting.
Just standing there. Watching her.
When he saw her look, he smiled. Soft, crooked. Familiar.
She froze.
“…You see me, right?” the boy asked, voice quiet.
Aaron’s face shifted. “Ohhh. Oh man.”
“What?” Gwen asked, eyeing both of them.
“You don’t recognize him?” Aaron muttered. “You’re kidding.”
“I—should I?”
Aaron pointed dramatically. “That’s Spider-Man!”
Gwen blinked. “What?”
The boy raised a hand awkwardly. “Uh. I was. Kinda.”
“You’re Peter Parker?” she asked, heart skipping.
He nodded. “Brooklyn. Bitten by a spider, did the whole swinging thing, big responsibility, etcetera, etcetera.”
Aaron gave a low whistle. “Dang. This is like a ghost Avengers reunion. We’re just missing, what, ghost Iron Man?”
Peter shrugged. “Just kinda… woke up like this. Been floating around a while. Didn’t think anyone could see me until a week ago. But then I saw you yelling at air, and figured… maybe?”
Gwen looked between the two of them, stunned.
“Great,” she muttered finally. “Another one.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll try not to haunt too loud.”
“Oh no,” Aaron snorted, slinging a ghostly arm around Peter’s shoulders. “You’re with us now, bro. This girl sees dead people like it’s a second job.”
“I have a first job,” Gwen groaned. “School. Band. Not ghost babysitting!”
“Band?” Peter lit up. “What instrument?”
“Drums.”
“Cool.”
Aaron fake-yawned. “Wow, this is real cute. Let’s all bond over our hobbies while haunting this poor teenager. Should we braid ghost friendship bracelets next?”
Gwen dropped her head into her hands and groaned into her palms. “I am never getting through a normal day again.”