I was thirteen, going on fourteen. It had been years since I had first seen the ghost of Grandma Marion. I had gotten used to seeing ghosts. As it turns out, I kind of attracted them. This happened in two ways, as near as I can tell. The first is just that something about me just drew them near enough to me. The second is a little more obvious. I engaged with them. My parents were very concerned because I did not have many “real friends”. They had indulged my “imaginary friends” for long enough and were getting sick of it.

And as with every teenager, I started hiding things from them. I spent more and more time away from home. I did not have any money, so I would spend time in abandoned buildings with my ghost friends. One of my favorite buildings was this old, condemned apartment complex. Apparently, there was something in the walls and everyone had moved out. That is where I met her. Cynthia. She was a girl who was about my age. There are not a lot of teenage ghosts, oddly enough. A fair amount of child ghosts, more adult ghosts. I really could not tell you why. But she was a little older than I was. And she was beautiful. Dark skin. Well, dark for a ghost, anyway. Black hair and dark eyes. She had the biggest, brightest smile that could get me to do anything for her.

I had broken into an apartment. The furniture was still there. It was a little moth-eaten and a little damp, but I did not care. It was a quiet place I could lay with no one bothering me. Or that was the goal. I had fallen asleep when I heard something. It was a girl singing.

“Shut up! Some people are trying to sleep.” Those were my first words to her. After that, she appeared right in front of me. I could feel the change in the air.

“What did you say, little boy?”

“I said shut up, ghost. I'm trying to sleep.” She stumbled and fell back.

“You can hear me.” She said, sitting back up and leaning on her toes. “So, it's true. There's a ghost whisperer in town. And he stumbled into my lair.”

“Lair? What are you, a Batman villain?” I asked, opening my eyes. She grinned as wide as she could and jumped up, doing a flip in the air and spinning with a dramatic flourish.

“I am the Queen of Ghosts!” She projected out, her voice echoing out. “Ruler of all things undead!”

“Uh-huh. Haven't heard of a ghost queen, before.” I said, unamused. I sat up and stretched, scratching at my neck.

“That . . . That is because it is a secret! Known only to the highest of ghosts! The most powerful of ghosts!” She said, hesitating at first, but regaining her dramatic tone as she went on.

“Uh-huh. I suppose you know about Danny, then?”

“Danny? Who is Danny? Your queen demands it!” The ghost demanded.

“Danny doesn't exist,” I spat, standing up. “Shouldn't a queen know her subjects?”

“Shut up! You don't know!” The girl retorted.

“I've met lots of ghosts. You're not special.”

“I am too!”

“Oh?” I asked, eyeing her. “How so?”

“Well, I'm younger! And prettier. Don't you think I'm pretty?” She flew down, standing really close up to me.

“O-oh, w-well,” I stuttered. She had dark skin and dark eyes and pretty hair done in neat loops. She was taller than me. I only came up to her chest. And I was a thirteen-year-old boy. “I mean. It's not . . .”

“See? You agree,” she whispered, leaning in. I could see down her shirt. Because of course I could. She wiggled a little bit. And as with almost every young man, that was that. I was smitten. From then on, I would come over to her apartment whenever I could. She would follow me around. We would talk about anything and everything. We could not hold hands or kiss or anything else, for that matter. But that did not bother me.

Well, we did try it once. I found this movie called Ghost and Whoopi Goldberg was a Medium, just like me. She could talk to ghosts. Maybe it was based on a true story or something. I could not have known. So, we tried it. She leaned down a little. I got up onto my tiptoes, leaning in. And leaning in. And then, I felt the cold buzz of her against my flesh. My first kiss. Or that is what it was supposed to be. I slid through her and slammed my face directly into a wall. There was a violent crunch and I felt my nose snap. I started crying and bleeding all over the floor of her abandoned apartment. She pointed and laughed, falling over and through the floor. Hearing her laugh made it a little bit better at the time. Her laugh could always make me feel better. So, we could not touch, but I was just happy to be with her. I spent every free hour I had with her for months.

But as with all things, I started to change. My hair started to get shaggy and I got some pimples and that really upset her. “You need to cut your hair! And keep your face clean!”

“Why?” I asked. I did not mind the long hair. And I tried to keep my face clean. It was really difficult to fight pimples. I was at a pimply age. All of the textbooks said so.

“B-because. If you don't I won't want to see you anymore. It's ugly.” She said, looking away. Even then, I knew some ghosts were pretty sensitive to changes.

“Okay. Well, I'll get some cream and a haircut.”

“Really? For me?”

“Y-yeah. I guess.”

“Yes! I mean, of course, you will, my little man.” She said. She went to touch my face, her hand sinking through my skin. Her eyes went wide and her lip trembled. “I . . . I have to go.”

She disappeared after that. I did not see her for a week or so and I was starting to get really concerned. I was scared that she had faded away forever. I called her name out and visited all of the spots I knew that she liked. “Cynthia! Cynthia! Are you here? I . . . I got a haircut! And pimple cream. I'm trying! Cyn?”

She must hate me, that's why she won't see me anymore. W-why would anyone like me? I'm just a weirdo. Some freak who can talk to ghosts. Why would ghosts even want to bother with me? They probably just want to be left alone. These thoughts echoed through my head over and over again for a week. Or two. I lost track of time. I slept a lot. I barely ate. I was not hungry. I was not anything. I deserved this. That is what I believed. I kept going back to her apartment. Sometimes I thought she was there. I could smell her sometimes. She smelled like strawberries. It was always faint, but I thought she might be around. Ghosts can choose not to be seen by me. I cannot tell you how they do it, but they can. Every time I went into the apartment, I felt worse. But I had to go, I had to see her. I had to ask her why. I needed to know. But she would not come. My thoughts kept getting darker and darker. I wanted to stop caring about her. I wanted to stop caring about anything. I wanted to stop. Stop. That thought echoed through my head. I could just stop, I thought to myself. Ghosts don't seem to care much about anything. Most of them seem detached. I . . . I could be a ghost.

After some time, Cynthia appeared above my bed. I had not slept well in a while. Oversleeping does that. My parents were really concerned. But when I saw her, things seemed a little bit better. Things seemed brighter. Literally. I do not know if it was my imagination, but as my thoughts got darker, so did everything else around me. But when she came, light came as well. She seemed . . . Somehow more substantial. Her dark skin and brown eyes took me in, every detail.

“Cynthia! Thank God! You're here. I thought . . . Well, it doesn't matter. You're here!” I wanted to throw my arms around her, but that might cause another issue. That was the last thing that happened before she left. I did not want her to leave again.

“John. I like you.”

“I like you, too, Cyn.”

“No, John I like you. I . . . l-love you.” She said, her voice unstable. “I want you to be with me. Forever.”

“We can be!” I said quickly.

“Really?” She said, breaking out into that smile again.

“Of course. I . . . I love you, too.” That was the first time I had said it to anyone who was not family. She spun in the air, doing a little pirouette.

“Good! Let's get started, then.”

“Started? With wha?” I said, fighting a yawn. It was still early for me.

“Just coome on!” She whined. I did, getting up. She urged me to get dressed faster. I told her to get out. I needed to change. “Scared to show the girl you love what you got, little boy? I'm going to see it. After all, we'll be together forever, right?”

“I . . . Uh . . .” The way she said forever bugged me. I could not place why. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

She watched me getting dressed the entire time, eyes intent the entire time. I skipped breakfast at her urging. “Come on! There's no time!”

“I mean, we have forever. What's the rush?”

“I want to show you something. Something I never showed anyone before.” We went to her building and she took me to an elevator shaft.

“An elevator? That's it? What's so special about an elevator?” I was grouchy. I wanted breakfast. And more sleep.

“This is where forever starts, my love.” She said.

“What are you talking about. It's just an empty elevator shaft.”

“I know. Jump in.”

“What? No! I'll die!” I exclaimed, my voice echoing out in the chasm I was next to.

“Then you'll be like me. Ghosts can touch each other, you know. We can be together. Really together.” She stepped closer to me. “Don't you want to touch me?”

She puffed out her chest. The chest that I may have masturbated to a few times. She licked her lips. Her pouty, full lips. “John. I need you. I need you to be with me forever.”

I gulped. I want to be with her, but . . . I can't just kill myself . . . Can I? I had had this thought before. But I never had a real, viable option before. I stared down into the shaft, then took a nervous step back.

“What is there for you in being alive?” Cynthia implored, her eyes meeting mine. “I watched you all week. I see that your family doesn't believe you. They think you're crazy. I listened to them talk about you. Spending all your time away or in your room. Not eating. They're going to put you on meds and try to take me away from you. They're going to send you away.”

“I-I . . . They wouldn't do that.” I said softly. To be honest, I had told her I was afraid of that. That I had been afraid of that for a long time. They thought that I was imaginative when I was young, but that I would grow out of it eventually. But I had told them about seeing ghosts the year before and the way they looked at me. They loved me. I know they love me. But they looked so concerned. So . . . Scared.

“They will! And they won't let you see me anymore! I'll be alone and so will you!” She shouted, taking a step forward. She reached out to me and her hand was just an inch away. Something weird happened then. I saw a piece of wispy essence coalesce and sink into her finger. “I don't want to be alone again, John. But we don't have to be alone. Just take two steps and we can be together forever.”

I looked over the edge into the gaping maw of the elevator shaft. “D-does it hurt?”

“No, my little man. My love. It doesn't hurt.” She said softly. “Just do it.”

I had spent most of my life alone. I had seen my first ghost when I was five. Just old enough to talk. And I had seen a lot of ghosts. The kids at school thought I was crazy, talking to myself all the time. Teachers never seemed to want to stop them from hurting me. I had broken several bones getting into fights. My parents always punished me for trying to defend myself. They always told me that I need to put away childish things. That I needed to give up on my “friends” and start making friends with real people. And all of that could stop. I had real friends. My ghost friends would embrace me. They would want me around. Cynthia would want me around. I took one step forward, my foot hanging over the edge.

“What are you doing in here, boy!?” Someone shouted from behind. I jumped and turned quickly. Cynthia disappeared. There was a cop shining his flashlight in my face. I started to stumble back and he reached out and caught my hand. “Whoa now! Don't want to go down there.”

“John!” Cynthia screamed. “What are you doing! Jump! Join me! I need you to join me!”

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled.

“You should be, boy. This is no place for a young man. What's yer name?” The cop asked, leaning down and dusting me off a little bit.

“JOHN! GET AWAY FROM HIM! JUMP!” Cynthia demanded.

“John,” I said softly.

“John, huh?” The cop said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Why are you here? Why were you so close to that shaft?”

I broke down crying, mouthing words wordlessly. He grabbed me and pulled me into a hug. “It's okay, kid. I'm here.”

“John! Stop crying, you little bastard! Get away from him! Join me! You belong to me! We're going to be together forever!”

I looked back at her, vision blurred with tears. The cop took me home, but Cynthia followed me the entire way. “You're mine! You don't get to run away. We're going to be together forever!”

I was returned home. I was in trouble for skipping school and going to an abandoned building. Mom, dad, and Cynthia all spent time screaming at me. I was sent up to my room without lunch or dinner. Cynthia followed, because of course she did. She never let up for a moment. She screamed and shouted. She demanded that I join her. She tried a softer approach, giving me more tantalizing scenes of her breast, of her butt, pulling down her pants enough to give me a hint of what I could have. I just laid there.

I had to go to school the next day and she followed me there. I could not hear anything over her tirades and screaming. The teachers gave me detention for not paying attention. By the end of the day, I was constantly muttering under my breath. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.”

The next day was even worse. Cynthia never let me sleep. A teacher or two or maybe all of them, may none of them, stopped me and asked what was wrong. They said I looked tired. I could not be sure. I was so tired and Cynthia was screaming. I started to explain but I did not have the words to get them to understand. The best I had was: Hey, a ghost is following me and encouraging me to kill myself because she loves me and wants to be with me forever. But I don't know, forever is a long time and she seems a little unstable right now. But it sounds like a good idea. I'd get to touch boobs and I might be able to sleep again.

Mom and dad looked really worried at this point. But they did not know what to say. After dinner, I took a bath. Cynthia was still there and I just accepted her presence and tried to tune her out. She had done that thing with her finger again. She was always really close and whispered the things she thought I wanted to hear. Things I never wanted to hear. Anything she could think of to make me consider what she wanted. The weird, wispy energy kept floating into her and she appeared more and more alive.

While the bathwater was pouring in, I looked through the cabinets. My father had a straight razor. He had always promised to teach me how to use it. I took it out of its box and looked at it. Then myself in the mirror. I had the deepest bags under my eyes. And Cynthia was silent for the first time in three days.

Tomorrow was my fourteenth birthday.

The water was almost full.

The razor was heavy in my hand.

Everything was heavy.

I was so tired.

Cynthia was saying something.

I could not understand it.

Noise. There's too much noise.

I need it to stop! Just make the noise stop!

“SHUT UP!” I screamed. I started thrashing around. At some point, my father had broken into the bathroom. I must have cut him up. Or myself. There was blood. I cannot recall where it came from. Cynthia was gone. I could not tell you where she went. I did not go looking for her. Partially because I spent the next two weeks in an asylum for disturbed individuals.

I talked to the counselors. I told them everything. But they did not believe me. Ghosts did not exist. I needed to accept that. They prescribed medication. But I was not crazy. I was not crazy! I WAS NOT CRAZY! I did not take the pills. I did not even when they tried to force me to. I did not need it. There were more ghosts in the asylum. A lot of them. All of them screaming and clawing fruitlessly at the walls. All of them incoherent.

“I stopped telling the doctors about the ghosts. I started talking about anything else. I started talking about math. I was good at math. I was good at so much. Ghosts never helped me with my history reports. Or my English essays. Because ghosts do not exist. They never have. I stopped talking to them. They might talk to me sometimes. I would do my best to ignore them. S-Sometimes it was harder than others. Some ghosts were. . . are k-kind. But I thought C-Cynthia was kind. And I loved her. She said she loved me . . . And now . . . Well, now I may l-like you. But I am so s-scared, Lona.” I said with tears in my eyes.