Chapter 3
Lanston
The breath ceasesin my lungs, moving as if all the locks inside me have twisted. Stagnant air that was once so heavy in my airways is now free to leave but hesitant to do so.
She breathes heavily as the music to “Love Story” by Indila climaxes around us. The song crescendos, the sound reverberates through my hollow chest and raises goosebumps across my arms, then it filters to a fall off—the violins and cellos making their long last strokes over the strings. Her hair falls in kind, and we’re left staring into one another’s eyes.
This lovely phantom is the very image of tragedy. She is a ballad of mournful movements, bones, and tattered lace—a symphony unlike any I’ve endured.
I’ve lost all sense of myself for a moment, and then I realize my mouth is slightly open in awe. The corners of my mouth turn up into a smile just as her eyebrows firmly pull down, completely demolishing the magic of this moment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she says accusingly, and if it weren’t for the red blush spreading across her cheeks, perhaps I’d be able to respond faster, but I’m still so taken with her that I continue to smile like an idiot.
She tsks at me and leans back, flicking my baseball cap so it tips up more. The lovely phantom levels me one last look, her eyes lingering on my cheekbones and lips before turning briskly and exiting off the stage.
I adore her ire already.
I start to heave myself up, ready to chase this mysterious woman and find out why I’m so enchanted with her, but two sets of hands come down on my waist and pull me down off the edge of the stage.
“Lanston! What are you doing?” Yelina says, clearly vexed. I don’t bother looking at the two women as they pull me down. My eyes are desperately trying to track the mysterious phantom.
Poppie grunts as I fall back on her and growls, “You’re ruining the show, for Christ’s sake.” Yelina helps her up and they both glare down at me.
I push myself up and right my ball cap as I retort, “We’re ghosts—I’m not ruining the show for anyone.” The audience is looking beyond us at the normal performance as I expected, and I look at the both of them as if to prove my point. Jericho pushes through the crowd a moment later and looks at me like I’m insane. “What?” I ask, exasperated, and raise my hands up in question.
“That woman was the show. We come to see her perform, you jackass.” Jericho barks out a laugh and smacks my back.
My jaw slacks and I look at all three of their faces incredulously. “You come here every year to watch a phantom dance amongst the living?”
Yelina laughs like this is the dumbest thing she’s ever had to explain. “Of course, Lanston. Did you think we would come all this way just to watch a boring performance? She’s the reason many of the phantoms gather here. A small glimmer of hope.”
I sit with that for a moment. Even as a phantom she insists on pretending to be alive. Bluffing that this audience of living, breathing people are here to see her. An ache settles deep in my chest.
“What’s her name?” I ask, eyes shifting back to the area where she disappeared behind the curtain. My fingers curl into the fabric of my pants as an urge to chase her claws at my soul.
Jericho pulls me closer as the music roars back up around us and drowns out all other noise. He says loudly, “Her name is Ophelia.”
Ophelia.
What a beautiful name—sad, too. Why am I so drawn to melancholic things? She has that same look in her eyes that Wynn did. Not when she craved death, no, but when she found hope and all the reasons to wake up again. To pull herself from the depths of the darkness in her mind.
Tears brim my eyes at the thought of my sweet Wynn, and I quickly drag my sleeve across my face before the others can see.
Why is someone with so much hope in their eyes… dead?She shouldn’t be here, in the land of the forgotten and lonely. Why? It’s not fair. Something as beautiful and talented as she. Her marrow isn’t done with the world yet; she still has so much left to speak—that much is unmistakable through her performance. Her movements are expressive and boisterous with deeper meaning.
I hear you.I want to shout. Your cry for life is deafening.
“Are you okay?” Jericho sets his hand on my shoulder and peers down at me. I shake my head and his grip tightens reassuringly. My lips firm against the trembling that threatens them.
“Oh, Lan,” Poppie says with sorrow as her arms wrap around my neck. “You’re still having a hard time accepting all this, aren’t you? It’s okay. We’re all not ready to be here, but you need to make the most of it,” she whispers against the shell of my ear, and I have to grit my teeth to keep the tears at bay.
Yelina’s face softens and she smiles, more for herself it seems, at a thought that crosses her mind. She cocks her head to the side and offers me her hand as she says, “Should we see if we can find her?”
Jericho adjusts his glasses and smooths back a stray strand of hair before nodding. “A fine idea, Yelina. Nevers would probably enjoy that,” he says, like I’m not standing right next to him, but I ignore it.
I want to meet her—something inside me says that I have to. There are moments in one’s existence when you connect with another in a mere second, something sinks deep into your soul, planting a yearning that may never fade. A song that chills your bones and rattles the blood in your veins.
I must know her.
The four of us exit the building and wrap around to the back. The door is ajar for the performers; two young people share a cigarette near the door and don’t blink as we pass by. It’s something I’m unsure I’ll ever fully get used to, but for now my mind is elsewhere entirely.
“Do you know how she died?” I ask as we walk into the rehearsal area. It looks like a small choir room you might find in a high school, with tiered rows getting higher the closer you get to the back of the room. The carpet is gray and so are the walls. I find most things are gray and dull here. Who’s to say if this is how it looks on the living side? It may very well be a colorful room.
Yelina eyes a group of men in the corner who are warming up their voices. She brings her attention to me and my question. Her eyes flicker with thought and hesitation before she says, “Nope. I don’t know anything about her except that she performs here every year.”
Poppie nods. “Yeah, we heard from a few phantoms the first year we came that a lovely woman danced with her very soul. She always leaves quickly, though, as if in a hurry. So we’ve never gotten to know her. Rumor has it that she’s not very friendly, so we haven’t tried speaking with her.”
I have a feeling she just uses that unfriendliness as a front. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a time in my life that I was abrasive to keep myself safe. I had the idea that if I didn’t let anyone get close, I’d be safe inside my fortress. And that worked for a long time, but it was also incredibly lonely and filled with sorrow.
“We’re all unfriendly at times,” I say mindlessly as my eyes flick across the room for her. I frown. “I don’t think she’s here. Do you think she left already?”
Jericho crosses his arms. “Could be. Let’s split up and meet back here in twenty minutes. If we don’t find her by then, we should just go on with our night. I met a few nice ladies and would happily introduce you to them, Lanston.” Jericho gives me a smirk and raises his brow suggestively. I grimace while Yelina and Poppie simultaneously scoff at him.
“How were you ever a counselor?” Yelina turns her head sharply, but I don’t miss the hurt that lingers on the edge of her voice. I think she’s been interested in Jericho for quite some time now. But how is a dumbass like him supposed to know if she won’t say anything? Jericho seems confused at the ire in her tone and sets his hand gently on her arm. She stiffens and shoots him a warning look.
I raise a brow at their interaction but decide it’s not my place to comment.
“Yeah, let’s split up. I’ll check backstage,” I say and start walking toward the loud, distant music.
The hallways are dark, drowned in long black curtains that hang from at least thirty feet high. The ebony floorboards feel light, like particle wood. I suppose most stages are like this though, in order to quickly change them out if needed for certain plays or sets.
I search through the entire backstage, looking in every conceivable spot I can think of before giving up. It’s been far longer than twenty minutes, so I’m not surprised when the others aren’t in the rehearsal room waiting for me.
Shit, I wonder if they already left and returned to Harlow.
There’s no sense in rushing; it’s not like I haven’t the time to spare. I decide to walk leisurely across the river viaduct near the theater house. This city is quite beautiful, and if there’s one thing I truly enjoy about being dead, it’s becoming lost within my own thoughts and coming to admire the simple things about the world.
The viaduct is a very tall and architecturally brilliant bridge. A series of arches structure the pillars holding it, creating an alluring look. Lights have been installed along peaks of the arches, illuminating the water far below, while vintage streetlamps light the world above. Wooden benches are laid out every hundred feet or so, with ornate bushes surrounding them.
I take a deep breath and pretend like I’m not a ghost, stopping at the bench in the center of the bridge, this one surrounded by rose bushes, and standing on top of it to get to the higher cement wall. Up here, the universe is silent. It’s cold and filled with many stars that no longer speak to me.
My eyes linger on the flickering stars before I look down at the dark water far below.
I find it cruelly ironic. How many times have I stood on a bridge similar to this one? How many times have I wanted to die just to feel numb to the callous world? I wonder, should I jump now, if I’d be able to pass on? I’m already dead, so there isn’t really anything at risk.
My foot edges the corner of the cement and adrenaline surges through me. The weary heart inside my chest patters with the dare of it. I shut my eyes and tilt my head back, debating my sanity, considering if it matters.
“You are certainly a curious man, aren’t you?”
My eyes flash open, and I look beside me, finding none other than the lovely phantom, Ophelia.
Her purple hair is calmer now that she isn’t a whirling dancing goddess. It lies in loose curls behind her, stretching down to her mid back. The breeze slightly shifts her hair over her face and I’m mesmerized all over again. By the hollows of her cheekbones and eye sockets, by the morbidity of her lithe fingers as they delicately caress the rose in her hands. Long black lashes droop heavily as she smells the flower.
I don’t utter a word.
There isn’t a manner in which I see how I possibly could. To disturb such perfection and raw beauty. She is a wilted rose herself.
Wynn spoke so much of flowers being beautiful in death; I think I finally found that depressing sentiment after searching for five long years.