Chapter 11

-Cash-

“So, where are we going by the way?” I ask eventually when Wrigley and I have been walking in silence for a while, still holding hands so that I don’t poof into thin air in front of a street full of people. Not that 90% of them would even notice anyway, but still.

Wrigley’s hand tenses around mine and he comes to a sudden stop. “We’re here anyway.”

Glancing up, I freeze slightly at the mausoleum in front of us. “We’re…visiting someone?” I ask after a moment. I don’t haunt mausoleums much; I was buried in a cemetery so I tend to hang out there instead. But going inside the building, there’s ghosts everywhere.

I’m glad that Wrigley can’t see them. Because whilst it’s not gruesome or anything; all of them are dressed in similar white clothing to me and no one has any injuries or anything giving away how they died…it’s still kind of sad to see them.

Because they all look so utterly lifeless. And yes, they’re dead and that’s the whole point, but they’re- they just look so sad and empty. Like they’re barely even here anymore.

Wrigley squeezes my hand again, bringing my attention back to him. “Are there ghosts?” 

Glancing from him to a young ghost boy sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees and a blank look on his face, I swallow thickly before nodding. 

“What do they look like? Because I’d always thought that ghosts would be kind of scary-looking but you’re literally just a pale dude with bad fashion sense - like please, wear some colour, you could literally blend in perfectly with a white wall.”

I snort, pulling him closer and wrapping my arm around Wrigley’s waist as I manoeuvre him around ghosts and humans alike. “They all look like me; pale, white hair, white clothes. I didn’t actually have white hair and I literally never wore white, just so you know. Not that your opinion of my fashion sense matters anyway, but hey.”

Wrigley elbows me in the ribs playfully and also just to be a little shit before glancing up at me again. “So what, you died and boom no nice fashions for you?”

Laughing slightly, I let Wrigley lead us up some stairs. “No, but when I died…there was this white room. I just opened my eyes and I was there, not in the bath anymore. I looked pretty awful, there was a mirror and I was all naked and soggy, not to mention that my skin had done that annoying prune-thing. But there were some clothes laid out, a whole selection actually, but they were all white. I just grabbed a shirt and trousers, simple stuff like shoes and underwear, and when I put them on and looked in the mirror again…I wasn’t a soggy prune anymore, and any colour in my skin was gone along with the dark red from my hair. And I looked like I do now. When I left the room again, I was above my grave in the cemetery.”

Wrigley suddenly stops walking, pulling me to one side slightly to get out of the way of other humans. He reaches up, touching my cheek gently, his eyes floundering for words. We haven’t talked about my death much, and I guess hearing about it kind of makes it sound more real.

In the end, he says nothing, and just hugs me before pulling back and clearing his throat. “Cool, well. Uh. We want to go into this one,” he says awkwardly, gesturing to the room off to our right. Giving him a small smile, I take his hand in mine again (we let go for the hug but Wrigley made sure to keep his hand on my arm when he pulled back).

He smiles slightly back before we walk into the room. It’s small, with only one other person in it; a woman slightly older than Wrigley and I with a harsh set to her jaw. She looks…angry. And when she turns to look at us, she looks even angrier when her eyes land on me.

“What is the meaning of this? Why did you bring some boy along? Can’t you just respect the dead for once Wrigley and turn up on time? I mean come on, that’s the least you could do for dad.”

Wrigley’s grip tightens on my hand, but his expression stays perfectly blank. “Willemina, how nice to see you. Dad never minded if I was a few minutes late to anything. And I thought it would be nice for him to meet someone special to me, hence why I brought this ‘boy’ along,” he says coolly.

We’re not going to talk about how Wrigley calling me special makes me feel all warm and happy. It doesn’t matter, it’s whatever. A normal reaction.

The woman stares him down, her gaze narrowing on Wrigley before shifting over to me. She gives me a once over with her eyes before sighing and turning back to look at what I presume is Wrigley’s father’s urn of ashes. 

The woman closes her eyes and Wrigley sends me an apologetic look before leaning up to whisper in my ear “she’s my sister. Sorry she’s so rude, we don’t get along.” 

I blink a few times, trying to process this fact. I mean, it had crossed my mind, but Wrigley and Willemina look completely different. He has dark, straight black hair falling to his waist, she has light blonde ringlets in a short bob.

And then there’s the eyes. Wrigley has grey eyes which hold so much emotion, whilst Willemina…she has light blue eyes, totally void of any feeling. And whether that’s to do with visiting her deceased father’s resting place or if she’s just like that, I’m not entirely sure.

And last but not least, there’s the height. Wrigley is basically an angry little worm with a pout whilst this woman is taller than me. Which isn’t that hard, I’m barely a giant or anything, but I’m the average height for a guy my age whilst this lady is just…really tall.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, or do you plan on keeping staring at me?” She asks brusquely and I clear my throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking that you and Wrigley don’t resemble each other greatly.”

Probably not the right thing to say in this moment but no one ever knows I’m looking at them because most people can’t actually see me. She scowls, turning to look at us, particularly Wrigley. There’s something so accusatory about her gaze when it lands on her brother.

“Yes, we get that a lot. After all, I look like our mother but Wrigley takes after dad. In fact, he’s the spitting image of him. It’s no wonder mother drives herself crazy thinking you’re him.”

Wrigley’s grip on my hand increases again and his expression darkens before he steps forwards, just a few feet in front of his sister. “And yet you have the gall to call me a bad son for not visiting her enough.”

My eyes flick to Willemina and I frown. She sounds like a total dick and she’s mean to Wrigley so I instantly don’t like her. I absentmindedly return my arm to around his waist, offering him any comfort I can give.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to pay my regards and then go. I ask that you don’t interrupt my thoughts for the next ten minutes, Willemina. You’re welcome to leave first,” Wrigley says quietly, his gaze challenging her to stop him somehow.

She doesn’t, and we spend the most awkward 10 minutes of my existence as we all stand in silence, looking at a picture of a man who looks like an older version of Wrigley if the charlatan cut his hair short.

It’s a weird experience, and one which leaves Wrigley looking as sad as the time I found him crying on the bathroom floor.