She floats in and out of existence, flickering like a candle that someone is on the verge of extinguishing at their birthday party. As such, I barely catch glimpses of her full form. She’s more of an essence at this point.

I blink and suddenly she has four eyes, a split lip, half a nose, or even eyes that move and dart like goldfish about her face the longer I look at her. Her face constantly changes and morphs, like staring into a funhouse mirror and darting back and forth. Back and forth again.

This is getting me motion sick.

Though I can’t get a grip on the dimensions of her face, I can see the rest of her clearly enough. Skin that’s transparent, to the point I can see my belongings strewn about behind her. 

She has long hair that curls over her shoulders. A gown that stretches down past her ankles. I wonder if she survived a shipwreck with how she’s perpetually swimming in midair. Must be tiring.

She gestures a hand (sometimes five fingers, sometimes ten) at my tattoos on my forearm again. The ones curling in a pattern of dead roses. I like your tattoos. She thinks with a slight feedback delay, an echo.

“T-thank you.” I reply. And then, because I can’t stop the intrusive thought, I wave my hand through her body.

My hand goes right through the front of her chest. It feels like dipping my hand in ice water. Peeved, she looks down at my wrist embedded in her translucent flesh. (Sometimes with two eyes, sometimes three, or none)

Having fun? She asks as she quirks an eyebrow up at me (sometimes one eyebrow, sometimes two, or a half). 

“You’re real?” I ask. 

She nods (one chin, two, none). I am.

“I’ve lost it.” I laugh, even as she, the transparent, constantly changing shape in front of me judges me with its face rearranged in a really bad puzzle sequence. “I’ve finally lost it.”

The cold water sensation of my arm in her phantasmic flesh suddenly shifts. Hardens. My flesh goes numb. I gasp, trying to remove my hand. But my hand’s locked there by an invisible force. 

No, not invisible. Very much visible if my eyes are to be believed. The monster’s right there in front of me.

Here, she tells me, now do you believe it’s real?

“Let go of me!” I beg the ghost girl, trying to move but unable to. Even if she holds me in her deathly grip, her face is still changing. Beautiful to look at, but all nonsensical. Like staring at a pointillist painting from way too close, all the pixels darting round, giving me a killer headache. “LET GO!”