Wendy's Lesson

Wendy, a wayward and troubled dead girl, felt stuck in her very existence, trapped inside a prison she had built for herself using materials such as doubt, fear, and anxiety. On this particular day, we find her in an abandoned home, sitting on an old and dusty bathroom counter, speaking into the mirror. She often did this, pretending she was talking to a reporter who had found her and could see her.

“This is nothing like I thought it’d be. I just exist. I suppose it’s kind of poetic, in a way—goth girl Wendy turned ghost. But I can't even scare people. Or haunt them. Or make anything move. Or go through walls. Okay, I fibbed on that one; I can walk through walls, but I never got used to it so I usually just waited for a door to open before I let myself in somewhere. It made me feel more human, I guess, more real. But I don’t leave this house anymore. I never found anything out there, anyway.

The truth is, I can't feel much anymore, even here in the house, aside from loneliness, regret, and fear. And curiosity, I suppose; that never fully left, thank God. But the rest? Poof. Like it never existed. I mean, I’m a seventeen-year-old girl who had raging hormones and a mischievous mind. You'd think I’d walk through the locker-room walls at the high school, for instance, or into the shower of some hot finance hunk. But I don’t do that, because I don’t have those feelings anymore. And any desire to leave this house fled with the full realization that I was dead, and had died here, and that I should stay here.

For a while, you don’t know. You really don’t. You get up afterward and it simply doesn’t register that your dead body is right there. You're aware of the situation on some level, but it’s like you're hypnotized. Robotic and toneless, mechanical in thought and movement. You don’t understand what’s even happening for like a year. For me, it was a year.

I don’t age anymore, either. This is ten years now I've been gone and I look exactly the same. You can't see us in mirrors and windows, but we can. Well, not in these mirrors or these windows, not now. Nobody’s dusted in here for so long everything has gone to the dogs. If the color inside this house were a crayon, it’d be called Depression, or maybe Erosion.

I've been drifting around inside these walls ever since I died here, with only a few trips out into the world, and most of those within the first year. Hung myself in an upstairs bedroom. Did it at night, too, so there wouldn't be anyone to save me. A few friends and I had found the house in eighth grade while riding our bikes far beyond the limits imposed by our parents. It was away from other houses and abandoned, on the outskirts of town, and in damned good shape. You know, for an abandoned house. We’d come hang out and get away from it all, at first, just chill out and be where no adults were. Later, when we got older, it became a place to party, play cards, bitch about life and our parents, have a quick romp, whatever.

When things got bad again at home, I ran away and stayed here. I managed to live undetected for nearly two months before I decided it wasn't worth it anymore. My friends had stopped coming to visit, I couldn’t go home, I was hungry and I was cold and I was tired of the shit pile that my life had become. Tired of it, man.

By the time I figured out I was dead, I already knew I had done the wrong thing. That’s the way it works. Just, wham, you understand how badly you boffed it all up and how your actions are going to cause a ripple in the seas of many realities. And then you get infinite time to think about it. I mean, it’s not all bad; there’s no more life confusion now, no more pain. Only clarity. And peace, I guess, but it’s more like solitary confinement. I feel sometimes like I’m in the actual movie Ghost, as I can't yet figure out why I’m still here and what I’m supposed to do. As I said, I can't even haunt anyone. It gets old, fast.

Sometimes, a new set of kids will find the place and hang out awhile, do some drugs or break a toilet seat, tell secrets and play Truth or Dare. But they all say they feel something weird in the house, and almost none of them come back. The ones who do, don’t return a third time, usually.

I suppose the weird feeling is me. I mean, it is, right?

So I guess there is still some confusion after death, but not the same kind. I know how I royally screwed life up, that’s a no-brainer. But now I’m here, stuck, and only able to observe the world, not be a part of it. I can't even see other dead people! At least that would be cool from time to time, maybe… kick back with another trapped soul, maybe wander around with them, even learn a thing or two, like in the movies.

But it’s just me. Always just me. And there’s no mind in your head anymore, not really, so you can think and think and think forever and not go crazy. You just get stuck in loops. Once you recognize those, though, it’s relatively easy to jump out again and into a new one. But they always end the same: I’m just here, in this house. Waiting. For what, I don’tknow. But, since I couldn’t do much else and I never sleep and I never eat or get hot or cold, I've just been here, watching, and waiting.

And besides, look at me—sitting here, talking into the same mirror I've spoken into for the last decade because I’m too afraid to leave here. Speaking to myself, about myself, and hoping for answers. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say—

Knock, knock, knock

—Oh, shit. What is that? Someone at the front door? But, who? I mean, seriously who? Literally who is dumb enough to knock on the door of an abandoned house?

Knock, knock, knock knock.

Oh, come on.

Knock, knock.

Fine. I’ll go see. Just a sec, mirror; I’ll be back to wallow a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”

***

Wendy went downstairs to find a handsome blond boy of about eighteen standing in the front room, a red and gold Letterman's jacket on top and blue jeans on bottom. Startled, she stood still and watched. Knowing he couldn’t see her, she made no effort to flee or to hide. But then, the boy spoke.

“Who are you?”

Wendy looked around, confused.

“Well, don’t you talk?” he asked.

She frowned, and her eyes narrowed.

“I’m Jake.” He was looking right at Wendy.

“Are you… are you speaking to me?” she asked.

“I don’t see anyone else. What’s your name?”

Wendy shook her head. “What’s going on? You can't… you can't see me, can you?”

The boy seemed baffled, but kept smiling. “Umm… yeah? I mean, you're right there.”

“Holy shit. Tell me what I’m wearing then.”

“A lot of black. Big striped knee socks. Your hair is black, and it—“

“Okay, fine. You can see me. How can you see me?”

“Well, it’s like I said… I’m looking right at you. I guess I don’t understand.”

Wendy stared at the boy for a moment, her energy scattered and acidic. “What have you come here for?”

“I dunno. I’d never been up this way. I saw the house, and thought I’d see what it was all about.”

“You just wandered up to this house. You’d never heard anything about it?”

“I heard some girl killed herself here a long time ago, and I know people use it to party sometimes. I guess I just wanted to see it. Is that why you're here?”

“You could say that.”

“What do you do here?”

“Not much. There isn't much to do.”

The boy looked around, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense. So why do you come? Are you here with anyone?”

Wendy, elated at having company who could see and interact with her, smiled and exhaled, did her best to seem as friendly as possible. “No. It’s just me. It’s always just me. Until now. Look. We’d better have a chat. You got a few minutes?”

Jake beamed. “Absolutely. I’m glad I lucked out and someone nice was in here instead of the alternative. Hoodlums, maybe, spray painting and breaking lights and windows. Who knows? I was nervous walking across the lawn, I can tell you that.”

“No reason to be nervous.” She sat down in an over-sized easy chair that had survived the years. “Yet. Come on, have a seat. Over there, on the couch.”

He made a face. “It looks like it went down on the Titanic.”

“Fine. Stand. We can start over. Hi, I’m Wendy. I’m the girl who killed herself here.”

The boy sat down on the couch and was silent a few moments. “Oh, come on. That’s absurd. How could I be talking to you?”

“I don’t know, but it’s true. There have been others who have visited, but no one who could see me like you can.”

The young man smiled wryly. “You're pulling my leg. Come on, where are the cameras?” He picked up the couch cushions in grand gestures, plumes of dust spiraling into the air. “Microphones, anyone?” After finding nothing he replaced the cushions and crossed his arms over his stomach, as if uncomfortable being recorded. “Well, whatever this is, I hope it goes viral and I want in on the coin when it comes. Deal?”

Wendy furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure what you mean. Look, man, it’s all good. You don’t have to stay. It’s just been so long since I've spoken to anyone but the mirror upstairs and—“

He held up a hand. “Okay, fine. We’ll play things your way. I’m Jake. I’m eighteen and a recent high school grad. I still wear the jacket because it makes me feel good. Your turn.”

“I’m Wendy, as I said, and life got to me so hard that I offed myself here, upstairs, and now no one can see me and I’m too afraid to wander about, so I’ve been stuck here for ten years. No offense, but I’d rather have your issues. Probably.” She bashfully looked to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“I can see you.”

She looked up at him again. “What?”

“You said no one can see you. I can.”

Wendy nodded slowly, her expression unchanging. “So it seems.” And then, intrigue shown on her face like a roadside billboard. “Why’d you really come here, Jake? All alone like this? Just… wandering around, thought you’d stop on in, see what was for dinner?”

“Nothing like that. I’m off to college in a few months, so I thought I’d cross off a few check boxes. This was one of them. I’d never had the guts to come here when my friends had. Told 'em my sister needed help, or I was running a fever. So, I thought I’d come. And now, you.”

“And now, me. How poetic,” she said, her dark eyes drilling into his.

“I didn’t mean it bad. I almost didn’t come because I was nervous, and now I’m talking to a real, live—no offense—ghost!”

Wendy giggled quietly. “None taken. That’s what I am, and it’s time I got right with the label. I've struggled with it, you know, over the years. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What’s it like out there, now? I mean, you know, technology, cars, and all that. Is it like The Jetsons yet?”

It was Jake's turn to quietly laugh. “No, no, nothing like that. Let’s see, in ten years? Computers have come a long way, and have basically taken over. Almost no one carries cash anymore, and some of the cars are electric. They run on batteries alone.”

She shook her head slowly, imagining the world as he described it. “That’s crazy. I knew computers were the next big thing, but no cash and electric cars? Didn’t see those coming. What about you? What are you going to go to school for?”

He showed his palms as if to say you got me, and cocked his head, a guilty smile showing straight, white teeth. “Computers. I want to be—“

“The next big thing. I get it.” Wendy stood and straightened her shirt. “Want a tour? May as well, while you're here. Couldn’t find a better guide.”

“I’d love one,” he said, motioning for Wendy to lead the way.

***

After they'd gone round and seen most of the house and after Wendy had told all the stories of when she and her friends used to hang out there, they reached the final room—the one in which Wendy had died in, all those years back. She hesitated, her hand on the knob. “I don’t mind going in here, but I don’t often do so. Are you okay with this?”

“So this is… the room, eh?” he asked.

“Yeah. If it helps, I like to think of it as the last room I was in while I was alive, instead of the other way. We don’t have to if you don’t want.”

“I’m game if you are,” he replied.

She turned the knob and the door opened, creaking on aged hinges. The dusty room was mostly bare, save for some dilapidated furniture and a few books, broken light bulbs and such. The centerpiece is what caught Jake's eye: anorange plastic school-type chair, lying on its side below an old rope tied to a ceiling fan fixture. He whistled and shook his head. “Man. I cannot imagine. Why did you decide to stay here after that, Wendy?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Really, it’s the only place I was ever happy. When my friends and I hung out here, it’s like all the shit and the stress and the worry of bullshit life weregone, and all that was left was… well, I don’t know. Real life, I guess. All the other crap seemed fake to me. Still does, I guess, but there were other ways. I know that now.”

“You poor thing,” he said, turning to her.

“Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, dude. Besides the crippling loneliness and fear of leaving the house, being here like this isn't all that bad. It has its perks. I’m never hungry, or cold or hot, I don’t have to find a bathroom every time I turn around, and girl problems are a thing of the past.” She turned up her nose and Jake laughed. “Trust me, talking to a mirror is a lot cooler than dealing with that.”

“I like you,” he said. “I wish I’d known you before.”

Wendy paused, smiled. “Yeah. Who knows? Maybe we coulda worked.”

“So, you like me, too, then?” he asked, eyebrows so high on his forehead they looked like they were trying to escape his face.

“Oh, relax. Doesn’t matter. Yeah, you're cute. Big deal. I’m dead. Welcome to how shit really works.”

Jake exhaled, hands on his hips, an absurdly over-the-top, jovial expression on his face. “Well, I guess that only leaves one option. You’d better step back, this can be unpredictable.”

Her interest piqued, Wendy took three steps back and giggled. “I just told you I’m dead. There’s really nothing that could—“

Jake’s smile left his face, and was replaced by a grimace of rage that was as purely horrific as it was ancient. He took his jacket off and set it on the floor.Wendy screamed as his body changed, then, arms and legs extending by a foot or more, popping and cracking as they stretched. His handsome face melted away until it looked like that of a doughy pig, black fluid dripping from its grotesque and wet snout.

Then he was on all fours, legs covered in thick and pungent fur expanding until his jeans split and fell to the floor next to his Letterman’s jacket. His eyes, yellowed and narrow, fixed on Wendy as she stood screaming, unable to move.

In two great strides he was on her, tearing her apart, furious and bitter growls drowning out her cries for help. There was no blood flowing from her gaping wounds, no food in her stomach to spill as it was torn open by three-inch claws. There was only pain, and a dim awareness that she was dying for the second time in that house. With a mighty roar, the beast that was Jake clamped his jaws around her throat and shook his misshapen head side to side, separating Wendy in two.

When she was still, the beast changed back into human Jake. He put his jacket back on and exited the house nude from the waist down. Once at his car, he changed into an outfit from his trunk, looked around quickly to ensure no one was watching, and got behind the wheel. He started the engine and peered back at the house where Wendy had died twice. For a moment, his eyes shone the faintest hint of yellow, just around the pupils. Then they were normal brown and he put the car in Drive.