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Wraith
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Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. I opened my eyes slowly, unconsciously dreading what I might see. My fears were surpassed. I had always thought the afterlife would be angels on clouds or demons in fires, as Sunday School had drilled into my head. This was worse, I thought at the time. All I could see was grey, not even pure black or white. There were indistinct shades moving around me, saying things that echoed and were distorted as if in a tin can. Acrid smells of sweat and blood and gunpowder assaulted me, overpoweringly. Barring scent, most of my senses were covered, but the strangest thing of all was that I couldn't feel myself. When you're alive, you can never have this experience unless you're paralyzed, I suppose. Quite literally, my body did not seem to exist. I went to scream, to let all my terror loose in one great expulsion of emotion-as-sound. But I couldn't make any. My lips were gummed together with some sort of plasm. The only comfort was that I realized I could feel my lips and face. That was little enough. Slowly I pushed my senses further down my body, expanding on the feeling in my lips. As I became aware of my arms, I found myself to be wrapped entirely in this goo. It bound me to myself like a straitjacket. I wriggled a finger, and again a scream welled up in me. My fingers were bone. There was not a scrap of flesh on my hands. But in my terror, my frantic clawing, I managed to move. My sharp digits tore at the plasm, my fear-driven muscles worked me free of the mucous that bound me. I thrust my head upward, and suddenly my senses returned. The sensation nearly knocked me down. The indistinct shades that had surrounded me I could now see to be of two types. There were the clearly visible, wonderfully solid shapes of the men who had just shot me. Then there were the others. Three beings stood in the shadows at the edges of the room, robed, hooded and vaguely translucent. They were silent. The men who had killed me were moving my body, covering up the evidence of their crime. As I watched, a rage burned within me. These men must be brought to justice. Even to this day, I fight to incriminate the last two of them. But at that time, all I could do was stare impotently. I rushed at one of them, and tried to tackle him. I passed through him, a vague feeling of discomfort washing over me. My outrage boiled over, and I attempted to hurl something at him. The most I managed was to knock a pencil off the windowsill. No one noticed. At this setback, I collapsed to the floor crying. Voices in my head whispered of the futility. If I were dead, how could I ever do anything to the living? How could I ever hope to avenge myself? But I screamed back at them that there was hope. If I could move a pencil, what's to say I couldn't move more with practice? Slowly, I stood, a new light glaring in my eyes. I would bring these men suffering, even if I might never prove them guilty to the law. One of the hooded figures in the corner moved towards me, an arm extended in greeting. "You are strong for a new-born," he said in faint tones. My killers walked out of the room, speaking inaudibly. The other ghosts, for so I assumed them to be, took me by the hand and led me, unresisting, out of the room and down the stairs to the pier outside. They muttered strange things that I could not understand about shadows and love and life beyond death. I was taken to the end of the pier, where one moved in front of me, then removed his hood to reveal the calm, gentle face of an old bearded man. He looked deeply into my eyes for some time, then made the sign of the cross in front of me. I noticed that his hands were ebon, bleeding to a pale fleshy color at the wrists. On his blessing me, a cool feeling of calm washed over me and I fell to my knees, drained of the little will I had had before. Gradually, over the next few days, I learned the identities of my saviors, as they turned out to be. The three of them had been martyred monks in Europe, and had sensed my faith and thought me worthy to join them. They were a few centuries old, and I've often wondered what it was about me that made me stand out. Sure, I went to church every Sunday, but that's hardly unique. But I digress. Their names were Malachi, Lazarus and Enoch. Enoch was the calm one who had blessed me. He was the most normal-looking of all of us. Malachi had no eyes and always carried a balance, as if it were some sort of fetish, Lazarus was always translucent and had solid black eyes, and I was rapidly growing disturbingly large muscles, never mind my skeletal hands. Enoch just looked like a peaceful old man who happened to have blackened hands. But again I digress. So much happened in those first few days, it's hard to know what to say. So I will say that I was accepted as family, and I accepted them equally. I did learn about the Hierarchy, the Renegades and the Heretics. The Heretics are ghosts who believe in Transcendence and moving on to a better afterlife. But they can none of them agree on what that is or how to reach it. The Renegades are basically everyone else. Small bands of opportunistic spirits who will hunt others for what is basically slavery. Lastly, there are the stories of the glory that was the Hierarchy. This was a massive empire of the dead that lasted millennia, and recently has collapsed due to subversive elements. It was glorious, and we could not have gotten to where we (the dead) are today were it not for this inheritor of the Roman way. I am working with the Brothers to preserve a little of that culture. I also learned about Spectres, the Tempest, and Shadows. The Shadow is that part of you that wants to succumb to Oblivion. All that is negative in the soul resides there, and torments you as a ghost. Spectres are those who have permanently submitted to their Shadow. They deserve pity and a swift destruction. Finally, the Tempest is that great maelstrom of ectoplasm and sub-sentient Spectres that resides beneath the everyday world, or Shadowlands as we call it. |