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THE GIRL AND THE GHOST

THE GHOST KNEW his master was about to die, and he wasn’t exactly unhappy about it. He knew that sounded bad. You’d think, after all those years together, that even he might have felt a twinge of sadness about the whole situation. But it’s hard to feel sorry for someone when: a) you’re a ghost, and everyone knows ghosts don’t have hearts, and b) that someone made her living out of forcing you to make other people miserable. He stared at her now as she lay on the narrow bed, gray and gaunt in the light of the full moon, her breath rasping and shallow. Watching her teeter slowly toward the end was a bit like watching a grape slowly become a raisin: the years had sucked the life and vitality out of her until she was nothing but a wrinkled shell of her former self. “Well,” she wheezed, squinting at him. Well, he said. “One more for the road, eh?” she said, nodding to the full moon out the window. And she grimaced as she offered him the ring finger of her right hand, as she had done so many times before. The ghost nodded. It seemed frivolous, but after all, he still needed to eat, whether or not his master lay dying. As he bent his head over the wrinkled hand, his sharp little teeth pricking the skin worn and calloused from time and use, the witch let out a sharp breath. Her blood used to be rich and strong and so thick with her magic that the ghost could get himself drunk on it, if he wasn’t careful. Now all he tasted was the stale tang of age, the sour notesthat came with impending death, and a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t quite place. Regret, perhaps. It was the regret that was hardest to swallow. The ghost drank nothing more than he had to, finishing quickly and sealing the tiny pinpricks of his teeth on her skin with spit. It is done, he told her, the words familiar as a favorite song, the ritual as comforting as a warm blanket. And I am bound to you, until the end. The witch patted his horned head gently. Her touch surprised him —she had never been particularly affectionate. “Well,” she said, her voice nothing more than a sigh. “The end is now.” And she turned her head to the window, where the sun was just rising over the cusp of the world, and died.

Ayomide_kusimo · Urban

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35 Chs

chapter 12

Ghost

PLOTTING HIS REVENGE was, in the end, the easy part. Pink had

plenty of time to lay down his plans, plenty of time to think and

scheme as he rocked and swayed in the pocket of Suraya's school

uniform. The hard part was figuring out how to make sure Suraya

wouldn't find out. But even that, in the end, wasn't that hard.

Between school and Jing Wei and her books and her sketches, there

was plenty in her life to keep her happy and occupied. She was

content. She was also distracted, which made his plan easier even

as it sickened him. She didn't even think about Pink or what he was

doing. And he needed to put a stop to it. He needed her to go back

to needing him—almost as much as he needed her, though that last

bit he refused to admit even to himself.

In the end, it was the bullies that were the key.

He'd promised to leave Jing alone, after all, and a pelesit would

never disobey his master. But there was a way. There was always a

way.

And it was simple enough. Simple to have red paint fall just so on

the seat of Kamelia's chair, so that she sat on it unawares.

Simple enough to use a little notice-me spell as he clung onto her

ballet slipper shoes, something that made everyone turn to look ather as she walked to the canteen from her classroom, the last one in

the farthest block. Simple enough to make sure everyone noticed the

bright red stain on her pinafore, looking for all the world like fresh

blood blooming freely into the turquoise cotton, every girl's

nightmare.

Kamelia was usually the one whispering and giggling at others

behind their backs—and to their faces, for that matter—so suddenly

finding herself on the other side of things must be incredibly

unpleasant, Pink surmised from the way she quickened her pace,

the way her hands clenched and unclenched themselves as she

walked. She quickly found Divya in the canteen and gripped her arm.

"What is going on?" Pink heard her hiss as he clambered quietly up

the rough weave of her white socks to get a better view. "Why is

everyone looking at me like that? Do I have a pimple or something?"

Divya scanned her face, frowning. "No lah, where got? I don't

see . . . oh my god!" She clapped her hands to her mouth, and

Kamelia's eyes widened.

"What? What? What's going on?"

"Come with me to the toilet. Right now." She steered Kamelia

over to the nearest bathroom, walking behind her to try to shield her

from the amused gazes of the others and shoving the two girls who

happened to be washing their hands at the sink roughly outside

before locking the door.

Minutes later, there was an agonized shriek from behind the

closed door.

Pink smiled. In just a few moments, the two girls would come

storming out, red-faced and raging, determined to find out who had

committed this dirty deed, and who would they find with red paint on

their hands? Who else but Jing Wei, who had been charged with the

task of decorating the classroom for Chinese New Year, which just

happened to be that month; Jing Wei, who had come early to school

to finish painting an enormous cloth banner with red firecrackers and

the words HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR; Jing Wei, who had

chosen the exact shade of red paint that currently adorned Kamelia's

skirt.

It was simple. So simple.

All Pink had to do was sit back and wait for his revenge to be

complete.

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