Ghosted

When Jillian said she wanted to hold a seance to commune with the dead, I knew it would be trouble. Halloween, she said. All Hallows Eve, she said. The thinning of the veils, she said. As if she actually believed in anything beyond her own sense of self-importance. No, the only people Jillian wanted to commune with were her followers, real and virtual alike. A seance on Halloween, to remind them that Jillian Jones was as edgy as Edward Scissorhands, with the cheekbones to match.

In reality, my former best friend was as edgy as a piece of chewed gum. I was the broken glass. The razor blade. The girl with the withering tongue and a soul to match.

“Not a sound,” Jillian warns, as she leads us through the cemetery towards the row of mausoleums cresting the ridge. “Or we might wake the ghosts.”

Mandy snorts. Either because she doesn’t believe in ghosts or because she’s tired of Jillian bossing us around, but Jillian delivers one of her signature side-eyes and Mandy shuts right up. 

I want to say something appropriately scathing, but the words lodge in my throat. I swallow them down and trail behind Olivia, who clutches her dark green flannel close as the October wind sends a scattering of leaves dancing across the manicured lawn. Wisely, the others donned warm layers before sneaking out of the dormitory. But I can manage the cold, even though the autumn air slices right through the stained Nightshade Academy cardigan I pretty much live in and there are holes in the knees of my tights. 

Jillian looks as though she fell straight out of a Fleetwood Mac music video, all flowing vintage lace and chunky boots. Not one of us batted an eye when she traipsed out of the girl’s dormitory looking like a rock goddess made flesh. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my (former) best friend; when the leader of the Wild Hearts—aka Nightshade Academy’s resident mean-girl posse—calls for a raising of the dead, no one expects her to show up in ripped jeans and a hoodie. 

She cuts purposefully across a field of graves, pale skirts luminous beneath the harvest moon. The others follow resolutely in her wake. Only Mandy takes her time, weaving carefully between graves, unwilling to tread directly atop the recently deceased. I want to tell her they don’t care. That the dead don’t hold on to physical attachments the way the living do. That once a body goes cold, it becomes as worthless as Ezra’s old lacrosse jersey, the one she slept in every night until he dumped her last spring. 

But… vow of silence and all that.

Mandy’s reverent respect for the dead is touching, honestly, even if it’s probably based on the misguided fear-mongering of her religious upbringing and internalized fear for her immortal soul. 

I have a lot to say about that, too, but I won’t—even if silence wasn’t mandatory. Ever since Jillian practically ghosted me last term, elevating Olivia to the coveted position of Wild Hearts Beta, no one cares much about my newfound religious beliefs. They only want to talk about homecoming and college applications, and who went down on who beneath the bleachers (it was Ezra and Sophie, but you didn’t hear it from me.) None of which interests me. Not anymore.

Eventually, when Olivia and Naomi are half-way up the hill and Mandy’s caught up with Shayla and Hope, Jillian comes to a stop in the center of a circle of grass. A handful of tombstones in varying states of decay lay scattered across the small lawn. Jillian positions herself in front of the newest: a dark granite monstrosity less than six months old.

Emily Warner, the headstone, reads, and below that, in letters stained black: Devoted daughter and friend, stolen too soon. 

A life-sized angel perches atop the monument, her pensive head resting on one fist. Her features are vague—sightless eyes and a pouting mouth—but familiar, and I wonder if the sculptor saw a photo of the deceased or if it’s only a trick of the light.

Samhain, Jillian had said. The perfect night for a seance, she’d said. The best time to commune with the dead, she’d said.

Aged grandmothers, I’d thought. Forgotten soldiers, miserly uncles, lost loves. Ghosts trapped on this plane, unfinished business barring them from passing on.

Strangers every one.

I meet the angel’s evasive gaze, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure it can be heard on the other side of the veil. 

Jillian never mentioned raising one of our own.

She and I were the original Wild Hearts. Our bad-girl-group-of-two formed in kindergarten. From the moment I saw her, flaxen hair bound in braids, eyes black as night, I wanted Jillian to be mine. My best friend. My blood sister. My partner in crime. I’d tugged her behind the swing set, gripping her hand until she swore we’d be best friends forever. Reaching underneath the slide, I gouged my hand on a burr of metal until blood flowed free. I stared Jillian down until she wrinkled her elfin nose and, with a small shrug, nicked her skin just enough to release a single cherry-red drop. I pressed my bloody palm to hers, our souls mingling forever more while we crouched in the sand at the base of the ancient playground set.

The next day, everyone knew about the eternal pact we’d made, and how Jillian Jones didn’t flinch when cut. I alone had seen the tears that leaked from her eyes at the slightest pain, how quickly she’d shoved her palm into her mouth, sucking at the tiny scrape. But as Jillian those details didn’t feature in her snack-time soliloquy. She was the brave one, the leader. She had coaxed me into a never-breaking bond. 

She always could hold an audience, wrapping them around her finger as if they were strands in her braid.

Olivia breaks out a pack of tea lights and, with a nod from Jillian, begins lining them along the narrow stone rim that separates this circle of grass from the rest of the graveyard. Naomi steps up, lighter in hand and soon enough we’re encircled by a ring of fire, the golden light creating a shield against the night. From within the circle it’s easy to forget we’re just beyond Academy walls, that the town of Lockley lays less than a mile down the road, that we stand on a hillock surrounded by moldering bodies and broken dreams.

Candles lit, Olivia pulls a bottle of wine from her bag. Jillian is posing beside the angel, her phone held slightly overhead, angling herself so the moonlight hits her cheekbones just so. Mandy and Hope surge towards her, shoving past Olivia. The bottle slips from her fingers and rolls down the hill. Naomi follows Olivia as she dashes after it. Their fingers tangle together longer than necessary as they bend over the bottle, brushing bits of grass from the glass. None of the others notice, too focused on vying for a chance to pose with Jillian. 

I hover on the outskirts, unnoticed. Naomi and Olivia clearly don’t want company, and I’m forever banished from Jillian’s feed. I wouldn’t be here at all, if I hadn’t given myself to Jillian forever more, like a fool, that long ago first day of school. 

Soon enough, Olivia and Naomi return, sharing secret smiles, the bottle held between them. The cork pops free, and with it a froth of bubbles. Sparkling wine seems the wrong choice for a summoning, but that’s what Olivia pilfered from the school kitchens. She grasps the neck with her tapered fingers and lifts the bottle to her lips, downing a few solid gulps before dashing her sleeve across wet lips. I see Naomi watching—her own lips whetted in banked desire—and wonder what Jillian would say if she knew. If Olivia would slip from the pedestal the way I did, someone else stepping up to fill her place as Jillian’s favored pet. 

Silently, the bottle is passed around the circle. I abstain. I haven’t touched a drop after that one night last May when I searched for the answer to all my troubles at the bottom of a bottle and ended up with nothing but an aching head and regret. Naomi polishes off the wine and drops the bottle to the ground. 

Jillian steps forward, clearing her throat. It seems the time for silence has come to an end.

“The spirits summoned me, bade me be your guide this Halloween night, when the veil is at its wane,” Jillian’s voice rings out. It seems to echo down the hallowed hill, through the woods and back to the circle. “Gather and join hands.”

Mandy releases a nervous giggle. Jillian frowns. Hands clasped, the stone angel at Jillian’s back, the Wild Hearts form a ring.

“Oh Spirits,” Jillian intones. “We bid you welcome. Come and tell us of our fate.”

At first I think she’s read one too many gothic novels, dismissing her words as romanticized nonsense. 

She goes on, “Are there any who dare speak to us on this earthly plane?”

Daring spirits isn’t wise, but Jillian doesn’t care. She continues, her voice gaining volume, power. Her words drill into my head, my heart. I feel myself drawn back into her orbit, in a way I haven’t been since the morning our friendship fell apart. 

“Oh spirits, I call to you,” she intones. “Come forth. Part the veil and show your face.”

Something rustles the leaves. The candles gutter and leap back to life.

For the first time in months, I’m afraid.

After that fateful day in kindergarten, Jillian and I ruled Nightshade Academy. Kids flocked to her side; her golden looks and snake oil stories were a siren’s song. And I sat beside her, glaring daggers at any who dared threaten her place as queen bee. Our band of sisters grew. From two to three to seven, each blood-binding thicker than the last. In matching uniforms we strode the halls like lionesses, sleek of hair, proud of stature, fangs lurking beneath knowing grins.

As the years passed, the cord binding us began to fray. I softened—gentling beneath the safety that Jillian’s social status afforded—while she sharpened, tongue honed like a blade. Where once she was content to bask in the adoration of the masses, now she demanded undying obedience. Do my laundry, she said. Write my essay, she said. Spread this rumor, she said. 

And we did. 

When, at thirteen, Jillian began sharing our lives online, I didn’t blink. She’d found an audience more gullible and widespread than the Nightshade student body—virtual followers lapped up her photos and fables like cream. I liked every selfie, followed every story. And, like the other Wild Hearts, I posted beneath her watchful eye. 

[Eventually, living as Jillian’s beta took its toll. My grades plummeted. I was assigned a tutor. Nicolas, all wide shoulders and hesitant smiles. His self-deprecating humor a balm after years of baking beneath Jillian’s bright light.

The more time I spent with Nicolas, the less I spent online, or trailing in Jillian’s wake. I ignored new friend requests, fell behind in my comments and posts. I spent lunch by Nicolas’ side, leaving the Wild Hearts to eat without me beneath the old elm tree. I didn’t think they noticed, or cared. Jillian was the draw; I was only her shadow. But Jillian cared—after all, if I fell from orbit, how long until the rest followed suit? Like a fool, I underestimated what she was capable of, ignored the warning signs until it was too late.] 

“It’s not working,” Mandy says, after a solid minute of listening to Jillian browbeat the spirits. 

Jillian shoots Mandy a venomous look, but she can’t argue. Other than that thing with the candles (likely the wind) the ghosts aren’t cooperating. She drops Olivia’s hand and pulls her phone from the froth of lace spilling from her waist. I heave a sigh of relief; the prospect of watching Jillian mew at the camera is suddenly more appealing than I ever thought possible. But instead, she flicks on the phone light and pulls something else from her pocket. A small leather-bound book, so old the pages are starting to crumble. I lean in, trying for a better look.

“Keep your hands clasped,” she instructs, voice terse. She holds the phone so the pages are illuminated and starts to read.

I don’t understand the language that spill from her lips, both guttural and fluid all at once. But my bones ache as the words pierce the night.

I feel the spirits rousing. 

The fear is gone. A kind of relief takes over, numbing me. 

Finally, the truth will out.

After a few months of “tutoring”, Nicolas and I made things official. We held hands in public, kissed in the shadows. Jillian grew livid. She waited by my locker, staring Nicolas down until he left with a roll of the eye. He didn’t get her, or the fuss everyone made. Nicolas eschewed social media, lived for books and sports and nature. And now, me. Jillian watched him go, her disapproval apparent. She turned on me. I was ignoring her, she said. I could play with Nicolas, but he wasn’t what mattered. I argued, spewing a litany of her romantic pursuits. That was different, she insisted. Boys were toys. Sex was sex. Love… was more. I belonged to the Wild Hearts. To her. Young love never lasted; blood bindings were for life. 

She wasn’t wrong. 

I promised to do better, and meant it. Somehow, I’d keep them both. So I skirted the line, running ragged as I worked to keep both Jillian and Nicolas happy. My grades slipped again. I started using pills to stay awake, pills to sleep. Started drinking to take off the edge. Nicolas confronted me one night. Me or her, he said. I love you, he said. But not like this.

Vodka sloshed through my head, drowning my ears, my tongue. I shook my head. He left, disgusted. I slumped to the ground. Jillian wrapped an arm around me, dried my tears, straightened my hair. 

Pushed me into some other boy’s arms. 

I didn’t know his name until I saw it tagged next to mine in Jillian’s next post.

“Do you feel that?” Olivia’s whisper is nearly lost beneath Jillian’s steady drone. Naomi shushes her, fear widening her moss green eyes. Jillian sways, words dripping from her lips like honey. I’m being pulled towards her, but I try to resist.

For too long, Jillian controlled me. 

For too long, I let her.

She took my love and splintered it, peeling away the good until only power remained. She twisted me until I wrapped around her like a strand of her braid. I gave her my edge, became her whetstone. Stepped back so she could shine. 

No more. I remind myself. I look at the angel, staring sightless. Her stone wings too heavy to fly. I know what I have to do.

The morning after my fight with Nicolas, Jillian shared my drunken hookup to her feed with a swipe of her thumb.

“I hate you,” I rasped, confronting her in the middle of her dorm room. 

“You’ll get over it,” she said, with a shrug of her elegant shoulder. 

I shoved it. “I gave you everything.” My heart, my soul, my spirit. I shoved her again, harder. 

She scoffs. “I gave you everything.” Prestige, safety, status. Everything and nothing. 

“You had no right to post that video.”

“I did you a favor. Nicolas is a joke. You should thank me.”

“I hate you.”

She smirked. “Sure. Remember that once I ghost you. You’ll be on your knees begging to be back in my good graces before you know it.”

 I shoved her again, half-heartedly. 

“You’re dead to me,” Jillian says. And shoved back.

Turns out, she was right.

Jillian cried as I bled out from a head wound after she sent me careening into the corner of her hardwood desk. I didn’t mean it, she said. I take it back, she said. Please don’t die.

I was pronouced dead before my body grew cold.

I glide across the grass circle, ignoring the other Wild Hearts. Oh, they’d mourned me, though none more than Jillian, who detailed her grief ad nauseam to her followers. I come to a stop in front of my best friend, my soul sister, my partner in crime. She stops speaking. Her head cants and she squints, as if she can see me, through the veil. Perhaps she can.

“Funny thing about eternal pacts,” I say, pitching my voice so she can hear it—a faint murmur in the wind. “They last beyond death. We’re the same you know. Two sides of a coin. And it’s my turn to be the head.”

With a last glance at the angel, my likeness less apparent this close up, I surge forward.

Jillian shudders. The book drops from her hand. Her phone is tricker. She’s clutched it so tight it takes me a few tries before I can shake it loose. Eventually, I gain control of each nerve and the device drops to the grass. I—Emily Warner, née Jillian Jones—kick it aside. I swallow, push down the screaming in my head until Jillian is little more than a whisper. Eventually she falls silent.

We’re done here, I say, in Jillian’s voice. The dead can whither, I say. Let’s ghost them.