Give Me My Crown

“I can’t get the blood out of my floor.”

On the other line, Georgie was a mess. Mason could hear her sniffling and blubbering every time she opened her mouth. “Just– just use bleach or– fuck, I don’t know Mason– this is insane.”

“It could be worse,” Mason answered, balancing the phone between her shoulder and her ear and she scrubbed at the carpet. The threads were bright red, and her towel was smeared with crimson. “He could’ve tripped on his shoelaces or something. Can’t imagine he’d live that down.”

“He won’t be living shit down, Mason.” Georgie’s voice climbed to a whine. “He’s dead.”

Mason shrugged. “For now.” 

Georgie’s crying stilled. For a moment, all Mason could hear was the crackling from the phone line, before an abrupt, “What does that mean?” echoed from the receiver. 

Mason grabbed the bucket of water from behind her and poured it onto the stain, flinching back as droplets landed on her face. It did little to clean away the blood– now she had a flood of mud-colored water soaking through her bedroom floor. 

She had, in her defense, told Georgie about the extent of her research. Georgie knew the basics of her morbid fascinations– Mason had been to every haunted location in the Midwest. She could tell you the exact date and time of James “Yankee Jim” Robinson’s death before the construction of the Whaley House. Ask Mason how to kill the make believe and she had an answer for everything: salt and iron were a good defense against a ghost, while silver could wound a werewolf. If you met a demon, you were screwed. Georgie knew everything, even if she didn’t understand it. Especially Mason’s newest discovery: reincarnation. 

They said to be a necromancer, you needed a strong backbone. Not because the practice itself was morally complicated– Mason wasn’t opposed to the emotional triviality of raising the dead– but because it involved a lot of death. Life was a trade-off. For one person to come back, something else had to die. Or something deceased had to inhabit something alive. Which was Mason’s current plan. 

Kurt Mcpherson was dead on her floor, but not for long. All she needed was rabbit’s blood, holy water, and a ghostly soul. The rules were simple: within twenty-four hours of death, a soul could inhabit a body, as long as it wasn’t the body’s former soul. No double dipping. The rabbit’s blood was the life taken for new life to be given. The holy water was a precaution– if the soul was angry enough, it would make for a dangerous ghost. Mason had rabbit’s blood that she’d bought off Eli Bergerson, the resident weird kid who would likely win the school superlative for future serial killer. She had holy water that she’d snuck from the baptism bowl at Georgie’s Presbyterian church up the road. And Mason had, despite all odds, a ghostly soul. 

She’d found him in a local cemetery, wandering. He’d emerged readily, strutting toward her with a urgency that even Mason had shrunk away from. She’d coaxed him into siding with her fairly easily. Most ghosts were eager to have a body again. He didn’t speak, exactly, not in ways that Mason could understand. But his longing was clear enough in his eyes. 

He watched her now as she stood and faced the body behind her. Kurt Mcpherson was a cute boy, as far as her standards went. Pity that she’d had to kill him. Georgie was still mumbling worriedly on the phone. Mason had told her that Kurt had fallen and hit his head on the dresser, splitting it open. If he’d been pushed, that was no business of Georgie’s. 

Mason glanced up at the ghost. He met her eyes with an impatient glare. Yeah, yeah, I’m getting to it. She hooked her elbows under Kurt’s armpits, hoisting him onto her bed. She grabbed the rabbit blood from her dresser and poured it into his open mouth, careful not to spill on her rose-patterned sheets. 

“Don’t worry, Georgie,” Mason said, prying Kurt’s mouth open wider. “I’ll have a date for the dance, and Angie Zhu won’t.”

“I’m not worried about the dance– why the fuck would I care about the dance after this?” Georgie’s voice crackled through the speaker. “What the hell are you doing, Mason?”

“I’m fixing this,” she answered calmly, gesturing to the ghost. She didn’t know his name or his age– maybe twenty, if she had to guess. Good, she liked them a little older. 

Georgie’s retort came out in a growl. “How? Mason, you need to call the police. Your boyfriend is dead–”

“He’s not my boyfriend, and he’s not dead. Or, at least, he won’t be in a few moments.”

“Mason, please tell me you’re not doing something stupid.”

“Define stupid.” Mason watched as the ghost positioned himself over Kurt’s body, sticking a finger down his throat. He glanced back at Mason as if to say, It’ll do, but I’m not happy about it. Mason shrugged back. Neither was she, but anything would beat bringing Kurt Mcpherson to the senior prom. 

Georgie was breathing quickly, muttering to herself in low tones. “Is this some occult shit– Some crazy, witch-worshiping stunt? People like that end up in jail, Mason, or mental hospitals. People like that are fucking insane!” 

Mason rolled her eyes, leaning back against the dresser as the ghost dissolved into smoke, wooshing into Kurt’s mouth. “I’m top of our class, Georgie. Would someone with a 1600 on the SAT be ‘fucking insane’?” 

“Yes!” Georgie yelled. “Yes! You can be smart and crazy– they don’t cancel each other out!”

“Sure, but I bet it doesn’t hurt my case.” Mason moved the phone from her ear to the dresser’s surface, putting Georgie on speaker. “And no one has to know.”

“Kurt’s family will know! What will they say when he doesn’t come home, Mason?”

“Oh, he’ll come home.” Mason grinned as Kurt’s mouth closed. His eyes flew open– the shade of brown just a little too dark. He sat up, cracking his neck to one side and then the other. When he met Mason’s stare, a slow smile spread across his face, cunning and snide. 

“It appears that I owe you my gratitude,” he said, pausing to cough and clear his throat. “I thought that when that disease cut me down, I’d never breathe again.” 

Mason raised an eyebrow. “The Black Death?”

“Spanish Flu.”

She shrugged. “Close enough. You died in the ‘20s, then? What’s your name?”

Ghost Kurt inclined his head in her direction. “Walter Carmine.” 

Mason folded her arms across her chest. “Well, that’s not your name anymore. If anyone asks, you’re Kurt Mcpherson, and you’re going to prom with me.”

His smirk dipped into a sneer. “And why would I do that?”

“Because, smartass, I still have holy water.” She reached behind her, grabbing the Hydro Flask from the dresser. “And you’re still a ghost, mostly.” 

Walter glowered at her but didn’t argue. That was fine by Mason. He didn’t even need to talk– just look pretty and spin her around at the dance. She was, afterall, going to win prom queen. 

Georgie’s voice cut through the room like a sudden chill. “That’s impossible.”

Mason smiled. “What, that I brought him back? Jesus, Georgie, it’s like you have no faith in me.”

“He was dead. Mason, he was dead just a minute ago– why the hell can I hear his voice?”

“Get over it, Georgie. The dance starts at seven– don’t be late. I still need someone to give me my crown.” 

Mason hung up the phone and looked up at Walter, who still had blood splattered across his forehead and hair. No matter, she could clean him up. And if not, the red would match her dress.

She spent two hours getting ready– YouTube-ing a cat eye tutorial, curling her hair, sliding her earrings into place. Walter watched her, eyes meeting hers in the mirror, his arms stiff at his sides like a boy turned statue. His suit was black, his corsage a rose to compliment her vermillion dress. The picture perfect couple, and nobody knew otherwise. 

She arrived at the dance an hour late. Walter followed her like a dejected dog, and when she caught him frowning, she shook the water bottle in front of his face until he forced a grin. Around her, heads began to turn. Whispers filled the air: That’s Mason– with Kurt? But I heard he cheated on her. Look at her dress, it must have cost a fortune. He said he was gonna go with Angie. Her pearls must be real, look how they shine. Mason basked in the murmurs and gossip until she reached the stage, where Georgie stood, white as a ghost. 

Her hands were curled around the podium’s microphone. When she saw Mason, they began to shake. She’d always been a namby-pamby– hell, she’d sobbed when the fifth grade class pet had died. Mason would never forget the look on Georgie’s face. It had been as if the entire world had ended. 

“Well, Georgie, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to hear who won prom queen.” Mason placed her hands on her hips, yanking Walter closer to her side. 

Georgie took a shuddering breath and tapped the microphone. The feedback screeched through the auditorium, and an uneasy silence fell over the crowd. She cleared her throat and stuttered out, “Um. Hi. Welcome to senior prom. As your class president, I’ll be administering the– um, the royal titles.” 

Someone in the crowd booed. Another snickered. The lights in the back were still flashing green and blue like they were decor at a rave. Mason waited expectantly, raising an eyebrow. 

Georgie lifted an envelope with trembling fingers. The crowd watched as she messily tore it open, almost dropping it twice. She muttered a few feeble apologies before unfolding the paper inside and leaning toward the microphone. 

“Our class jester is Caleb Terez.” A few cheers echoed from the back. Georgie offered a wobbly smile and continued, “Our prom king is Kurt Mcpherson.”

Walter blinked up at the stage, emotionless. Mason elbowed him in the side, and he shot her a glare before feigning a laugh and an appreciative bow. Around him, their classmates shouted in approval, slapping him on the shoulder and ruffling his hair into his eyes. Walter backed away, dazed. Mason was sure that the bass-heavy music and laser lights were already a culture shock, and jostling him around probably wasn’t helping ease his mind. But she didn’t care, because the prom queen announcement was next. 

Georgie had gone silent at the microphone, gripping the edge of her floral dress with white knuckles. She quickly glanced at Mason, her eyes wide with fear. 

“We don’t have all day,” Mason murmured, leaning closer to the edge of the stage.

“The senior prom queen,” Georgie whispered into the microphone, “is Angie Zhu.” 

Gasps shot through the room, and a ruckus of shouting burst from the crowd. The lights flickered. Mason saw the stage spin. That’s impossible. She’d gotten prom queen last year. She’d made homecoming court both years before. Her place was practically guaranteed. 

Next to her, Walter was smirking. “Bad bit of luck, huh, sweetheart?” 

Mason drew her fist back and smacked him across the face. 

The people next to her screamed as Walter toppled to the ground, yelping as his head hit the hardwood. The wound under his hair reopened, and blood dripped onto the white button up under his suit jacket. He panted, whipping his head back and glaring at her. 

Mason stepped on his leg, grinning as he cried out, and hoisted herself onto the stage. 

Georgie stumbled back from the podium, the envelope clutched to her chest. Her heels scuffed the floor, the sound bouncing through the room. Everyone had gone silent, watching in fear as Mason drew closer and closer to Georgie. 

“You killed him,” Georgie squeaked out, pointing a shaky finger at Mason. “You killed Kurt, didn’t you?”

Mason laughed. “What, like you can prove it? Little miss goodie-two-shoes, always too afraid to admit the truth. What do you think’s in him now, Georgie? What do you think I let crawl down Kurt’s throat?”

Georgie bit her lip. “A ghost.”

“That’s right.” Mason took another step forward, grinning as Georgie’s back hit the curtains behind her. “Finally using your brain. And why do you think I let a ghost climb into Kurt?”

“Because he cheated on you.” Georgie’s hair had fallen out of its bun, and was hanging in limp blonde curls around her neck. “Because you didn’t want people to know that he was going to leave you for Angie.” 

Mason sneered at her. “Also right. Tragic, isn’t it? He was a good guy at first. They’re all good at first. Friends, too, Georgie.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I know what you are. Or rather, who you are.”

Georgie’s eyes hardened. “And who is that?”

“You’re Angie Zhu. And she–” Mason whirled around, her finger finding a startled girl in the crowd– “is Georgie Smith.” 

The room was pin-drop silent. Georgie– the fake Georgie– squared her shoulders against the curtain, lips drawn tight. In the crowd, Angie shuffled forward, tears streaming from her eyes. Her dress dragged along behind her, a sequin mess of turquoise and purple. 

Mason crossed to the edge of the stage, staring down into the sequin sea. “Why did you do it, Georgie?”

Angie’s face was tight with anger, but it was Georgie’s voice that came from her mouth. “You knew I loved Kurt. And you stole him from me anyway. The one good thing I’d ever had, and you took it without a second thought.” 

“So you killed yourself– and Angie– so you could have a body that he would want?”

“If that’s what it takes, that’s what I’ll do.” The girl on the auditorium floor was a mix of faces and lives. In one light, she was Angie Zhu, beauty queen and Kurt Mcpherson’s newest muse. In another, she was Georgie Smith, a shy rabbit of a girl who was so sick of being small. “I know the rituals too, Mason. I learned from watching you. I killed her and put rabbit’s blood in her mouth. And then I drank some too, and slit my own wrists. It worked like a charm. Once I’d entered her body, I threatened her with holy water until she went into mine. I still needed someone to give me my crown.”

Mason shook her head, her breaths coming in ragged pants of anger. “You almost got away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for what Angie read off that paper.”

As if on cue, Angie in Georgie’s body dropped the envelope onto the ground at the hem of her floral dress, and Mason swooped down to grab it. She brushed off the edge before revealing the paper, smirking down at the names. 

“Our senior prom queen, Mason Hernández.” Mason dropped the envelope onto the ground at Georgie’s feet. God, her heels were sparkling. “Even after I took his soul away, you wanted Kurt.” 

“I didn’t know you were going to kill him,” Georgie said, turning to stare at where Walter was lying on the ground, clutching his leg. “But it doesn’t matter. I already went too far. I’ll take what I can get– there must be something left of him inside that body. And it’s still his face.” 

Mason shook her head. “Oh, that won’t mean much anymore. The ghost in Kurt’s body is Walter Carmine. He died from the Spanish Flu in 1920. And let me tell you, boys in the 1920s had a very different definition of how to treat a girl. You don’t want children, right Georgie? You want to work in marketing, yeah? That’s not gonna fly with Walt.” 

Georgie clenched her fists at her sides. “You always got everything you wanted. My whole life, you were prettier. Smarter. Better. I could never be Mason Hernández– but now I’m Angie Zhu. If I take a knife to your throat, can I be you, too?”

Mason grit her teeth. “I’d like to see you try.” 

Georgie had always been a thin, lanky kid. But Angie’s body was lithe. She was on the rowing team. Georgie moved faster with her limbs, grabbing a butter knife from a nearby table and thrusting it upwards. Mason narrowly avoided it, jerking to the side. 

“Everyone loves Mason,” Georgie hissed, clambering onto the stage with her knife pointed outward. “I can’t wait to know how that feels.” 

Mason dodged the next stab. “Dream all you want.” 

Georgie laughed and launched herself at Mason, knocking her to the ground. “You were always a shitty friend, you know that? I was so scared that people would hate me when I spoke up, and it was because you did. You hated me, Mason. Maybe someone else would have loved me, but I never got the chance to know, because you convinced me that I was worthless.”

The spotlight solidified around the two of them, Georgie’s now black hair a tangled mess across her shoulders. Her eyes were alight with fury, and her butter knife was poised above Mason’s heart. She was going to kill her. 

Mason closed her eyes. “I know, Georgie. I know you deserved better. But the funny thing is, I don’t care.” 

In one swift move, she grabbed Georgie’s wrist and twisted it. Georgie screamed, and Mason grabbed the knife, plunging it into her heart. 

Mason stood as the body thudded to the ground. The auditorium stared at her in horror. Angie cowered against the curtain, hiccuping through tears. In a way, she’d just seen her own body die. 

Mason stepped up to the podium, smearing blood across her dress. She’d been smart to wear red. With a single ahem, she leaned forward and said, “So, where’s my crown?”