That's the Spirit

If Wren is honest, the afterlife isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. The mood is a little dead, you know? A lot of moaning and talking about the “good old days” when oxygen was a thing, which, okay, yeah. Oxygen was great and all, but Wren is quite favorable to being able to walk through walls whenever the mood strikes. 

And haunting. She definitely loves haunting. Helps her feel alive and all that good jazz. 

Despite all that, the afterlife truly isn’t what she imagined. Not that she ever imagined what dying would be like, or what happened after. Her grandmother would tell her about Heaven and Angels, but she hasn’t particularly seen any of that. 

She’s seen a lot of dead guys, though.

It’s not like how horror movies paint it, either. It isn’t grotesque, unhappy ghosts hellbent on making the living suffer simply because they are suffering. Truthfully, most don’t really bother except for a small laugh here and there, or they stretch a little too wide and whoops… there goes the picture on the nightstand. 

No ghost really lingers except for a few, and even then, it’s never to cause any harm or scare someone out of their apartment. Most of the time, they are happy for the company and leave it at that.

Kinda a bummer. A real letdown. Dead at twenty-one and can’t even really haunt all those jerks she promised in life. A true waste.

Oh well. She’s found ways to spend her time. Mostly going around and enjoying the sights that she never got to experience in life. It’s much easier to do things without the burden of existing, so she just wanders, and when she isn’t wandering, she is frequenting a bar. 

Ironically, it’s almost always filled with the living, and it’s known for being haunted, but not in the way you think. Ghosts hang out and gather here to talk and sometimes to find members of their family that could be lingering around, so it’s become quite the hangout.

Wren thinks it started because of the name of the bar.  It’s called That’s The Spirit. It has a giant bottle of vodka next to it, so she is assuming it is referring to the spirit of drinking until your liver dies, but the ghosts claimed it as their own anyways. They have an ongoing bet of how long until the owner is going to kick the bucket and join them in being dead.

The music playing at the bar is quiet compared to the cacophony of chatter permeating the semi-full bar. The pool table tucked away in the back has a staggering number of living gathered around it, the clatter of the balls hitting each other almost as loud as the voices themselves. The familiar stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer mixed with unwashed bodies barely grazes her nose.

Being dead really dulls the senses, and this is one of the few times she is grateful for it. 

The dead linger amongst the living, sometimes hovering over the living’s phone and reading up on the news or snooping into some gossip. Who knew that ghosts love spreading gossip?

Other dead are sitting at empty tables, talking amongst themselves or sitting at the bar watching a game of football with half glazed eyes. Another dead is wandering around like a lost lamb, fear in his wide brown eyes as he stares at the chaos around him, but makes no move to join the living nor the dead. 

Wren has half a mind to go over and check on him. Dying and waking up outside of your own corpse tends to really put a damper on one’s mood, but she thinks better of it. His expression is pinched, lips pressed into a firm line as he attempts to talk to the bartender, who of course, doesn’t notice him at all, so he’s probably still in denial and wouldn’t listen to her. 

“Wren!”

Wincing at the familiar voice, Wren pivots on her heel, canting her head to the side to survey the room with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. A familiar mop of shaggy brown hair greets her from across the room at a table devoid of living and dead, except for Simon. One of the few ghosts around her own age, and intent on befriending her.

Rolling her eyes, Wren strides towards the table, smirking to herself when she goes through the waitress, who instantly stills at the biting cold that suddenly washes over her. She pales, watery blue eyes glinting with fear as she glances around and then scurries off as if hellhounds are on her heels. 

Simon arches a brow, lips ticked as Wren takes a seat. “Seriously? That’s quite rude.”

“Oh, come on. You’re dead. The least you can do is live a little.” Smirking at her own words, Wren leans back into the wooden chair that doesn’t even groan at holding her nonexistent weight as her peridot eyes flicker to the ceiling, then scan the room. “It’s busy tonight. And it looks like we have a newbie.” 

Simon hums absently, chocolate gaze watching the new ghost continue to wander around, shouting for someone of the living to listen to him to no avail. “Yeah. Poor kid. Died at sixteen in a car accident.”

Wren frowns, finger tapping the sticky wooden table as he follows his gaze. “What? The accident from a few streets over?”

Simon bobs his head, sighing. “That’s the one. He’s taking it pretty hard.” 

Snorting, Wren shakes her head and peels her eyes away from the newly dead. “Why should he? It’s not like life takes any survivors.” Simon casts her a dirty look, but doesn’t respond. It isn’t uncommon- she’s quite used to glares from the other dead around her. 

“Can’t you at least be empathetic?” Simon asks under his breath, chocolate eyes searching her features. 

“Not really,” Wren replies, jerkily raising her shoulders and dropping them back down. “The thing is, people die. It’s like the number one fact of life. We live, we die, the end.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the newly dead. “The sooner he accepts it, the better he will feel. We aren’t caged by our bodies anymore. We aren’t burdened with living.” 

“Some of us didn’t suffer in life like you did, Wren,” Simon states sourly. Wren inhales sharply, despite the fact she doesn’t actually need to breathe. Habits die hard, she muses. She cuts her eyes to Simon, smirk faltering. “Some people enjoyed their life, or at least parts of it. Death means more than that to them.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Wren questions quietly, fingers tapping out an off-rhythm beat against the table. She glares down at the stained floor. “I wasn’t happy about dying, either. I may be happy-go-lucky now, but it’s not like I died and threw a party.” She huffs, shaking her head. “I was in denial for about two months, but then I just… got over it. And he should too. Just because we are dead doesn’t mean life stops.”

At first, the other dead didn't reply. Simon's chocolate gaze softens, melting into something sweet like hot chocolate, and his scowl slowly morphs into something fond and gentle. “I get your meaning.” His gaze shifts back to the newly dead, a sigh rattling his chest. “Still, I feel bad for the poor kid.” 

“He’ll figure it out,” Wren promises. “We always do. Until then, want to go check in on our families and then go scare some teenagers on the streets?”

Simon laughs heartily, grinning as his eyes spark with life. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”