Where Ghost Stories are Real [Panic]

[carlfredricksen]

You know, there was almost a joke in the fact that he was here, wasn't there? Kids told ghost stories around campfires all the time, and well, lookie here, here was a real ghost. Hahaha, Carl must have forgotten how to laugh properly. That was why he wasn't finding the ability to actually laugh. Uh huh.

With the tone that was going through his head as he sort of wandered around the campsite, you'd think he'd be downing as much alcohol as possible and then kicking around some rocks if he were, you know, solid. This whole thing couldn't be more frustrating, honestly. The guy that Carl had been standing off to the side for was actually an foul, loathsome, scruffy looking...UGH, he couldn't even think of the right insult for him, that was how much he hated the guy right now.

And the worst part was that it was looking like there wasn't all that much that he could do about this whole situation! He couldn't help Ellie feel better, he couldn't put the hurt on Shere Kahn even when he was alive and, oh yeah, he was dead! Ellie wasn't even the only one he had noticed being this upset. Ohhhhh, he caught glimpses of his parents, and of course his mother tried to blame the school before she just collapsed into sobs.

He had figured that coming to the campsite might make him feel a little better, because it would be something close to his childhood, right out in the wild, where he had always wanted to be, adventuring with Ellie...turns out all this was doing was upsetting him.

He was officially the worst ghost ever.

[Panic]

Panic liked nighttime. Okay, so that was an exaggeration, but out of the long list of things that made Panic feel uncomfortable, nighttime was particularly low. Though the darkness presented a whole new fear with the lack of visibility, who knows whats lurking in the shadows?! But it also pervaded a small comfort. In the dark, you could hide. It was harder to not only see into the shadows, but for what was in the shadows to see him. Just a tad bit of the pressure he generally feels in daylight has been taken off. He could breath a little bit better, think a little bit clearer. He was scared alright, just slightly less scared than normally because, here in the dark, he could hide, and hiding is what Panic does best.

Every now and again a strange occurrence will happen and Panic will actually know where he was and how he got there. Campgrounds were great because the frequent use of fire pits around the area supplied Panic with the closest thing he called to safety without locking himself in a box. There was the perfect amount of light so he was comfortable that he could sufficiently see if a monster of some sort was prowling about, but it was also still very much dark enough to disappear. Currently he was wandering about in the form of a stray black cat. He used to change into such a form often, but not as much so after he'd been sliced with a knife while hidden in this shape. The wound left a long jagged scar along his back, but in the body of a cat he was small, nimble and easily unnoticeable. The later being the most important, of course.

He was cautiously batting a suspicious looking rock when he saw it. A shimmer at first, just out of the corner of his eye, but unmistakable. This wasn't right. Not at all. Not right at all. Panic had been wondering around this school for a good year now and he had gone without seeing one single ghost. He had dared to think for once everyone was doing their job on Olympus and all lost souls were ferried to the Underworld. Of course not, the gods ever took their work seriously, especially not Hermes, whose job was precisely the one that had clearly fallen to the wayside. It was his job to boat souls to the Underworld. Either he'd been slaking, or he'd missed one because, now in plain sight just before him, the translucent form of a young man.

Panic didn't think. He immediately willed himself back into his scrawny teenaged self and faced the apparition with blue eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is what most people might call extraordinarily strange because Panic stood before him unafraid. Out of all the things in this world he had to fear, one of the very few things that spared him all terror was one of the things most people would call dead frightening, ghosts. Now, you have to realize that ghosts were as common as air from where he's from and, essentially, powerless. Just lost souls, they can't hurt him, they can't hurt anyone else, there was literally nothing there for him to be afraid of. He was simply confused. Really confused. Who was this soul and why was it here? What are you doing here? he asked in an urgent whisper, suddenly worried he might be heard and then seen and then viciously harmed.

[carlfredricksen]

Normally Carl probably would’ve taken more notice to what sounded like someone kicking a rock, but hey, what was the damn point? After all, it wasn’t like it could’ve been something stampeding or charging that could, y’know, kill him. If they could somehow sense him and they at first sized him up for prey, well, he was sorry to inform them that they were too late, ‘cause he had already bit the dust…hell, he probably already was dust in his grave at this point, even with whatever techniques they had used to preserve him for no good reason. I mean really, what was the point? It wasn’t like the Ancient Egyptians were right about the idea that preserving the body somehow meant that the afterlife was going to all hunky dory, because he could say with the past couple of months, there was no way that it was.

Honestly, it was all a joke; self preservation, bothering to actually go for a good life, investing whatever time you had on this earth in forming relationships, and then it could all just stop for what seemed to be no good reason. I mean, really? A heart attack? At his age? And it was all because of that damn Shere Kahn making a wish on a damn star? If this wasn’t some sort of cosmic joke, what was? What was the point of it all? Here he was, unable to have any contact with the person that he loved the most while she was weeping her days away because she missed him, like he was somehow worthy of her, like he was any good to her dead. Obviously, he wasn’t, and it was making his afterlife a living hell, even if he hadn’t seen a single spark of fire since his death.

At first, he wasn’t going to pay the blonde guy who was actually skinnier than even he was (which was quite a feat, let me tell you) any attention. Because it wasn’t like he would somehow notice him, right? Carl was about to just continue pacing around, heck, maybe he’d just float around and hope that God would listen to his pleas to just make him oblivious to everything that he had to deal with, if only for a minute. Because God had to listen to wayward souls like him, right? He’d been a pretty good kid when he was growing up. Maybe a little eccentric for his parents’ tastes, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t worthy of being listened to in his last ditch effort to just stop feeling all of this pain and frustration, right? What was the point of keeping him around if he couldn’t help his best friend or even anyone, because no one could…

But then he realized…the kid looked like he was staring right at him instead of going on his merry way. Carl stopped in his tracks when he realized that, not quite ready to believe it, even when it seemed like he was addressing him. Carl flinched back. After all, you spend two months without anyone acknowledging your existence, because as far as they were concerned, you didn’t…it’s startling when someone actually pays attention to you.

He couldn’t believe it. He had to look behind him to see if maybe there was someone else around that the kid was curious about…but no. They were very alone around the campfire grounds. Out of pure habit, he tried to keep his breathing steady as he felt something that he hadn’t felt since he died; hope. He wanted so very much to reject it, but…but, how could he? Someone finally could see him? Someone was finally talking to him? That had to mean something.

He turned back around, and in a shaky voice he asked, “…y…you’re talking to me?” Please, please, please tell me I'm not somehow managing to dream...

[Panic]

This wasn't right. This man should be in the care of Hermes, at least until he reached the underworld and faced his judgment. Panic tried to block the idea of him being sentenced to eternal punishment. Panic clung to the hope that this man, nearly shaking with emotion as he recognized he was being spoken to, no this man must be one meant for the Elysian Fields. The fields of the blessed, for the virtuous and kind or at least the Asphodel Meadows (where the neutral souls are sent). Hades may not be kind, but when it came to judgment in the underworld, well at least unless he had a personal vendetta against you, he was fair. Panic never liked to see anyone sent to the fields of punishment, though many he saw past may have deserved it. He knew their pain well, there never ceasing cries echoes in his ears constantly.

Panic's expression hadn't chanced since the moment he laid eyes on the slightly shimmy man, face frozen in a mask of sock and confusion. Only now, as the man spoke, did Panic's expression begin to melt into something to display his years of sorrow. This man, looking at him with such hope, like he might be some sign of help, some chance that he might get back. But Panic new better. He was dead, his body rotting somewhere while his spirit wanders aimlessly in search of a place to belong, a place to be realized from its meaningless existence. Except for the fact that he was actually flesh and bone in some respect, Panic understood the deep need to find an escape, only he'd given up hope long ago.

Yes... Panic spoke finally, slowly. Finding lost souls and directing them toward the ferry to the underworld was not Panic's job, unless Hades had directed him specifically to do so. This was Hermes job and, judging by the fact that this man was just pleased to be spoken at, he had been dead for a while. A tiny frown appeared on his lips. He was already dead....why should he have to suffer any longer. You shouldn't be here Panic voiced quietly you should be in the care of Hermes

[carlfredricksen]

While Carl wanted so badly to believe that there was a chance for him because this guy was clearly acknowledging him, he could also see the sorrow on his face. As it turned out, Carl’s recent tendencies to feel sorry for himself hadn’t completely buried his empathy…well, he supposed he knew that. Why else would Ellie’s pain be torture for him? But he hadn’t really had much of a chance to feel sorry for anyone else, so maybe that was why this was surprising him. Why was this guy looking as miserable as…well, as Carl had been feeling for the past two months?

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask, because it turned out that he was shaking, indeed. I mean, could you blame him? Still, he had enough presence of mind to pull himself together, at least enough that he could actually use his tongue, because he just had so many questions! Why was he able to see him, for one thing? He had always thought what little he had heard of mediums was a whole lot of whooey, but, hey, he hadn’t really had a firm belief in ghosts either, yet here he was. So maybe mediums were real, and that was what this guy was? And if he was, did he know how he could get into contact with Ellie? Could he at least let Ellie know that Carl was always going to look after her, that he had always…no, he wouldn’t say that. That’d just make things worse for her…

The boy was talking again, something about how he shouldn’t have been here. It took all of Carl’s self control and surprise to not snap back, You’re telling me. Because he was right, he shouldn’t have been there. He shouldn’t have died that day. He should’ve been back at his dorm, or spending quality time with Ellie…anything but wandering around these campgrounds all by himself, with just this one blonde medium who was saying something about…Hermes? Who the heck was that? If there had been any mention of Greek mythology in any of his classrooms, even if he had been paying all that much attention, there was a chance that he wouldn’t have been mentioned enough for Carl to remember him.

“Well I guess I’m not…” he replied, motioning around the campground, the bitterness starting to set in again for a moment. So apparently someone wasn’t doing his job and that was why things were the way they were? Just great. No wonder the world was so screwed up, if even someone who was probably in charge of guys like Carl, you know, the dead ones, wasn’t even getting it right.

“Don’t suppose there’s much you can do about that, is there?” Not that he really wanted that…because being in the care of this guy probably meant that he was never going to be able to help Ellie. Then what would be the point of whatever was on the other side? Wasn’t there some kind of rule about unfinished business with ghosts? If Ellie’s wellbeing wasn’t unfinished business, what was?