There ain’t no sensation more benumbing than the soul seeping out of the orifices of one’s body.

All of one’s warmth, all of one’s feeling, melting away from their system like it had never been there in the first place. And once the warmth dissipates, a frigid cold establishes itself at the heart’s very core. In no time flat, one’s memories start to wane as well, along with their emotion, ambition, and willpower. It is only then, after the total erasure of the dying’s character, they finally kick the bucket.

Hauntingly beautiful is the process of dying. That’s how I perceive it, at least. It’s the ultimate conclusion to life, and cannot be prevented whatsoever. Postponed, yes, but no amount of remedies or immortality will put the reaper’s scope to a standstill. Don’t even think about finding no holy grail or any other key to eternal life, ‘cause they don’t exist; you can fret about it all you want, but nothing will come of it. Rather, make the most of the days you got for they are few. Lend a hand, flash a smile, tell a joke. Allow yourself to live without qualms. If the life you maintain is one of high spirits and wellbeing, then congratulations, you may die in tranquility.

Take it from me, I know this stuff. I’m fuckin’ dead, after all. And if I had taken my own advice and actually done shit over the course of my terminal months - instead of salting myself away within my dumb home - then I probably wouldn’t be here wailing about how unfair I got it going for me.

Yeah, the dying experience is shit. 0/10, I do not recommend it. And the whole afterlife gig is fake as fuck, too - it’s false advertising. It does not exist. I’d thought that I’d be up there with Arrow and pals, a lavish halo floating above my dome, with a pair of feathery wings to boot.

But nope. There ain’t no heaven. Not at all.

Hell, there ain’t no hell neither, ‘cause if I ain’t in heaven, my sinful ass should be rotting all the way down below with Mr. Satan himself


From what I’ve found, when you die, you’re still there… but in, like, soul form.

For the past few weeks, I’ve sorta been drifting around Tanglewood’s assorted nooks and crannies, watching as my former subordinates pass their days. I try to conceal myself, since I’m still unsure whether others can see me or not. It’s weird. On one hand, you got someone like Beck, a phantom who’s visible to the naked eye - and a renowned one at that. Yet on the other hand, nobody really seemed to notice me when I stuck around the library for a handful of days after my due date had come to pass. I don’t know what someone would see if they were able to catch a glimpse of me. My reflection don’t really appreciate showing up in reflections anymore, so I don’t got no idea how I look; apart from my paws, my forelegs, and a bit of my chest, that is - all which glow in a moderately see-through blue aura. But if a blind ghost or something like that came up to me and asked what my face looked like, I couldn’t tell ‘em jack shit.

But yeah, haven’t really gotten the chance to spook anyone yet. I guess that makes me a shit ghost - following the assumption that I’m even a ghost at all. If comic books and campfire stories taught me anything, it’s that people are able to observe phantoms and similar types, and as I said, I ain’t quite certain if the fellas ‘round here know that ol’ Leroy is still prowling about these parts. Except now he’s metaphysical, not in the flesh.

Which fucking sucks, by the way.

Seeing how I cannot interact with the group’s living population, my role in life - or, rather, death - has become that of an audience member. An audience member to the neverending movie that is Tanglewood. And it seems as though I’m the only audience member, too. I spent what coulda been a bajillion hours trying to find another spirit like me, but despite trouble and strife, I found nobody. Not even Beck, or Arrow, or any other Tanglers who had bitten the dust over the years. I am completely alone, and it’s pretty nerve-wracking to say the least. Thank god that I don’t have a functioning brain in this state; I’d probably have gone batshit cuckoo as a result of the detachment.

When the sole thing you can do is watch, your perception of time goes wonky. You can’t tell second from minute, minute from hour, and hour from day, purely due to how boring your sad little predicament is. I do not know how long I’ve been dead. I know I had a stroke near Hallowe’en, and now (somehow) there’s a little bit of snow on the ground, so my guess is a fat month or two has passed since the library incident. That sounds too lengthy a period of time to simply watch; though when you consider the fact that a ghost like Beck had to put up with this shit for what could be centuries, I can’t complain. At least Beck could throw shit around and cause a ruckus as a means of entertaining himself. Thanks to my inability to do anything at all, I was forced to come up with strategies in order to keep my mind enlivened. Most of those strategies got boring in no time at all, although a few have stuck. For one, stalking Wormwood and observing his romantic excursions proved amusing at times, yet unbearable at others. Hopefully this sunglasses-clad cat he seems to be khaki-wacky about ends up being ‘the one’ for him. The dude’s bloomed googly eyes for I dunno how many people now, and if he don’t find a soulmate soon, then he probably never will. Another affair that I took note of is the developing link between Moth and Selby. The two of them appear to boast a notable chemistry, so I do trust that their connection will flourish into a ravishing relationship.

Aside from stalking certain individuals and keeping a close watch on their intimacies, I also began finding joy in exploration once again. Cancer moulded me into a morose mass of flimsiness. My bones were weakened beyond repair, inflicting razor-sharp pain every time I took a step, and giving me a wobble that lasted until the very end. Respiratory problems were an issue as well, thus any trip outside of home became a brutal battle for my lungs. In conclusion, my affliction limited, if not annihilated, my ability to hike through the territory. Up until the disease took total control of my day-to-day life, hiking was a favoured pastime of mine. And now that I’m simply a soul, no longer inhibited by carcinogenic health conditions, I am able to return to the marsh, junkyard, crater, and shore just like before. So that’s kinda nice.

There is one more activity in which I find joy, an activity that both hiking and stalking combined have utterly nothing on.
As soon as night’s darkness begins draping itself over the island, I make trail for a household. Not just any ol’ rinky-dink cabin or hut, but a household - the Roux family household, to be exact. Crow and Selby ain’t exactly the most lively of sorts, so it’s hard to tell when they’ve both fallen asleep. But, when I’m absolutely sure that the two of ‘em ain’t no longer awake, I slink inside. I’ve been doing this for just about every night following... yeah.

Once inside, I tiptoe to wherever Crow’s sleeping. And I lay down beside him. All I feel is cold while like this, but sharing the room with the love of my life allows me to feel warmth. It’s times like these where I wish I could haunt something. Maybe knock a cup over, or spell a message out of crayon. I’d do anything to let Tanglewood’s General know that I still adore him with my whole entire heart. Unfortunately, laying beside him ‘til the sun comes up is the most I’m able to do. I guess it’s better than not laying beside him, but still, I wish I could do more.

I can’t necessarily fall asleep myself, but I always end up spending the entire night at Crow’s side. When he awakens and leaves his abode, I follow suit and take my leave as well.

This morning went a tad differently than the mornings that came before it.

Crow and Selby executed their typical morning routine. Breakfast. Waste. All the other jazz. All the while I watched from the sideline.

It took them a while, but they eventually got out the door, and shortly after, I readied myself to do the same. Immediately upon squeezing my way through the door frame, however, I find that my vision worsens tenfold. Everything around me sort of shifts into an excessive grey blur, as if a low-hanging thundercloud had engulfed the encircling area. My eyes can detect two figures. Though distant, I make out the faint outlines as Crow and Selby, both of whom appear to be rather unaffected by the foggy atmosphere, seeing how they continued on their way without a second thought.

So it’s just me who has to deal with this gloomy smog. Great.

“LEROY STARKWEATHER!” a deafening voice abruptly beckons from yonder.

Never before had I heard a voice that loud. Like, holy shit.

If I were alive, such a heavy call of my name would have sent me skyrocketing out of here. People only ever yelled at my sorry ass like that when they wanted me dead. Considering that I am dead, though, I haven’t really anything to fear. So instead of fleeing with my tail betwixt my legs, I intuitively reply to this mystery voice at an according volume; “YEAH, I KNOW HIM! REAL JERK, THAT ONE!” My first tidbit of conversation since who knows when. Good to know I have yet to lose my charm. “ALSO, WOULD YA MIND QUIETIN’ DOWN A LI’L BIT? I DON’T SEE NO NEED TO SHOUT!”

“DO NOT JEST WITH ME, BOY. IF YOU KNEW WHO YOU SPOKE TO, YOU WOULD FORTHWITH REFRAIN FROM DOING SO.”

I guess I wasn’t so charming after all. Oops.

“WHO ARE YA, THEN? ARE YA, LIKE, GOD, OR SOMETHIN’?” Surely the voice belonged to a being of higher power, on account of the fact that its owner possessed the capability to see me.

“WH- NO!” the voice angrily retorts, followed by a quieter “Gimme a sec.”

With that, the stranger falls quiet. Within a few moments, a hazy shape materializes inside the fog. It’s approaching. I am confused, somewhat frightened of what or who may be before me - but when the figure finally emerges from the murk, my eyes widen lickety-split, and I sharply inhale.

I haven’t seen him in fucking years. And here he was, barely standing a metre away from my person.

“I knew ya’d remember me,” he says, his tone at a normal amplification now.

My lips shift into a dumb smile. It was my dad. Or, one of the two, at least.

“I’m so happy to see ya again” I state in a mellow manner, which in turn births a shocked expression across my pa’s ghostly mug. Oh, shit. Had I said something wrong?

His following words were cold, aided by a fierce, harsh chuckle. “Even after what ya did to me, Leroy? Damn, I guess time does heal all wounds.”

Welp, I cannot say I was expecting that. In a matter of split seconds, my tail went from a perky wag to a remorseful droop. Just for a little bit of backstory, I had kinda exiled this guy after stealing his place as top dog. I don’t really remember why, to be honest. Just sorta felt like the right thing to do in the heat of the moment. But hell, I didn’t know that he fuckin’ died. My bad.

“I’m- I’m sorry, Skipworth,” I offer to the best of my ability, “I was inconsiderate, and-”.

“Inconsiderate doesn’t fucking cut it.” Skipworth interjects, forcing me to wince in a blameworthy response. “Me and Calafiore threw two years of our lives into the bin, so we could raise you after your parents left you for dead.” His breathing becomes heavy, which is somewhat off-putting, considering that oxygen isn’t a necessity anymore. In the wake of a shallow sigh, the Doberman clears his throat, seemingly ready to speak once more. “Funny,” he says, “how I save your life, only for you to put me to death some years later.”

My father’s words hit me hard. He really went to town on busting my chops like that. It’s going to be incredibly hard to come back from that. A knot materializes in my throat - another thing that shouldn’t have happened, what with me being dead and all.

“Skipworth…” I start, not knowing where to go next, “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I-”

“Leroy, just forget it,” he cuts me off again, obviously not desiring to hear no apology. When it comes to making people feel bad, Skipworth was no slacker. “It’s not like we can do anything about it now, anyways.”

“I had no idea you’d die ‘cause of me!” I blurt, much to my father’s discontent, “Loretta was tellin’ me one thing, and Calafiore wasn’t sayin’ nothin’, and all that shit was gettin’ to my head, and-”

“Enough, kid. Like I said, it doesn’t fucking matter. I’m not here for an apology or excuse, so save your sorrows for later.”
My noggin slowly nods upwards to downwards in understanding. That kinda made sense. An apology wouldn’t earn him anything at this stage in undeath. “Whaddya want with me, then?” I proceed to ask, which was really the only thing I could ask at the moment.

The older male scoffs at my question, a grin beginning to take shape upon his now-facetious expression. This bemuses me, as I can’t recall a single incident in life where this man wore a smile. I knew him only as a busy bee with no space on his itinerary for merriment, so catching sight of his smirk scares me to a point.  “Boy, there are a lotta things I want with you. If I could, I’d kill you myself. Unfortunately, that is a little out of my reach at the moment. Instead, I am going to do the second-best thing.”

I feel my eyes widen as soon as his words come to a close. What could possibly be second-best to killing? I make an attempt to prevent it, but I audibly gulp-

“I am going to help your pitiful ass.”

What.

“I died a short while after you kicked me out of the street. You left me without a steady source of food, water, and shelter. That, coupled with the fact it was in the middle of fucking winter, left me with no hope of survival. So I died - wish I hadn’t, but sometimes things do not go the way you want.”

As he speaks, I sit my translucent rump on the soil. A good storyteller deserves a good hearer.

Skipworth continues. “It wasn’t long before I found myself in the same scenario as you. Stuck in the real world, even though I am as dead as a herring. Wish I could have been one of the lucky sorts who got to heaven; even a trip to hell would be a fate better than this…”

After that hindmost comment, I find it impossible to quell the urge to interfere. “Wait, so there is a heaven and hell?”

“Well, no shit,” the hound ever-so-rudely retorts.

I frown at this. “Then why am I like this? Why can’t I be an angel, or something?”

“You would make a shit angel and we both know it,” Skipworth shoots back, “but to answer your question, people like us don’t belong to no afterlife. If you had ever heard a ghost story, you would know the exact reason why - ‘unfinished business’, or whatever it is. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s the only logical case I can make for it”.

Huh. That sounds plausible, I guess. “What business d’ya gotta tend to, old man? There someone you want bummed off?”

“Pfft. I know you’re trying to be an annoyance, you dunderhead - this manages a snicker or two out of my system - but truth be told, yes, I am waiting for someone to die. My husband, to be exact.”

“Ah.”

“I have had a couple years to ponder about it, and I’ve concluded that I can only retire to the afterlife once Calafiore passes.”

“Neat.”

“Your one-word responses indicate disinterest,” he quips, alongside a brief roll of his hazel luminaries, “have you something to say?”

By now, his story had dragged on for five minutes or so, and in that timeframe, literally no information worth mentioning had been shared on his part. Or at least, none that was relevant to me. He said he wanted to help, so could he just get on with the helping, already? “I mean,” I muster, “what ya said was great, ‘n all… but how does it relate to everything I’m going through?”

“I-” he mouths in response, scrutinizing my figure while a brutal look of disappointment and disbelief sat atop his face. “I would have gotten to that part already if you had the slightest shred of fucking patience.”

“But like- just get to the point, okay? You were sayin’ stuff about unfinished business, and how I’m stuck lookin’ like this ‘til that business gets taken care of. Obviously, that business won’t be taken care of any time soon, so Imma be stuck like this for a very long time.”

“But that’s the thing, Leroy,” says Skipworth, traces of rascality dancing in his eyes, “you won’t be stuck like that for a very long time.”

“We’re gonna find you a body.”

-

Possession. When used in a supernatural sense, the word can be defined as ‘the act of completely stealing someone’s life from under their toes’. Is it very ethical? No, not entirely. Am I a man of ethics? No, not entirely.

My old man, who had apparently been my own ghostly audience member for the last two years, got me hooked on the idea after describing some of the events he saw during his dead days. ‘Some folks are too impatient,’ he told me as we strolled out of Tanglewood’s claimed land, ‘so they will up and nab a living body for their own use.’ Initially, I was tentative, but when I was assured that ‘most times, the poor milksop getting possessed doesn’t even know what’s happening’/b], I eased up to the idea of it.

After what may have been hours of walking across the island, we sat at a shoreline, facing the ocean’s waves. [b]‘Why are ya doin’ this?’ I had asked then. It wasn’t very clear as to why he wanted to help, especially after making a big fuss about me killing him and whatnot.

He didn’t answer. Just kept looking out at the waves like a total jackass. Instead, he merely murmured ‘Follow me,’ and began walking in the direction of the sea. His movement did not come to a halt once his paws met the water.  ‘Come on,’ Skipworth promptly voiced, looking back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of me, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

So, we walked across the ocean.

-

“Take your pick.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I mean - look at ‘em. They’re all bozos.”

We are at one of the city’s biggest, busiest streets. Executive busybodies, dressed from top to bottom in the finest fabrics, prowl the sidewalks. Among them are the country bumpkins, clad in plaid and flannel, grocery bags in arm. Between the sidewalks is a roadway, utilized by such an abundance of cars that it’s more compact than a tin of anchovies.

“You always told me and Calafiore that you dreamed of being a human. Now is your chance.”

“No.”

“Leroy,” exclaims Skipworth, with a voice marked by irritation, “I’m offering you a second chance. Possess one of these people, just like I taught you on the way here.”

“Well, frankly-” I begin, “I don’t want to be human.”

A soft laugh, one of disbelief, left Skip worth’s lips at this. “So, what, this little jaunt was all for nothing? I brought you off of that stupid, scummy island back to the heart of civilization, and that’s not enough for you?”

“I wouldn’t say it was for nothing,” I state, for I have another plan in mind. “Skipworth, do you know what happened to my parents - like, actual parents - after they ditched me?”

“Yes, actually. I went looking for them after I had passed just out of curiosity. Apparently they had another litter, but this time, they kept it - instead of, you know, leaving them to die.”

Perfect.

“Say, do you know where they live?”

“Uh, last time I checked they were living large in a fancy shmancy house on 63rd street.”

“Take me there.”

“I want to see my family.”

//CONTINUED HERE