Chapter Text
The wine has yet to get to Amanda's head, no matter the fact that she's 3 glasses of the bitter drink in. Or at least she likes to think that, as she idly peoplewatches at the not-too-busy bar a block down from her apartment. The bartender (a guy who’s worked here long enough to know not to ask too many questions) polishes a whiskey glass, eyes trailing off to the door whenever the bell that hangs on it rings a little, as if expecting someone more interesting to walk in. More often than not, it's just wind.
The place isn’t quite dead, but whether or not it was alive was quite questionable. It was just a purgatory of a bar, hanging in the limbo.
There’s the elderly couple in the back booth— regulars, as far as Amanda can tell. They drink and dine slowly, speaking in murmurs that never rise above the hum of the neon sign outside. By the stage, a group of girls leans into each other; and on the elevated platform, the night’s entertainment: a washed-up musician with a beat-up electric guitar, the kind of man who was probably told he had something once, but never quite found it.
Amanda glances at her phone. No messages. She taps a corner of it against the counter absentmindedly, then takes another sip of her wine. Outside, the air is thick with the scent of street tacos and car exhaust, the low murmur of the city stretching long into the night that had just begun.
The bartender moves down the counter, refilling a whiskey glass without a word, but with a sliver of a smile on his lips. Amanda watches, wordlessly wondering how many times he’s done this. And, an afterthought— how many people have sat where she sits now, nursing drinks and half-thoughts, just as she was then and there.
She stretched, sliding a few bills under her empty glass. The musician played another song— slower, off-key, slightly resigned. Amanda didn’t stay to hear the end of it.
The streets are warm though there wasn't the sun in the sky anymore, pavement still holding onto its intense heat. She walks home, past the flickering streetlights and a busy laundromat. A siren wails somewhere in the distance, overpowered quickly by the rich cacophony that is traffic on the 101. Her apartment is only a few blocks away, but the walk feels longer tonight. It’s especially when you want some peace that you realize the city never really goes quiet, and only shifts frequencies.
When she reaches her building, she hesitates at the door, as if expecting some revelation to hit her in the dim glow of the hallway light. Nothing comes. Just the quiet shuffle of a neighbor’s TV through the thin walls— a Netflix show, double its normal speed. Just the sound of her own breath, steady, unchanged.
She locks the door behind her, thinking, tomorrow, she’ll do it all again.
Amanda had just kicked off her shoes when her phone vibrated against the counter. She knew it would be Shayne before she even checked. He always called at moments like this, when the universe had handed down another rejection, as if his voice could soften the impact.
She let it ring twice before answering.
"Hey, superstar," he said, his voice carrying the practiced ease of someone trying not to sound apologetic.
Amanda sat on the stool by her small kitchen island, idly running a finger along a speck of dust that had built up behind the faucet. "Hey. What’s up?"
A small pause. "Got the call from casting. It’s a no."
Amanda breathed in through her nose, slow and steady. "Well, there goes my Oscar."
"Hey," Shayne said, much gentler now. "It wasn’t you. They wanted someone… below six feet,” Shayne tried to joke, but read the room and dropped the act all in the same next breath, “We’ll get the next one."
Shayne had been with her from the beginning of this whole dream stint— first as her manager, then her agent when she severed ways with her toxic management, and now something more like a best friend. He knew the rhythm of her rejections almost as well as she did. Knew when to push, when to distract, when to let her sit with it. He was the only person in LA who had seen her at her highest and lowest and still stuck around, still believed in her even when she could barely believe in herself.
She made a noise of agreement, mindlessly pushing the lever of the faucet, and washing the dirtied finger under the running water. He was saying something else, something about strategy and persistence, but she was only half listening.
"I know," she interrupted. "We’ll get the next one."
He hesitated, but relented. "That’s right. Get some sleep, Mandy."
"Yeah. Night, Shayne."
She ended the call before he could reply. The least she could do was save him the guilt of having to talk her through another career rejection.
The second the line disconnected, something inside her gave way. Her hands curled into fists against her thighs. Then, as if on cue, she folded forward, pressing her forehead to the cold countertop. And she just stayed like that.
The rejection never stung in the moment, but sooner rather than later, it found her.
After a while, she straightened. Rubbed her hands over her face. Stood up, feeling the weight settle back into her bones.
She reached for the on the topmost of her bookshelf, where not much people could reach— and pulls out a wooden box with the peeling gold trim. Her tarot deck.
It had been with her longer than her dreams of Hollywood, longer than Shayne, longer than any relationship she’d ever had. She shuffled the cards, their edges worn soft from use, and let the deck settle in her hands. A deep breath, and an empty mind to invite in what the universe has to communicate. A cut of the deck. Then, she places a card face-up on the counter.
The Hanged Man. Suspension. Surrender.
She exhaled, pressing her fingers into the worn paper. It wasn’t the worst card, but it wasn’t the one she wanted to see either.
"Figures," she muttered to no one in particular.
The city hummed beyond her window. Cars rolled down Sunset. A siren in the distance. She let the card sit there, a quiet verdict, before flipping it back over and sliding the deck into its box.
She was getting ready for bed, pulling her hair into a loose bun, when her phone buzzed again. Another text. Unsurprisingly from Shayne.
Got you an audition. Two weeks. I’ll brief you when I have the details.
A pause. Then another message.
Don’t give up.
And lastly—
Happy birthday.
Amanda stared at the screen for a long moment. Then, without replying, she turned off the lamp and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow, she has to do it all again.
Two weeks passed in a slow, colorless blur.
Every morning, she pulled a card. She felt the need to.
The first day, it was The Magician: power, potential, manifestation. A reminder that she had the tools, even if she didn’t feel like she did.
The next, The High Priestess: mystery, intuition, something just beyond reach. A secret waiting to be revealed.
Then, again, The Hanged Man: patience, surrender, waiting. The universe is telling her to stop fighting the current.
Every morning, the cards hinted at a meeting, someone of importance, someone unusual. Yet the days stretched in a dull cycle of tea, rehearsing lines, scrolling through casting calls, and waiting. Well, the cards weren't always correct, she supposed. At least that's what she wanted to believe, even if in fact, they've never failed her.
She soon learns the role was of a mother of two in a musical about loss. It quite fit her, as she was a taller woman that everyone assumed older (not that she ever took offense in that). She practiced in front of her bathroom mirror, memorizing the words, the melody, and most importantly the weight of a woman who had lost everything. Shayne had briefed her earlier that week, running through character notes and the director’s vision over coffee at their favorite café.
She sang quietly everywhere– in the shower, in the car, in her head at night when she couldn’t sleep, trying to find the grief in her own bones, trying to make it real.
Audition day came like an exhale after holding her breath for too long.
Shayne picked her up an hour early. As always, knowing she liked to sit with the moment before lunging right into it headfirst. The drive was quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper as she skimmed through her notes, half-muttering reminders she already knew by heart.
Outside, the city blurred by in streaks of morning light, mystery factory fumes, neon store lights and hundreds of people— basically the same old Los Angeles she had forced herself to love, and it was like a never-ending overture.
When he pulled up to the venue— a nondescript building with barely any windows (a safety hazard, really), and a small brass sign— he put the car in park by the curb and turned to her.
“Listen,” he said, still looking forward, a little guilty of what he’s about to say. “You know how these things go. It’s not about talent. It’s not about effort. It’s about whether or not they see it. And today, they should. Just go in there and do what you do.”
Amanda nodded, avoiding eye contact as well, pressing her palms against her thighs. “Yeah.”
Shayne finally turned his head, studied her for a second, then reached over and smoothed a wrinkle in her sleeve. “I mean it, Amanda. You’re good. Just don’t psych yourself out.”
She let out a small breath. “I’ll try.” She says with a nervous smile, and a little bow of thanks.
With that, she stepped out of the car, shoulders squared, the weight of the morning settling into her bones.
Inside, the waiting room was packed. A sea of women her age, all different variations of herself (or rather, the role)— different hairstyles, different postures, different interpretations. Some whispered lines inaudibly, others scrolled mindlessly on their phones, distracting themselves could change the outcome. The air smelled like coffee and cheap, fruity, perfume. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, too cold and too bright for Amanda's liking.
Amanda signed in, took a seat by the window, and let herself disappear into the moment.
The chair beside her was empty.
In a room this crowded, that was strange. At this point some of the girls gave Amanda looks for scrutinizing a perfectly empty chair. But there it sat, still, untouched. As if someone had been sitting there and just stepped away.
Even when she turned away as to not look directly at it, she felt something. Not quite a presence, more like the suggestion of one.
The air felt heavier.
She blinked, and the feeling passed. Then, they inevitably called her name.
Inside the audition room, the walls were blank, the floors scuffed. The director, a woman with short gray hair, barely looked up from her notes. The casting assistant gave her a quick, polite nod.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Amanda took her mark. And then, she sang.
The song came from somewhere deep. It was the kind of sadness that didn’t ask for permission, the kind that seeped into your bones before you even knew it was there. Her voice filled the empty space, curling into the corners, pressing against the silence.
And then— something shifted.
The room wasn’t empty anymore.
She couldn’t see or hear anything, but the weight of the air changed. It was the feeling of being watched, but not in a way that made her uneasy. It was familiar, like a memory she couldn’t quite place.
She kept singing.
Something brushed against her shoulder. Light, like fingertips tracing the edge of a dream.
She didn’t stop, as she was so lost in it. At that moment, she lived the role.
And for a moment— just a moment— she wasn’t alone.
The song ended, and there was silence.
The director finally looked up. The casting assistant scribbled something down. One of the judges, an older man with wire-framed glasses, gave the barest hint of a smile.
“Thank you, Amanda,” the assistant said. “We’ll be in touch.”
She nodded, murmured a mechanical yet polite goodbye, and stepped outside.
The day had changed with the sky turning a shade of blue too pale. The streets felt stretched, like they had been pulled at the edges.
Shayne’s car was waiting, right outside. He leaned out the window. “Well?”
“I think it went well,” she said.
“You don’t sound sure.”
She wasn’t.
Something about the room stayed with her. The weight of it. The feeling that she had sung to someone who wasn’t supposed to be there.
From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone standing at the edge of the sidewalk.
Shayne drove with one hand on the wheel, the other flicking through the radio stations until he landed on something tolerable. The car smelled the same as always— the faintest trace of his cologne— but tonight, something felt different. The streets felt like they stretched too long, the headlights smeared into soft, glowing orbs because of the dirt that gathered on the window. The world outside looked almost painted on, like a set piece she could peel away if she pressed hard enough. She even started idly scratching at the glass with her pointer finger, not for any reason in particular.
“Want to eat somewhere?” Shayne asked.
Amanda shook her head. “I think I just want to go home.”
Shayne glanced at her, obviously concerned. “You good?”
She nodded, but the feeling hadn’t left her– that something (or someone) had followed her out of that audition room.
She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did. It wasn’t a heavy feeling, nor did it set her nerves on edge. It was quiet, like a shadow that did belong to her.
By the time she got home, the weight of it had settled over her and made her feel like she'd been wearing a coat this whole time. She wasn't though.
Her apartment greeted her with its usual stillness.
The air was stale in the way it always was when she’d been gone too long, like it had been sitting there, undisturbed, waiting.
She shut the door behind her and exhaled. The silence was heavy, but not suffocating. The presence, whatever it was, had followed her home. She was sure of it now.
She turned, half-expecting to see something standing in the doorway.
Nothing.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator, indicating it was working. The clock on the wall, ticking as it should be. She sighed, rubbing her temple. Maybe she really was losing it.
She moved into the kitchen, reaching for a glass. She needed a glass of wine or two, that's the only thing she was sure of. She manevered toward the fridge. And then—
A mistake.
Her hip clipped the counter. The glass slipped from her fingers.
She fumbled, hands scrambling to catch it, only to send it further into the air. It was like a cartoon, the way she barely caught it a number of times before it was completely out of her arm's length.
Then, as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect comedic timing—
Her socked foot slid against the tile, and suddenly, she was weightless. The glass hit the floor, shattering. In the same breath, she followed, arms flailing uselessly before landing in an awkward, breathless heap. Thankfully, not over any broken glass.
Silence.
And then—
Laughter. And it wasn't her own.
It wasn’t cruel. It was soft, surprised, breathy— like someone watching a friend trip up the stairs.
Amanda lifted her head, heart pounding. The first assumption was that someone had crashed into her apartment and hid away as they heard her arrive, in the middle of theft.
"Who the fuck is there–"
A girl stood a few feet away.
She was small, somewhere over five feet tall, her bobbed hair slightly tousled, as if she’d just woken up. Her hoodie was too big for her frame, hanging loose around her shoulders. She had eyes the color of burnt caramel— beautiful, but unreadable. Blank in a way that made them seem both young and impossibly old.
Amanda stared. The girl stared back. Then, sheepishly spoke.
“Sorry. You fell really funny.”
Amanda blinked. “What the fuck ?”
The girl tilted her head. “What are you ‘ what the fuck ’ing at?”
“You!” Amanda sat up, wincing. Her panicked words came out of her mouth before her brain could even fully process them, “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?!”
The girl frowned slightly, looking around the apartment like she was just now seeing it for the first time. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.” She looked down at herself, flexing her fingers experimentally. Like it was the first time she had seen herself in such a state as well. “Where is this?”
Amanda scrambled to her feet, grabbing the nearest object— her phone charger. Useless, but wielded with purpose, and the intention to cause some serious injury. “You’re telling me you just appeared in my apartment?”
“Maybe?” The girl looked faintly concerned, as if this was inconvenient news. “Am I trespassing?”
“Yes.” Amanda didn't hesitate to answer.
“Oh.” The girl winced. “I didn’t mean to. I think I might be lost.”
Amanda narrowed her eyes. The girl didn’t look like a threat. If anything, she looked just as confused as she was.
“Wait.” Amanda exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Are you a ghost?”
The girl perked up slightly. “Oh! That makes sense.”
“You’re just now realizing that?" Amanda pauses, then makes a face of confusion, "And not freaking out?”
“Yeah, kinda. I had a feeling something was off, but I wasn’t sure what.” The ghost just shrugged off the latter part of her statement.
Amanda stared at her. “Jesus Christ.”
The girl frowned. “Who’s that?”
Amanda groaned. “Oh my god.”
The girl nodded. “Yeah, him too.”
Amanda turned away, needing a moment to process, but the second she did, the girl let out a small, amused breath.
“Sorry, I know them. It just seemed like it’d be a funny joke if I happened to not know them and—" she stops herself, realizing she was overexplaining. “But really, you falling was comedy .”
Amanda threw the phone charger at her, meter-long cord and everything. It passed straight through, not even tickling the ghastly girl.
The girl grinned. “You laughing at me, fair. Shit not hitting you? Not fair.” One could see the frustration in Amanda's face.
The ghost tilted her head, her dark bob shifting ever so slightly, like it was caught in a breeze that wasn’t there. “Okay, so, uh… introductions?”
Amanda crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one side. The overhead light flickered, casting faint, restless shadows along the walls. No shadow for the girl across her, though. “You break into my apartment, watch me make a complete ass of myself, and now we’re doing icebreakers?”
She winced, looking vaguely guilty. “I didn’t break in. I, uh… phased? Materialized? No, wait— manifested . That sounds fancy.”
“Uh-huh,” Amanda deadpanned. “So what do I call my illegally manifested guest?”
Angela straightened up, and proudly professed: “Angela.”
A pause, as though Amanda were expecting more– a surname? A second name? An old-timey title?
“Just Angela?”
Angela frowned, as if searching for a last name somewhere in the empty pockets of her mind. “Yeah. I think. That’s all I remember.”
Amanda raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
Angela nodded slowly, her nose scrunching up. “It’s like… I know it’s my name, but the rest is all fucked. Like a radio station that won’t tune in right.”
Amanda exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple to try and calm herself down. “Jesus. You sound like you have a head injury.”
Angela blinked, considering this. “I do not—” she hesitated. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Amanda sighed, glancing at the floor where Angela’s feet should have been. They hovered just slightly above the worn-out wood, toes not quite touching. “So, what? You have unfinished business? You gonna haunt me until you, like, solve a murder or uncover some deep tragic backstory?”
Angela made a face. “Unfinished business?”
“Yeah. That’s what all the spooky documentaries say,” Amanda waved vaguely, as if conjuring up an entire season of ghost-hunting TV. “Spirits stick around because they’ve got shit left to do. Wrongs to right. Mysteries to solve. Dramatic, heart-wrenching love confessions to make before dissolving into moonlight or whatever.”
Angela tilted her head like a confused dog. “Well, I was lactose intolerant when I was alive, but I always wanted to try a milkshake—”
Amanda gave her a flat look.
Angela groaned. “Yeah, okay. That was a shitty joke.”
“Glad you’re self-aware.”
Angela huffed and flopped backward in midair, her arms floating slightly away from her sides, as if she were submerged in invisible water. “God, this is frustrating. I know my memories are in there somewhere, but it’s like someone stuffed my brain full of fog. Like… a storage unit filled with someone else’s crap, and my stuff’s buried underneath.”
Angela waved a hand vaguely, her fingers passing through the ceiling fan. “I mean, I know I lived in L.A. And I know I had a dog.”
Amanda’s brow furrowed. “That’s… a start? What kind of dog?”
Angela brightened, eyes lighting up with something close to excitement. “Oh! He was this little chihuahua— short legs, big ears, face like he’d been hit with a frying pan.”
Amanda snorted. “Sounds adorable.”
“He was! Real dumb, though. Loved him to bits, but he had, like, two brain cells and they were constantly fighting for dominance. Always shaking. Mad anxiety– among other things.”
“What was his name?”
Angela opened her mouth, then shut it again, her brows knitting together. The fog in her mind shifted, parting just enough to reveal— “Spork.”
Amanda blinked. “Spork.”
Angela nodded solemnly, somewhat proudly. “Spork.”
There was a beat of silence before Amanda burst out laughing.
“Hey, fuck you,” Angela said, folding her arms, but she was grinning. “Spork was a very good boy.”
“Not denying it,” Amanda said, still chuckling. “That’s just a choice of a name.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly rocking peak creativity when I named him. I saw a spork, thought, that’s funny, and bam. Life choices were made.”
Amanda shook her head, a small smile lingering at the corner of her mouth. The conversation felt weirdly normal, which was objectively insane given that she was talking to an actual fucking ghost. And yet, she didn’t feel scared.
Not even a little.
Angela, meanwhile, floated lazily around the room, occasionally turning in slow, weightless somersaults.
“So, your audition,” she said suddenly. “I was there.”
Amanda stiffened slightly. “You were?”
Angela hummed. “Yeah. That’s actually when I first really felt like I had a body. Well. Ghost body.” She did a midair twirl for emphasis. “Before that, I was kinda… drifting? But when you were up there on stage, I felt, I dunno, solid for the first time. It was weird.”
Amanda frowned. “That’s… oddly poetic.”
Angela nodded, hand under her chin in a 'thinking man' pose. “Yeah. Too bad I’m not poetic. It's just genuinely how I fuckin' felt.”
Amanda let out a surprised laugh. “Jesus, you talk like a drunk uncle.”
Angela smirked. “Thank you.”
She floated toward the window, absently sticking a hand through the glass like it was nothing. The city outside flickered with life— cars humming, neon signs buzzing faintly in the distance.
Then, without warning, she launched herself upward.
Amanda flinched. “What the fuck?”
Angela let out a startled yelp as she abruptly shot toward the ceiling, arms flailing. “Oh, shit—”
She tumbled backward midair, spinning once before righting herself.
“Holy fuck,” she breathed. “I can fly?”
Amanda ran a hand down her face. “You have been for the past twenty or so minutes, honey. You even made that same flip a while–"
Angela, still floating near the ceiling, grinned, and cut Amanda off. “I feel like Casper, but, like, if Casper had anxiety and said fuck a lot.”
“Jesus Christ,” Amanda muttered.
Angela did a slow, triumphant loop in the air before looking back down at her. “Hey.”
“What?”
“You ever wanted to fly?”
Amanda hesitated, then shook her head in disbelief. “What?”
Angela smirked, then held out a ghastly hand.
“Come on,” she said. “Live a little.”
Amanda exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the weird little thrill spreading all across her stomach. This was stupid. She had a ghost in her apartment, a foul-mouthed, mischievous little shit of a ghost, and yet—
She had just tried to hold her hand. Like she hasn't made herself look like an idiot enough tonight.
Angela, still floating midair like she had all the time in the world, was grinning like she had just witnessed the greatest comedy routine of the century.
“Oh fuck,” she gasped, mimicking Amanda’s voice dramatically. “Let me just casually hold this spectral entity’s hand like it’s not basic ghost science that I fucking can’t.”
Amanda groaned. “I swear to God, if you don’t shut the fuck up—”
Angela spun in the air, cackling. “What? You mad? You disappointed?”
Amanda shot her a deadpan look. “I was having a moment of— of something, and you ruined it.”
Angela wagged a finger at her. “Correction: I improved it.”
Amanda snorted despite herself. Angela beamed, clearly pleased, and Amanda, against all reason, felt that warmth creep up again.
It was ridiculous. The ghost had the emotional depth of an ashtray, cursed like a sailor, and somehow still looked obnoxiously good and confident while floating effortlessly in the middle of her shitty apartment.
Amanda rolled her eyes, shaking it off even though she was really embarrassed.
“You know what,” she sighed, flopping onto the couch, “I’m done trying to make sense of you.”
Angela landed softly on the floor, looking absurdly smug. “That,” she said, “is the first smart thing you’ve said all night.”
Amanda grabbed another pillow and chucked it at her. It went straight through, of course, but Angela still flinched.
Amanda smirked. “Hah. Loser.”
Angela scowled, arms crossed. “You’re so fucking lucky I can’t throw things back.”
“And you’re fucking lucky nothing I throw hurts you!” Amanda sounded exasperated, but in a lighthearted manner.
Amanda exhaled, long and slow, sinking further into the couch. The glow from the kitchen clock read 12:37 AM. The city outside was quiet in that eerie way it got past midnight, like the whole world had slipped into the negative space between awake and dreaming.
And she had a ghost hovering in the middle of her living room.
“So.” Amanda drummed her fingers on her knee. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
Angela, still grinning like an absolute menace, floated just high enough to make it annoying. “I dunno, man. You’re the one who tried to hold my hand.”
Amanda groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Oh, I think we are talking about that,” Angela said, delightfully giddy.
Amanda shot her a glare, but Angela just grinned wider. “You know what? Forget it. Just— what do ghosts do? Are you gonna haunt my apartment? Do you have, like, unfinished business or whatever?”
Angela tilted her head. “Is that what the spooky documentaries say?”
Amanda shrugged. “That, or you’re stuck here because someone pissed off a witch in 1843.”
“I mean, probably not. Pretty sure I lived in LA, not some haunted-ass Victorian manor.” Angela was starting to have fun floating back and forth as they conversed, and Amanda's eyes just followed her as she did.
Then, Amanda blinked. “You remember that?”
Angela’s face scrunched up. “Yeah. Kind of. It’s all weird and fuzzy, like trying to remember a dream while you’re still half-asleep.”
Angela shrugged. “That’s pretty much all I got. I don’t remember how I got here, or why I’m—” She gestured vaguely at herself. “You know. Not alive.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Amanda wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that. Sorry? Sucks to be you? None of it seemed right.
Angela, to her credit, didn’t seem particularly disturbed by it. She just hovered there, arms folded.
“So,” Amanda said finally, “what were you doing when you… uh…”
Angela wiggled her fingers. “Became a spooky little ghostie?”
Amanda snorted. “Sure.”
Angela frowned, thinking. “I think— I think I was on my way to something important. Something I really cared about.” Her expression twisted in frustration. “But I can’t fucking remember.”
“Maybe it’ll come back to you.”
Angela hummed. “Maybe.”
Another silence. Clearly, they were both lost.
Amanda tapped the armrest. “Well. If you are stuck here, I’m setting some ground rules. No floating through walls and jumpscaring me in the middle of the night.”
Angela gasped dramatically. “Wow. Taking away all my rights immediately.”
“Also, don’t be a dick.” Amanda threw in for good measure.
Angela made a face. “Ugh. Okay, but like. Only some of the time.”
Amanda sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Fucking great.”
Angela hovered a little closer, peering at her with an almost childlike curiosity. “What about you? What were you doing today?”
Amanda hesitated. The audition felt like another lifetime ago, but—
“I was trying out for a play,” she admitted.
Angela’s eyes lit up. “Oh, shit. Like, real acting? Not, like, a scam audition where some guy in a suit tells you you’d be perfect for this ‘exciting new opportunity’ but first you need to pay five grand for ‘headshots’?”
Amanda huffed a laugh. “Real acting. I mean, I think. It felt legit.”
Angela nodded sagely. “So, did you kill it?”
Amanda hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I did.”
Angela grinned. “Hell yeah.”
And for some reason, Amanda felt warm again. Like the whole weird, fucked-up night was a little less heavy.
Maybe it was the exhaustion finally catching up to her, or maybe it was something else entirely, but she suddenly felt incredibly aware of the fact that there was a dead girl floating in her apartment, cracking jokes like they’d known each other for years.
“So,” Angela said, stretching her arms over her head, “what’s next?”
Amanda sighed, shaking her head. “Fuck if I know.”
Amanda sank into the couch, limbs sprawled, exhaustion wrapping around her like a weighted blanket. The day had stretched too long, reality bending at its edges, and she wasn’t entirely sure where the performance ended and where she began.
Her eyes flicked to Angela, who hovered a few inches above the floor, arms crossed, looking as if she had all the time in the world. Which, apparently, she did.
Amanda exhaled. She wonders if all this is real, for the first time tonight. Had she really met a ghost tonight, or was her mind just unraveling from stress, conjuring up something absurd to cope? Maybe she’d wake up tomorrow and find she’d spent the night talking to an empty room, or worse, the refrigerator.
Angela tilted her head. “You’re staring.”
“Yeah, well. I’m still deciding if you’re a fever dream.”
Angela grinned. “Then I’m your best fever dream ever.”
Amanda snorted despite herself.
Angela did a slow, deliberate twirl in the air. “You look exhausted. But… Do ghosts get sleeping arrangements? Do I stand in a dark corner like some Victorian child? Hover ominously above your bed?”
Amanda scrubbed a hand over her face. “You don’t even sleep, do you?”
Angela pursed her lips. “I dunno. I don’t remember if I ever did. That’s weird, right? I mean, I must’ve. Everyone sleeps.” Her brows furrowed. “God, what if I was one of those people who only slept three hours a night? What if I was that person?”
Amanda yawned. “Then this is karma.”
Angela scoffed. “Wow. You’re real compassionate.”
“Can’t afford compassion right now. Too tired.” Amanda pushed herself up, stretching her arms over her head. A silent pop can be heard as she does. “You can… I don’t know. Do ghost things. Just not in my room.”
Angela crossed her arms. “Are you scared I’ll stand at the foot of your bed and whisper your name?”
Amanda gave her a deadpan look. “I’m scared you’ll talk my ear off.”
Angela gasped, offended. “Excuse you, my company is charming.”
Amanda rolled her eyes and headed toward her room. But before she could disappear behind the door, Angela’s voice stopped her.
“Hey,” Angela said, suddenly quiet. “I, uh… wish I could help out, you know? With dishes or, like, cleaning. I feel like I should at least earn my keep. Instead, I’m just…” She wiggled her fingers, and they passed uselessly through the kitchen counter. “A glorified gust of wind.”
Amanda turned back. Something about that— about Angela’s small, awkward attempt at care— settled strangely in her chest.
It had been a while since someone had wanted to do something for her.
For the past few years, life had been an unspoken agreement of self-sufficiency. You take care of yourself, you don’t expect anything, you don’t ask for anything. You grind. You move forward. You become a version of yourself that fits into the shape of a city that doesn’t care whether you sink or swim.
But here was Angela, an actual ghost, looking frustrated that she couldn’t scrub a plate.
Amanda’s lips twitched. “It’s fine. You’d probably just break stuff anyway. Also funny you'd think I'd let you stay for long.”
Angela groaned. “God. You’re the worst.”
“Yep.”
Angela narrowed her eyes. “I should haunt you out of spite.”
“You’re already haunting me.”
Angela considered that. “Huh. Guess I gotta up my game.”
Amanda huffed a small laugh and turned toward her bed. “G’night, Spooky.”
Angela smirked. “Sweet dreams, Normie.”
Amanda collapsed into the mattress, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. She’d half-expected to wake up and find none of this had happened, that Angela was a byproduct of stress and too little sleep.
But something told her that when morning came, Angela would still be there.