Chapter Text
Earl Mackerel was a sophomore at Split River High. Was.
She stared down at herself, at the crumpled body sprawled across the pavement below. Limbs bent at wrong angles, blood seeping into the cracks of the concrete. It didn’t look real. It didn’t look like her.
It was stupid, really. She had only come up here for some air. That’s all she wanted—just a moment to breathe, to clear her head. But she got too emotional. She made a rash decision.
She jumped.
What an idiot.
It was disgusting.
She looked so scary on the pavement—a broken mess of twisted limbs and torn clothing, her hair fanned out like a dark halo around her head. Blood pooled beneath her, thick and shining under the streetlights. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she had something to say but never got the chance.
The screams hit her first—sharp, panicked. Girls crying, their voices cracking, hands covering their mouths. Boys staring, some frozen in place, others turning away, unable to look for too long. Someone was throwing up near the bike racks. Another was frantically dialing on their phone, hands shaking too hard to press the right numbers.
She couldn’t blame them.
If she were them, if she were still there, still in her body, she would be doing the same.
But she wasn’t.
She was here, watching, floating just above it all.
So what now?
"Hello?"
The voice was calm, and curious. Earl turned sharply, her stomach twisting—if she still had a stomach.
A man stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn-out jacket. He was tall, maybe in his twenties, with dark, messy hair and an expression that was far too relaxed for the situation.
She looked around, expecting someone else to react to him, but the living were too busy screaming and sobbing over her body. Earl swallowed, then looked back at him.
"You can see me?" she asked, her voice unsteady.
He chuckled. "Well, of course I can. I’m a ghost too."
Earl blinked.
"We all are."
He gestured behind him. Earl followed the movement and—her breath caught.
A group of people stood there, watching her. Teenagers, just like her, their faces a mix of curiosity and sympathy. Some looked like they belonged in her school, their outfits familiar, their features strangely frozen in time. Others were different—styles from decades past, haircuts and clothes that didn’t match anything from this world anymore.
What is happening?
Earl’s voice wavered as she spoke. She could still hear the chaos behind her—sirens in the distance, the wails of her classmates, the sickening hush that always followed something irreversible.
"How am I still here?" she asked, her eyes darting between the man and the group of ghosts behind him.
The man sighed, his expression softening. He extended his hand.
"Come here," he said gently. "I’ll answer all your questions—at least, to the best of my ability. But first, we need to get out of here. You don’t need to see this."
Earl hesitated. She turned back to her body, still sprawled on the pavement. Someone—a teacher, maybe—was kneeling beside it, pressing trembling hands to a motionless wrist. Another person shouted into their phone, calling for an ambulance that would arrive far too late.
Her stomach twisted.
Then she looked back at the man. He was smiling at her—not in a cruel way, not like he was happy about what had happened, but like he understood. Like he had been here before.
Earl swallowed hard.
"Okay," she murmured.
She reached out, her fingers brushing against his. For a second, she braced herself for the impossible—for her hand to pass right through his, for this to be some kind of cruel trick.
But she felt it. Solid. Real.
And then, with one last glance at the life she had left behind, she took his hand.
Earl moved through the hallways of Split River High, her legs still shaking. The fluorescent lights flickered softly, the air filled with the distant hum of classroom chatter. Everything looked the same, but she knew it wasn’t.
She passed a trophy case and, without thinking, glanced at the glass.
Her reflection stared back.
Her breath caught in her throat. She looked… normal. No blood, no broken bones, no sign that she had just *died.* Her clothes were exactly as they had been before she jumped, her skin smooth, untouched. She raised a hand hesitantly, watching as her reflection mirrored her perfectly. Solid. Whole. *Alive.*
But she wasn’t.
Mr. Martin stopped beside her, watching her reaction. "It’s strange, isn’t it?" he said, his voice calm, understanding. "Seeing yourself like that."
Earl swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep moving. She felt *real*, her footsteps echoing against the linoleum. If it weren’t for the way the living ignored her completely, she could almost believe nothing had happened.
Almost.
They made their way to the gym.
It looked the same as always—high ceilings, faded banners, the faint scent of sweat and old wood. But something was off. A circle of chairs sat in the middle of the floor, and the other ghosts filed in silently, taking their seats like this was some kind of routine.
Mr. Martin cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. "Let’s introduce ourselves," he said. "My name is Mr. Martin. I was a teacher here in 1958 before I passed in an accidental fire."
Earl stared at him.
A fire? 1958?
Her gaze flicked to the others. Some wore outdated clothes, their styles belonging to another era. But others—some of them looked like they could have been sitting in class with her that same morning.
Earl’s stomach twisted.
Janet, the girl standing beside Mr. Martin, offered a small smile. She looked about Earl’s age, with a neat bob and a plaid skirt that seemed straight out of an old movie. "I died soon after Mr. Martin," she said. "Fell down the stairs. It was quick, at least."
Before Earl could process that, another girl slouched in her chair, twirling a lollipop between her fingers. She looked far more relaxed than the others, her dark curls bouncing as she leaned back.
"My name’s Rhonda," she sighed, as if she had been through this introduction a thousand times. She popped the lollipop in her mouth and shrugged. "My guidance counselor strangled me to death in 1963."
Earl stiffened.
Rhonda said it so casually, like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The words hung in the air, heavy and awful, and yet no one reacted with the shock Earl expected.
She turned to Mr. Martin, then back to the group.
She swallowed hard. "I—" Her voice cracked, and she had to try again. "I’m Earl," she muttered. "And I… I jumped. In 1980."
The words felt foreign in her mouth, like she was saying them about someone else. But there was no denying it.
She jumped.
And now she was here.
A few of the ghosts nodded in understanding. No one looked shocked. No one pitied her.
Earl wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.
Mr. Martin smiled gently. "Welcome to the group, Earl."
The other ghosts kept talking, their voices blending into a low hum, but Earl wasn’t listening anymore. Her mind had drifted, detached from the introductions and the strange reality she had found herself in.
Then, a scream cut through the noise.
It was louder than the rest. Raw. Shaking.
Earl’s breath hitched. Mom.
She didn’t need to see her to know—it was her. She could recognize that voice from miles away. A sound she had heard in anger, in laughter, in scolding. But never like this. Never *broken.*
Her chest tightened, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she pushed herself up. She barely heard Mr. Martin’s voice behind her.
"Earl! Wait—"
But she was already running.
She reached the window in seconds, pressing her hands against the glass. Outside, the scene blurred in a rush of flashing lights and movement. Paramedics hovered over her body, struggling to lift what was now just *a body.* But Earl barely saw them.
Her mother was on her knees on the pavement.
Sobbing.
Her whole body trembled with it, her hands clutching at nothing, nails digging into her arms like she was trying to hold herself together. Someone—a teacher? A stranger?—tried to touch her shoulder, but she flinched away.
Earl felt like she couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t how she thought it would be. She thought—what had she thought? That it would just *end*? That she wouldn’t have to see this part?
She pressed her hand harder against the glass.
"Mom," she whispered.
She wasn’t sure if she meant to say it aloud, if she thought, for a split second, that maybe—*maybe*—her mother would hear her.
But the only thing that answered her was the sound of her mother’s grief echoing through the night.
She stood there in the same outfit she had left home in that morning—her favorite black graphic T-shirt with a colorful design splashed across the front, paired with loose-fitting gray cargo pants. Her black sneakers, scuffed at the toes, peeked out from under the hem, white socks just barely visible above them. Slung over her shoulder was her beige woven bag, the one she had carried every day without thinking.
It was an outfit she had loved. Comfortable. Hers.
But all she could hear now was her mother’s voice.
"You look like a little boy in that. Can’t you wear something nicer?"
"That’s far too masculine for a little girl."
"People will think things about you, Earl."
The last words her mother would ever say about her appearance. And now, it was the last outfit she’d ever see her in.
A choked noise slipped from Earl’s throat, though no one could hear it.
She reached out, fingers brushing against the glass.
"Mom," she whispered again, her voice trembling.
Her mother didn’t react.
She would never hear her again.
A hand rested gently on Earl’s shoulder.
"Earl," Mr. Martin said softly. "Come away from the window."
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Because, for the first time, she realized—no matter how much she screamed, no matter how much she wanted to take it all back—
She was gone.