Chapter Text
Three months.
It'd been three months since the accident- and it'd been the most peaceful three months of my life.
No longer did I have to worry about anyone I loved slipping out of my control, because the factor that lured them away from me was dead. Dead! What a wonderful word, in relation to a horrible man like him.
The funeral came and went. None of my family attended, naturally. Headlines that nobody cared for ran, until eventually they stopped. His name became a forgotten relic of the past, only ever mentioned in relation to what happened to him. I was damn proud of it.
The world had moved on from Jay Gatsby, and they could all thank me.
As I sat there, reading the old headline again- “Gatsby's Grave Vandalized”- I could only laugh and shake my head.
“Gatsby, Gatsby, Gatsby…”
I'd never allowed Myrtle to repeat Daisy's name, but Gatsby's name felt pleasant on my tongue. It gave me that same triumphant rush it did when I first whispered it to George that fateful night. It made me prideful that the once larger-than-life name had fallen from grace.
However, the moment I repeated it then, the room went deathly cold. I shifted my coat- thrown hastily over my shoulder- to cover more of my body. But as I did, wind that seemed to come from nowhere swirled about the room. A pale, ghostly green glow burst from the fireplace as the fire shifted color, bringing no warmth to the surrounding area. Windows opened on their own, papers swirled, and the newspaper I'd been reading flew right into the angry flames.
“Who’s there?” My voice shook, as much as I tried not to let it. From the fire came a gut-wrenching scream of agony as a ghostly figure shot out, looking like a translucent green sheet. But as it came into focus, I could feel my blood run cold.
“Hello again, Old Sport.”
“Gatsby.” I stumbled back, clutching a chair, feeling sick. “No.”
“I'm afraid so.”
“No. You're dead.” My shaking hand felt around the coffee table frantically, coming back with a lamp. I grabbed it and held it above my head, like a baseball bat, ready to strike. “Get away!”
“Now, Old Sport, there's no need for that. Put it down.”
I refused to lower the lamp as I stared at him. His face and body were a pale, sickening green, with a hole visible through his chest. his eyes were glossed over as if they had no soul in them, and he looked like he was rotting as we spoke. He even appeared soaking wet, despite no water dripping from him.
“Why are you here?” I asked carefully, backing up.
He scoffed. “Don't you know never to call a spirit's name three times?”
“That's just a legend.” I spoke before the logic of the situation could fully register to me. Jay Gatsby, a dead man, was standing in my living room. Or floating, rather. Clearly, it was more than just a simple legend. But I feared the loss of control over the situation, so I refused to admit my mistake. “It is.”
“Oh? Why am I here then?” Gatsby crossed his arms.
“How do I know you're even real?” I spat back, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, you want me to prove it? Is that it?” Gatsby raised his voice, circling me like a vulture.
“...Yes.”
“How, exactly, would you like me to prove that I'm a real ghost, Mr. Buchanan?”
“I don't know.” I was trembling a bit by that point. It was just such a strange situation, far from anything I'd ever seen. “Just do it.”
“If you insist.”
With that, there was a flash of green light, and Gatsby vanished.
I laughed a bit, putting the lamp down, as things returned to normal. I'd merely fallen for a joke… how ridiculous of me, to believe that the ghost of Jay Gatsby was haunting me.
As my old drink had gone cold, I made my way to the kitchen to make a new one.
“What was that, dear?” Daisy asked as I entered the room.
“It was-” I started to speak, but some otherworldly force seemed to possess my mouth, forcing me to stutter out the words “a ghost” to Daisy. I covered my mouth, but Daisy just laughed and shook her head.
“Very funny, Tom. Say, I was going to run out for a bit and have some tea with an old friend. You don't mind, do you? Pammy is with the nanny, you won't have to watch her.”
“Of course not. Have fun.” I waved her off, deciding that my strange choice of speech was merely a desire not to lie. She nodded, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door, leaving me alone.
I began to pour hot water for my own tea, in one of my favorite mugs. But much to my suprise, once I filled the cup, I could not make my hand move. It was frozen in place. I couldn't move the rest of my body either. My heart began racing, my breathing grew frantic, and I began shaking slightly, barely visible with the meager amount of control I had.
That's when I heard it. A familiar little voice in the back of my head.
“You just tell me when to stop, Old Sport.”
I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. I felt my body shrug, and I mumbled “Oh, well” against my will. Some demonic force was possessing my body, and I was decently sure at that point that his name was Jay Gatsby.
I'm sure he could tell I believed he was there by that point, because he allowed me to put down the teapot. I dropped it numbly, the metal clanking loudly on the floor.
“What… What was that?”
I reached down shakily to pick up the tea kettle, dropped it in the sink, and ran to our bathroom to steady myself. I splashed my face with freezing cold water, which did nothing but remind me of the numbingly frigid wind that marked Gatsby's arrival earlier.
As I raised my head to look in the mirror, I froze for a moment when I saw my reflection. My eyes were glowing a bright, unnatural green, radiating a faint light. I shrieked, falling back, accidentally flipping the light switch. As I stood back up, all I could see in the mirror were the glowing green irises.
Suddenly, my arm moved on its own accord, flipping the lights back on. I found myself out of control again as I began to talk against my will, seemingly to myself.
“You’re quite jumpy, Old Sport. I never would have guessed, looking at you.”
As I felt that I could move again, I backed away from the mirror as if it were a wild animal.
“What's happening? What-”
“Are you that stupid?” My face in the mirror contorted into an inhuman grin, laughing. “It's me. Have I successfully proved myself to you yet?”
“Yes! Just- please, get out of me!” I clutched the sink, shaking as I pleaded with him.
“If you insist.” Suddenly, I saw the green glow of my eyes vanish, relinquishing itself to the normal slate blue they should be. Gatsby reappeared next to me, gently putting one of his nearly see-through hands on my arm to prevent me from running.
“What was that? How did you do that?” I panted.
“Possession. What, did you like it or something?”
“NO!” My head was spinning as I turned and leaned back, running a hand through my hair. “I can't do this. How- how do I get rid of you?”
“I'm not quite sure. I imagine you don't.” Gatsby shrugged. “You're stuck with me, Old Sport.”
“No, I'm not. I- no.” I shook my head. I thought things were going well, since Gatsby’s death. But there I was, finding that control over my life was being taken from me by him once again. I could feel cracks starting to form in the wall I'd carefully crafted for myself as any semblance of safety and security I had once vanished.
“I'm sorry, Old Sport. Hey- if it helps, I won't do the possession thing again.”
“I can't do this. I can't do this. No.” I kept repeating numbly, as if I were a broken record. Tears began to fall from my eyes, landing in the sink like drips from the faucet.
“Hey… hey, it'll be okay.” I heard Gatsby's voice from behind me, but it did nothing to reassure me. “Nobody else can hear or see me.”
“That's even worse!” I looked up at myself in the mirror, and barely recognized what I saw. Tears were running down my face, I was hunched over, and I looked utterly defeated… not at all like myself. “Please, just- go somewhere else, for a little while. I need space.”
“Alright, Old Sport. You call me if you need me.” Gatsby sighed, vanishing.
And just like that, I was alone again.