Death. What happens after it? What lies beneath the surface?
Poor Arielle Daniels stumbled through dangerous hoops to figure this out. She wakes in a new place--the Void--and discovers that what waits after death are layers, dimensions, and sadly...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"What the fuck?" Arielle shook out her hands, but there was little sensation in her fingers. "I really am dead?"
The guy, still holding up a device with a blinking red light, flipped around and gazed at her, through her. "Hm," he said, squinting, a few of his dark curls cluttering over his creased forehead. "I feel something. Or... someone? It's subtle, but..."
The woman, who'd been keeping her distance, marched over and planted herself beside him. She was tall, athletic, a leather jacket hugging her well-formed middle, zipped up to below her breasts. She exhibited airs of a sexy secret spy, a modern-day ninja, but Arielle spotted the FBI badge hanging from her hip and skidded backwards.
"Whoa, the FBI is here? In this house? What the—"
"—did you catch anything on the recorder?" the woman asked, setting her hands on her hips. Her brown-hued nails tapped against the fabric of her pants.
Why was everything so drab? Did color disappear, melt away when one died?
The guy, flinching as the lady leaned in and motioned at the equipment, took a deep breath. "I guess I can check again." He licked his lips and fumbled with the buttons on the machine, his gaze constantly flickering sideways towards the girl.
There was tension there, Arielle could tell. Either they were dating, dated, or wanted to date each other. The woman seemed unfazed and professional, focused on the device; but the guy was restless, fidgeting about, nervous. Arielle had learned to read body language in her retail job—to figure out if a person was ready to buy her products or not—and she had no doubt something was up with them.
The woman finally gave him space and wandered towards a different mirror hanging near a door beneath the stairs. Arielle watched her peer at it as she adjusted her braid.
Curious, Arielle walked over—no, floated, she'd have to get used to that—and stood beside her, trying to decipher what color the FBI agent's hair was. It was light, likely blonde, maybe ashy. She was pretty, and if the guy had a crush on her, Arielle wouldn't blame him.
"Benny," she said, startling Arielle into looking at her in the mirror. "Found anything?"
His name is Benny?
The woman straightened up and proceeded towards Benny, but Arielle, doing a double-take, remained fixed on the mirror... and on the fact that she had no reflection.
"Fuck," she said, feeling her eyes widen but unable to see them. "Okay, if I wasn't convinced before... I am now."
She rotated to watch the agent and Benny analyzing the device—that she assumed to be a voice recorder—and squeezed her fists.
"So, what... I'm a ghost, then? I'm hovering around, I have no reflection, I can't feel my heart beat—how the fuck did this happen?"
She glowered at the steps, at the tape blocking access to the upper floor, and her arms tensed. The visions from earlier repeated—wind, wails, woeful words screeched by a raven-haired girl in a period dress. A closet and scribbles on the wall in blood—Arielle's blood—and a raven-haired girl scolding her for such a feeble attempt. Puddles on the balcony ground, slipping, sliding, hurdling down the stairs, and a raven-haired girl waiting at the bottom—
