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...
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Wrong. She was so wrong.
Arielle's teeth clattered as she glided out into the early morning air. The sun had barely risen, and a toned-down glow glossed over the leaves hanging overhead. She could have sworn mere minutes ago, she'd been overwhelmed by the darkness she'd seen outside; yet now that darkness had disappeared.
"Fuck," she said, hesitant to distance herself from the front door, after she'd whooshed through it, at the ghost's instruction. It had been an odd experience to not reach for the handle, to not tug and traipse out and allow the outdoors to slowly seep into her veins.
No, this—the brutal passing through a solid door and arriving on the other side—wasn't the same. It was harsher, surprising. Yes, it was quicker—it saved a few seconds, tops—but Arielle didn't like it, and looked forward to learning how to touch things. She wouldn't be flying through walls if she could help it.
"Welcome to the Void in its natural state," said the ghost, twirling with her arms out at her sides, her head tipped back, a smile over her lips. "The quiet plane where no one can see us, hear us, smell us unless we want them to."
It was an introvert's paradise, for sure. There was no noise; not a rustle of twigs or a flutter of leaves or a click-click of shifting pebbles. Not an airplane or a car or even a hint of animals living in the woods. As if someone had muted the entire area with a remote control, paused the image to focus on this moment. This silent, almost spooky moment, suspended in time.
The tree-trunks were the only things that seemed to belong. Their bark was unchanged, no different from what it looked like in the real, living world. But the leaves were gray, the grass was gray, the soil below was gray. The speck of sky Arielle managed to see above was gray, and behind her, the house's façade was gray. There were a few patches of light brown, a few zones colored in that sepia tone she'd grown to dislike, and a few ominous locations of absolute obscurity. But otherwise, everything was faded, washed-out.
Arielle was certain if she noticed a flower, it would be gray—and it would take all the pleasure out of such a beautiful plant.
She missed color. Missed her vibrant curls and her peachy skin and her fuchsia phone case and her red lipsticks. Missed the blue sky and the green grass; oranges and yellows and even pinks. And she hated pink.
"I still say it's depressing." Arielle dared a few air-strides forward and rubbed her upper arms. "And it's cold! What the heck?" She scrunched her nose as she approached the ghost. "Why is it cold? I thought we weren't supposed to feel that stuff? I thought we weren't supposed to feel anything?"
The ghost sucked in the frosty air and closed her eyes. "Are you kidding? We are the cold." She spun once more, around and around until Arielle became dizzy. "This entire realm is glacial. Another tactic to convince us to leave it. Why do you think people barging into a haunted location are cold? Why do you think our attempts at communicating with them draw frigid breaths from their mouths? There's no heating here, honey."
