A Ghost’s Guide to Haunted Hugs

By Kristiana Sfirlea

Nobody likes ghost hugs.

This has thus far been the biggest disappointment of my afterlife. Yes, there’s the whole being tied to the dark, dank, dismal cave where I’d met my untimely demise, but—nah, it’s mostly the hugging. Or lack thereof.

I was quite the hugger before I died. You know, the “so happy to see you I’ll squeeze your lungs out” type? Which is infinitely more attractive on a bubbly teenage girl than a four hundred-year-old wraith whose manifestation unfortunately mirrors the state of her death. Namely, my half-bashed skull, squished jelly eyeball, and stalagmite-skewered side.

Now everyone runs screaming from my ectoplasmic embrace. I don’t blame them.

Noise echoes from the mouth of my cave. The voice of potential victims—ahem, I mean visitors. I drift as close as I dare. Mustn’t scare them off. It’s been ages since anyone has dropped by. Ha! Drop. Because that’s how everyone dies in here: halfway through, the floor gives way to the cave’s stomach, a ravenous pit consuming life after life.

I could curb its appetite by fixing that warning sign outside, but what can I say? Death is the only thing that reminds me of living.

My two visitors enter the mouth of the cave, swallowed by a trap they don’t even realize yet. As they near my hiding spot, I feel a prick in the conscience I didn’t think I still had. It’s a young girl and an older boy. I try to detect their magic—whatever form it takes will give me insight into who I’m dealing with—but from a distance, all I can see is that the girl has a bounce to her step like she’s waiting for an adventure to round the corner, ready to chase after it when it does. The boy follows her like he’s used to the girl getting herself into hazardous situations and comfortable with his job of rescuing her from the jaws of danger.

They’re just like my brother and me.

Fragmented memories rattle inside my head: wind whipping through my hair as I fall from a great height, my brother screaming my name, “Kali!” and the pressure of his arms around me, cradling my broken body.

The memories disintegrate, slipping through my fingers like ash. But soon I’ll be reliving another’s death, and it will make me feel alive.

In the dim light of the cave, my victims continue on their course, blissfully unaware of the deadly drop ahead. I can identify their magic now. The girl has a small storm cloud hanging over her head like a curse—except she tilts her face and laughs when it douses her cheeks with rain. And the boy… Shadows rise from him like smoke from a fire, swirling around like a playful breeze.

My guilty conscience eases. If this is how their magic chooses to express itself—through storms and shadows—then these two are obviously evil. They pass by the boulder I’m hiding behind, and I lean closer to hear their dastardly plans.

“Just think, Shadow Boy,” the girl chirps, “if we can find the Lullaby Star and return it to the sky, we’ll cure half of the world’s insomnia!” Her storm cloud rumbles happily. A happy storm. That’s a first.

“If being the operative word, Thunder,” Shadow Boy points out, browsing a thick book titled Blackout’s Tales. “The legend says the star will sing to be found. Do you hear any singing?”

“Well…no,” Thunder, admits. “But I feel something here. Don’t you?” She stops, revolving on the spot. “Like a presence.”

I duck down farther behind my boulder, but can’t resist peeking around the side. They resume their walk toward certain doom.

“Whoever they are, they must be lonely,” Thunder muses. “They probably need a hug.”

A phantom sound catches in my throat. It’s either a laugh or a sob. I can’t decide.

Shadow Boy chuckles, and a ribbon of darkness tugs on one of the girl’s curls. “You think everyone needs a hug.”

“Because they usually do!” She’s two steps away from her foot meeting nothing but air. Seconds away from her life flashing before her eyes—and my eyes, too.

This is what I’ve been waiting for, this strange gift of mine to experience someone’s final moments with them. I will feel her fall, feel the wind through her hair as if it were my own, feel the crush of her bones, the weight of her soul slipping from her body.

I will feel the arms of her friend hold her close to his heart as she passes from this world. And that haunted hug will remind me that there was once someone who loved me enough to hold me as I died.

Thunder raises her foot, and time seems to slow. Her death will be worth it. It will make me feel better. It will help me remember. It—

“They must be lonely. They probably need a hug.”

Her foot falls through empty space, and I leap in front of her, slamming her back with force of a full-on manifestation. She’s thrown into the safety of Shadow Boy’s arms. Alive.

What did I just do?

I float there, suddenly very aware of my hideous appearance. Any moment, and they will bolt out of the cave, screaming in terror.

Thunder stares at me, her lips slightly parted. “You—you saved me.” She throws her arms around my mutilated stomach and hugs so hard she’d have stolen my breath—if I’d had any. She lets go, skin blue with ghost chill, but her smile is brighter than lightning. “Thank you.”

“Oh! Um.” I tuck a strand of ethereal hair shyly behind my half-missing ear. “You’re welcome.”

I guess somebody likes ghost hugs after all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristiana Sfirlea is the author of the spookily hilarious MG fantasy novel, Legend of the Storm Sneezer – which happens to take place in the same world as “A Ghost’s Guide to Haunted Hugs”! She dreams of the day she can run her own bookmobile. Or haunted house attraction. Or a haunted bookmobile! (And this is precisely why writers should never become Uber drivers.) She loves Jesus, her family, and imaginary life with her characters.

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