Ghost Story

Poppy waited in the cemetery until nightfall—there was nothing else they could really do. While they didn’t particularly mind being a ghost, it was getting boring fast. According to Blair, spirits usually weren’t powerful enough to interact with the living outside of midnight in their first few weeks of death. And he would know, of course—he was the local ghost hunter, after all. Poppy didn’t even believe in ghosts until they were one.

“Where the hell is he?” they said, floating cross-legged above their grave, knowing full well it was only 9:30. Why couldn’t death be more fun?

It was strange that Blair was even helping them, and Poppy had to marvel at it. The two had dated back in high school, and their breakup was… absolutely horrible. They were surprised he would talk to them, let alone go out of his way like this.

Surprising I’d talk to him too, they thought. Both said things that could never be taken back that night, and seeing his face still filled them with rage. But they had to admit they were desperate. Poppy hadn’t moved on to the afterlife yet, and they didn’t know why. Nothing they thought of could be a reason for their spiritual existence. Blair had gone to retrieve the police report, hoping to shed some light on the situation.

Poppy was so sure the night before that they were murdered, and that was the reason they were still kicking. Or, not really kicking… But the more they thought about it, the less sure they were. They couldn’t remember much leading up to their death. Just that they were looking at their insurance policy one minute, floating above their body the next. A rumor spread in town that it was suicide, but they knew that wasn’t true. They had depression, sure. But they were looking for a therapist, and wanted to know if it was covered under their company’s plan.

But how did I die though? Poppy couldn’t remember, and found it nerve wracking to not know. And if it wasn’t murder, what other explanation could there be? They sighed, leaning on their hands and looking down at their grave. Someone had left marigolds. While they adored flowers, marigolds especially, they thought it was a weird choice. Maybe that person knew Poppy liked them.

The growing sound of a heartbeat caused them to look up. Blair sauntered into the graveyard, folder in hand.

“Find anything?” Poppy called.

Blair ran his hand through his hair—something he did often, always making his blond hair stick up in ridiculous places. “Unless someone forced you to drink excessively, it wasn’t murder.”

They blinked. “Come again?”

“The autopsy report says alcohol poisoning,” he said, pulling the paper out and holding it up for them to see. “You could have mentioned you were drunk that night.”

Poppy looked over the report, unable to take in what they were seeing. “I wasn’t.”

Blair knit his brow, putting the paper back in the file. “You can’t remember what happened. How are you so sure you weren’t?”

They shook their head vigorously. None of it made sense. “I just know.”

He sighed, running his hand through his hair again. “Look, Poppy—”

“No, Blair, listen to me. I wasn’t drunk. I don’t know why it says that, but I wasn’t. Maybe someone tampered with it or some shit. You’ve gotta believe me.”

Blair held their gaze for a moment, then nodded. “I believe you.”

His heartbeat was steady. Blair West actually, truly believed them.

“What now?” Poppy asked.

Blair scratched absently at the scar across the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. You’re sure you didn’t have enemies or anything?”

Poppy titled their head, one eyebrow raised. “Enemies? This isn’t some action film, Blair.”

“You’re the one insisting they were murdered!”

They opened their mouth to protest, but after a moment closed it and gave a half shrug. “No, I can’t think of anyone who hated me that much. Or, outwardly, anyways.”

Blair groaned, hands covering his face. “I don’t know what to do then.” He stormed off to the church beside the graveyard and sat down on the steps. After a moment, Poppy followed him. Blair had spent most of his life shrouded in different ideas people forced onto him, from troubled kid to aggression personified. It was moments like this he seemed more like a lost boy.

He kind of is, Poppy thought. He was only twenty-four, the same age as them. They were both young, having so much of life to still experience.

Well, Blair would, anyways.

He looked up. “Poppy,” he said slowly. “Would you like to meet my grandparents?”

Poppy rolled their eyes. “I did. They hated me, remember?”

“No, my other grandparents. On my mom’s side.”

Poppy was silent for a moment. “I thought they were dead or something?”

He sighed again. “So did I. Apparently my mother was lying about that too.”

“Oh,” they whispered. “Uh, will they be okay with the whole, y’know…” They gestured at themself.

“Yeah, they’re ghost hunters too. Taught me everything I know.”

“No, I mean… Are they going to be cool about the whole nonbinary thing?”

Blair looked confused, as if the thought had never occurred to him. Probably didn’t. He’s cis, after all.

“I mean, yeah, sure. They’re not really the judgmental type.”

“Alright then. You’re coming back tomorrow?” Blair nodded, standing up. “Hey, can you also figure out who left me the marigolds?”

“I guess. Why, you don’t like them?”

“No, I do. Just think it’s a weird choice is all.”

“Why? They can represent remembrance of the dead.”

“Really?” Poppy’s jaw dropped. “How do you know about flower meanings?”

Blair scratched at his scar again. “I’m not just muscles and aggression, y’know.”

Poppy burst out laughing, and Blair smiled for a brief second—it was short, but Poppy was sure they saw it. “So, same time tomorrow?” Blair nodded, walking back to his car. They floated back to their grave since they didn’t really have a place they could go.

Maybe Blair isn’t as much of an asshole as I thought.