VERINA TIAN

UNLIKE THE 120 OTHER TEENAGERS residing in the small town of Graceland, California, I did not come to Makeout Creek—an aptly named local attraction—to, well, make out. Quite the contrary, I'm especially convinced I'm going to die alone. Alas, I walk along the muddy basin alone, arms stretched out for balance—without shoes or socks may I add.

At the crack of dawn, the rest of the park had been empty, like I suspected, so it's no surprise the only noise vibrating my eardrums is the steady flow of water splashing against the eroded boulders and the only organism accompanying me is the dragonflies buzzing about the deciduous vegetation.

Gingerly, I dip my toe into the shallowest part of the creek, cleansing the specks of dirt that accumulated. Between the lily pads with pink lotus flowers atop and a thin layer of duckweed, the water is so crystal clear you can see the little bits of gravel underneath.

With a deep breath, I cuff my jeans so they cut off below my knees, and prepare myself to wade in the bone-chilling creek. At first, with one leg in, the shock of the change in temperature makes my limbs go numb. But once I'm completely inside, the teeth-chattering and shivers are overpowered by a sense of relief. On the nearby land, it's unusually humid, like a swamp.

Feels good to be back. 4 months ago—that's the last time I was in Makeout Creek, and my visit was cut short because a couple nearby thought it'd be a good idea to invite me to skinny dip when it was nearly midnight. Having other people present here ruins the magic. In solitude, I didn't have anything to prove. I could simply exist as the socially awkward loner with dreams to get the hell out of Graceland after graduation. I am without having to prove anything. With no strings attached to my names, a rarity in the deeply connected web of our community, I could find peace. Needless to say, that encounter was enough to scare me away.

Every night since, I dreamt about my return, how the moment would consist of me becoming a floating head to onlookers, how I could become one with nature, how I could relieve my back pain by swimming laps around the deep end. This sacred place—it is riddled with memories, ranging from the first time I launched off the tire swing and chipped my tooth on a rock to the time I carved the my initials into the oldest tree.

The closer I tread toward the moss-covered cliffside, the harder it is to combat the pressure of the waves. To steady myself, I ease near the cove, grabbing onto the eroded rock. Gritty minerals crumble, rippling beside me.

This sacred area—something's off.

Can't exactly pinpoint the source, but the environment is nothing like I remember it starting from the temperature to the strength of the currents. Either mother nature has chosen to be extreme or my memory is rusty.

Frowning, I glance at my soaked pants, searching for any other signs of disruption, and come to a startling realization.

There's blood in the water.

In a frenzied state, my breathing becomes audible as I scan my limbs for the source of the red staining. My skin's as smooth as frosting. Besides, if I cut myself accidentally, I'm sure I would've felt it.

Might be my imagination, but the stain of red only extends as I retreat onto the land. Once I'm finally out, the water has been replaced completely with blood. Baffled, I rub my eyes to make sure it's not an optical illusion. Still there.

What the hell is going on?

I'm not sure I want to find out. Right now, I need to get out of here.

Willing my hands not to shake, I bunch my socks, stuffing them in my pockets. I don't even bother to put my sneakers on all the way. The laces remain untied and my heels are exposed.

Quickly retrieving my canvas bag, I turn, ready to sprint into the distant forest.

"Going somewhere?" a voice whispers, the shock of it forcing me to step backward, where I trip on the ledge, falling right back into the creek, my shoulder blade collides with the ridge of a boulder, sending a throbbing shiver down my spine. Momentarily, the pain clouds my vision, but as I squint I can make out two blurred silhouettes in front of me. When both of them overlap, they belong to one woman, who crouches so we're at a similar height.

Hand pressed to my forehead, I slowly begin to regain my composure, I realize the stranger here is completely and utterly familiar. In fact, I'd recognize that shiny black hair, beauty mark stamped on her cheek, and heart-shaped lips anywhere. She's the spitting image of Maureen Tian, an actress that died 7 years ago whom I was the biggest fan of. The resemblance is uncanny. They're identical, and there's absolutely no way this is a doppelganger. Blood leaks from a hole behind her ear and down her mesh stockings which have so many holes in them that they're hanging by a thread. Now that I think about it, she's wearing the exact same outfit Maureen had on when her boyfriend called the cops. Not to mention that hole is in the exact place she allegedly shot herself in.

But Maureen's dead, and this person is sick for pulling a prank like this. Especially since I'd fall for it.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," she mutters, and even her voice is an eerie replica.

"Yeah, well save it," I huff out an annoyed breath, stumbling to stand up.

"You're hurt. You should stay put for now until you get better." The closer she gets, the harsher the tides are.

"I don't have time to entertain you," I reply bitterly, pushing past her, making sure our shoulders collide in the process. Only they never do, and I walk right through her as if she's transparent, her presence fading through me like a gust of wind.

Astonished, I stock in my tracks, eyes widening.

I, Verina Tian, have officially gone insane. Batshit crazy.

"What the fuck are you?" I manage to croak out in disbelief. There's no way. My mind is playing tricks on me. This is just my subconscious' way of coping with her passing. I miss her so much that I've managed to conjure this reality-distorting image of her.

She offers me a lopsided smile. "I think you know who. You just refuse to acknowledge it."

She can't be. There's no way. "But—but—you're—"

"Dead?" she supplies, finding amusement in my flustered state. "You know, Verina, not all ghosts are those white sheets with holes poked in them for eyes. We exist in all forms. This is mine."

My lips part. "I just—what—I don't—huh?"

"You're gonna have to form a coherent sentence so I can answer that question," she chides, cupping my face with an intangible hand that feels like a cold breeze more than flesh and bone. Unsure of what else to do, I openly stare at her stupidly.

"I'm sorry," I clear my throat, "I'm usually more intelligible than this, I swear."

"It's okay. After all, you've literally just seen a ghost."

I have so many questions, where do I even start? "Are you real?"

She shrugs. "You don't have to believe me. I'm used to that, anyway. I'm here with you, and it's your choice if you want to hear me put."

Her words are like a knife to the gut. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. You...you're here now?"

"Oh honey," she crosses her thin arms, "I never left."

"I meant why are you here, as in Graceland. Weren't you buried in Hollywood?"

"I was," she confirms curtly.

"But don't you want to go to, I don't know, the afterlife?"

"I do," she answers slowly, drawing in a deep inhale, "there's unfinished business here, in Graceland, holding me back from resting."

I close my eyes. "I see. Are you...are you here for revenge?"

"Oh God no," she shakes her head, "I'm beyond the point of wanting to haunt people. I'm here for closure. For forgiveness. To say goodbye, and that's why I need you."

"Me?" I point to my chest, and she nods in confirmation. I'm not sure how much help I can be for a ghost. Then again, who am I to refuse to help someone I've admired my entire life? Someone that's changed my life in so many ways she doesn't know how. Someone who has brought me so much joy in the darkest parts of my life, like a beacon of hope. If she were alive, I'd definitely faint on the spot, but somehow the shock of seeing a ghost has kept me conscious and functioning. "Why me of all people though?"

"Valid question," she says, "I know this is probably a lot of information at once, and it can be hard to process, but for what it's worth, you're taking this better than a lot of people would. Basically, you're, like, one of my only fans and people that still care about me, which is why you can see me. And I need to latch onto you if I want to get out of this creek. You have no idea how long I've waited to get you alone for this."

My nose twitches. She's been watching me, which means she, my idol, cares about me. She knows I exist. "And what do you plan to do once you leave this creek?"

Tentatively, she tenses, milky skin temporarily devoid of her rosy cheeks. "Find closure, like I said. I think that as my biggest supporter, you deserve the truth, so I'm here to give it to you. That is, if you're willing to listen."

Are you kidding me? How could I turn down the opportunity of a lifetime? This is everything I've never known I wanted and more. Really, I cannot emphasize how much of an honor this is. "Of course."

She grins ear to ear. She takes my hand, but this time she's able to hold it fully. "Great, because it's a long story. But first, we need to get the hell out of here."