This week of April was a busy one for religious holidays and the thought inspired a theme from us with Easter at the forefront so we solicited from our members fics with a focus on the afterlife, of resurrection, undeath and speculation about where we go after we're gone. Our members took the license and drove us straight to a place many of us flee from in abject terror of the feelings therein.
The Body That Lies by aebleskiver, a fic that has now legendarily been laying its victims out since the year 2017 has now taken the book club members in its benevolent chokehold and refuses to let go. During our live read, it took us three takes to finish the ending as each reader's attempt ended in audible tears. Through these tears and honest discussions about our own experiences with healing in the realities of grief and loss, we wept and held each other together but we lauded this fic for how beautifully crafted this story is in pressing its readers to examine our own relationship with saying goodbye to a loved one when there are so many things left to say to them.
Rating: Not Rated
Summary:
Ryan is dead and haunting Shane. Because he misses him, of course.
But also to prove a point.
Book Club Thoughts:
I feel like the flashbacks also illustrated a part of grief that I've never been able to describe correctly. That there are all these moments and memories that are shared history only between 2 people.
Their secret makes their relationship its own ghost and Shane is the most haunted by the what-ifs of that territory and his assumptions about Ryan in the first place
like, i feel a lot of us have at some point lost someone we love and the wish fulfillment, the painful and almost flagellating hope that you could ask them if, in the end, they wanted you to be happy
the author is brave. at the very least, we could have gotten a response back, a fading "i love you" and whisper, a crackle of noise, but no, we got nothing and it's brave and beautiful and absolutely perfect
it's all for ryan, it's always because of ryan, shane keeps moving forward because of ryan but he wouldn't have done it without ryan haunting him
every time I think we've covered all the aspects of how real this author was able to make the experience of reliving grief through Shane, there's another line in there that puts it just exactly the way it hurts
Language wise there were some beautiful turns of phrase used that created a sense of emptiness and distance
I’m too emotional and I keep bursting into tears, but that’s a sign that it’s a really fucking powerful and incredible fic.
I like how Shane starts to miss the broken lamps and dishes of the haunting, when Ryan's ghost is there less and less. kind of mirroring how he probably liked the chaos Ryan brought to his life on Unsolved shoots
in a way, Shane achieves Ryan's dream for him, and in another way, Ryan gifts it to him
Review: We all cried. Terrible.
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A/N: Hey all. Have a random mini fic that I absolutely adore, brimming with ghostly charm and sensitive perceptions. Not sure if it’s worth exploring and posting, so let me know! I certainly have a plan for it in the future, if it’s something you guys would like to join me for.
[Master List]
Pairing: Jeremy Dooley x Reader
Summary: Haunted by the pain of your past, you struggle through life with the help of your boyfriend, Jeremy. Equally out of his depth with his abilities, the two of you support each other as best you can, ultimately offering the prospect of moving in together. But having interacted with a lost and broken spirit on one of your late night adventures to explore the world of the macabre, you’re left to deal with a haunting of a different kind.
WC: 3407
The iron bars grate across my front as I shimmy through the gate, bag clasped in my hand and mustard yellow sweater catching against the rust. The soft earth gives beneath my feet, sneakers sinking into the mud cling to life of last night’s rainfall; the graveyard still, as though death himself slumbered atop the banks beneath the blanket of stars. A deep sigh is all it takes to get moving, weaving in and out of the crumbling tomb stones, the names embossing my back and floral notes clinging to my jeans. It doesn’t take long to relax in the calming peace, the mossy smell of the surrounding forest filling my lungs and clogging my nose with pleasantries. It accompanies me when settling on the bench nestled between the stones worn with mistreatment and forget; a wing of the yard long since gifted to the overgrowth.
From the bag clatter a collection of candles in frosted glass and tea lights by the dozens, each fluttering to life with the fizz of a match, my attention caught in the flickering flame before it curls into a smouldering remanent. Scattering them around the seat coated in moss, my legs pull up and I plant my feet against the damp, protesting wood; body angling to rest the journal jammed with loose pages and spilling sticky notes against my knees. Pages crammed with creativity, notes scrawled between the sketches I’d worked so hard on but hated for the imperfections I just couldn’t seem to fix. There was always something, a curving angle I couldn’t fashion, the twist of a smile far too forced and smudged with irritation.
Under the cool shine of the moon I put pen to paper, the warm flames chatting with the gentle breeze and rustle of leaves. Though the graveyard hadn't been my first stop on the night’s journey, adventuring further into the silence to explore a world I’d held in curious light, it would most certainly be my last. The morning hours trickled closer with the inevitable colours streaking the sky; calling for me to wander back to the achingly empty home and battle the loneliness seeping from the walls. To smell the bitter dust and lingering anguish trapped in the cracks; creaking to life with each groan beneath my feet.
I’d been there for an hour, legs growing stiff and butt numb atop the cold dampness taking over my jeans, encased in the darkness of death and writing about the light. Unafraid of the sharp calls of owls or the whistle between the tomb stones, calmed by the gentle breath of warm air tickling through my hair and bringing with it an unusual sense of comfort. The voice creeps faint at first, but strengthening with curiosity as it sounds from behind. “What're you writing about?” I jump; startled and glancing around with confusion that knits my brows at the sight of nothing. Only the grass waves back, whispering to the weeds winding through the rocks. “Whatever I can think of,” I say to the stars, feeling exhaustion finally returning to drag me back to delirium in the vain hope I’d sleep.
I reposition on the bench, legs creaking as I lower them, shoulders popping as I prop against the back to peer around the tomb stones. No sounds other that the wildlife rustling, nothing else breathing but me. Preferring the subtle silence to the screams of anxiety, the calm of a place left without judgement easing the scolding words I carried, still stinging in my shoulders. A soft sigh escapes, face settling into a smile with the swaying of trees and the warm flickers of candle light. “Are... are you alright on your own?” This time his face presses against my peripheral; stationed as though he’d been there all along.
Beneath the moonlight his hair is dusted silk, sweeping with a graceful curve away from the strong lines of his calming face. His blue eyes shimmer, constantly moving in the light with an array of deep, agonising tones to brighter, more joyous sparks, but still somehow soft and anxious. It’s difficult to focus on his body, attention trapped by the shape of his shoulders and the strength of his jaw. The hollow of his throat dipping gentle to flow into strong collar bones exposed beneath an oversized sweater, tattered and littered with holes.
He waits for my response with the patience of a saint, the atmosphere shifting anxiously with a tilt of his head and tentative smile. “Yeah,” I breathe, shuffling to get a clearer look at the man who seemed only a fraction older, mature expression brimming with a boyish charm. I wondered if he felt the aches of age far too early, whether he saw the world and let out a rattling, exhausted sigh – or whether it was just me. “It's not as scary as you'd expect. No way near as terrifying as adulthood.”
“Normal people are generally afraid of graveyards, and things that go bump in the night.” His lips don’t move, but his chuckle is warm across my skin, like a reassuring embrace. The air ripples around his body as I try to concentrate, blinking rapidly as his image fades and distorts beneath my sleep drunk stupor. Pressing a palm to them, I rub, vision readjusting to see he's shifted to the other side of the bench, though I’d swear he hadn’t moved. “Things that go bump in the night should be afraid of me.” I find myself joking, looking down to the notes and closing the book in your lap, his deep warm chuckles hugging into my back as I grow surprisingly grateful for his unexpected company.
“Maybe it's just me that doesn't like graveyards,” he muses softly, the candles flickering with the movement of my feet, hands pushing up the mustard sleeves slipping over my fingers. “Can I sit with you?” His question is careful, as though he feared the prospect of burdening another with his companionship. I nod, hearing his feet whisper and the bench creak beneath his weight, a relieved sigh disappearing into the night. “Of course, I’d appreciate the company, honestly. Hang around as long as you’d like,” I greet, looking up but finding nothing but a feeling of warm, protecting comfort; the man nowhere to be found.
“Oh... alright then,” I murmur, frowning up to the moon, eyebrows knitting together as isolation burrows between my shoulders. A deep sigh rattles through my lungs, lips vibrating and fingers drumming before I open the journal again, its pages falling heavily from all that was plastered inside. With the sweet smell of moss and his shining eyes hovering just out of reach, I begin to sketch. Working with the strong set of his jaw; the slight bend of his nose, and the angles of his neck diving into collar bones with an array of pencils. Lead smooth against the grain as I shape the tilt of his chin, the curve of his shoulders and folds of a sweater that was far too large. Everything screamed power, unshaken by the cold creeping across the back of my neck, but in his eyes I found nothing but contradictions. A softness that constantly swelled like gentle waves touching the shore; and a quite rush of insecurity that’s deafening if just spared the time.
I’m too lost in his vulnerability, masked behind a boyish smile; recognising it from each time my eyes passed over a mirror. My reflection a shattering similarity to the pain he’d never intended me to see. Looking at the sketch propped against my knees, I can help but stare at the face looking back, long lashes burying the tears sprinkling the pages. I soak them with the mustard sleeve gripped in a fist, unsure where the emotion was coming from, rippling through me in resonating waves.
I don’t hear grounds keeper until the sound of his boots kicking at the dirt press against my mind, eyes flicking up to the spot I know he’d round. Collecting my supplies, I abandon the candles, smiling down at the journal before the footsteps eventually throb in my ears. “Come on,” I murmur to the book, gripping it tightly and taking off towards the back of the yard, morning sun streaking the looming clouds as I weave carefully between the stones. Stretching around the perimeter stands a wobbly stone wall, crumbling at the touch of my fingers as I begin to climb, feet slipping but balance unquestionable. With a little exertion I make it to the top, jeans catching on the stone as I watch the light chase away the shadows, grounds keeper finally rounding the corner to spot me. His gruff scolds follow as I drop onto the street, a small breath pressing from my lungs from the impact shaking in the soles of my feet.
The warmth radiating from the journal clasped in my hand provides comfort, inhaling the cool morning air as I slip it into your bag; eyes stinging in the sun creeping through the building slots. Replacing the bound pages of the journal with my phone, a quick text sends me in the direction of home; my sneakers brushing the laneways and dipping in receding puddles dotting the path. The dreary village never appealed. Nothing changed, the people remaining as stagnant as the buildings, drooping being the weight of age and soggy weather. I pass by the small shops that had once seen me squeaking with glee, the smell of the bakery doing nothing but churning my stomach, the absence of a hand in mine stinging. I try not to dwell, quickly escaping the memories haunting the familiar path to my house, the white walls cut with strong brown beams welcoming me back with lacklustre enthusiasm.
My fingers trace the short wall lined with weeds, the old gate rusted and reluctantly responsive, shrieking open to scuff the stone pathway. Up the steps I take in threes, faded red door rattling open with a turn of keys before I abandon them on the hallway counter. Delicate cream walls turn away, ash wood floor boards uneven and scuffed as they rush away, stumbling up the stairs lined with muted ancient ivory carpeting. I spare little thought to the pictures clinging to the walls, faces behind the frames pleading for recognition, accusations pelting my back until I reach the kitchen through the doorway on the right.
Even here the empty dining table wails, the pretty Alice blue run laced with gold and overflowing with frothy flowers – long since expired – do little to hide the mourning. The kitchen counters are cold to the touch, stinging as I toss my bag down on the grey marble surface, fridge humming in disapproval. I don’t linger, snatching the stepping stool from between the cabinets and fridge to clack them open, clambering up to reach into the higher cupboards. An irritated sigh sees me straining, fingers finally connecting with the china travel mug, clutching it close to my chest as I step down and return the step; my phone erupting. I don’t look at it, already knowing where to go. Instead I grab your wallet, and collect mu keys, snatching a grey beanie before the front door slams to keep the ghosts of regret at bay.
I see him immediately, hair a deep sorrowful blue as he hunches in a booth, weighed down by anxiety and the stifling warmth saturating my lungs. I order my drink from the bubbly and bright woman at the register, knowing not to ask if their banana bread was in stock, already aware that the answer would be no as I slide her the travel mug. Rather, I purchase two gigantic cupcakes loaded with sickening icing before approaching the man, bottom lip drawn between my teeth. While passing I rest a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, confusion and bitterness swirling in my chest until I break contact, offering the beanie and a warm smile. He accepts it with an anguished groan, japing it on to hide his hair, eyes sunken in dark bags as he watches me sit and slide a muffin to him.
“There’ll be others,” I reassure softly, his head falling into his hands as he rubs his eyes.
“You saw it coming, right?” he states through his cage like fingers as they drag over his beard, shoulders heaving. My face contorts, heart aching at words that weren’t intended as accusations, but stung all the same. “Yeah,” I admit, leaning into the table to peek up to his face, the chunks of his hair left uncovered swirling a deeper purple, barely noticeable beneath the blue. Carefully I sweep the locks away, embarrassment and concern colouring my finger tips, a sharp pain dusting the top of my right arm, “that’s why I planned coffee.” His head lifts, chestnut eyes looking at me with a mixture of affection and thanks, the strength of his jaw and broad shoulders that stretched on forever standing as a great contradiction to the man’s softness. His eyes shift as he watches me, his strong fingers wringing together as nerves tremble beneath his heather grey sweater, concern colouring his cheeks as his face falls and lips press into a critical line. He lets out another groan, forehead now resting on the table. “Awwh damn it,” he expels, the server wobbling towards our table with unsteady drinks, “what is it this time?”
“Jeremy,” I try to reason, but he powers forward, defeated.
“C’mon, Y/N, spit it out. What other horrible thing’s gonna happen?”
“Slide all the way to the left when she sets the drinks down,” I sigh, giving in, “and take your muffin with you. I’m not having a $5 investment destroyed.” On command the waitress arrives, stumbling in her heels as she sets our drinks down, Jeremy’s toppling to smash across the bench; though his spot is no longer occupied. Pressing his body against the opposite side of the booth, his hands grip the cupcake with a comical face, his right shoulder sprayed with now nonthreatening glass fragments. Her gushes of apologies have the server rushing to receive his refund and another drink, oblivious to the relieved expression colouring his hair an indigo blue beneath the beanie. “Thanks,” he breathes, lips tugging into a smile as I return it, response time slow from the exhaustion setting into my bones. “No worries,” I reply, sipping on my drink and rolling the warmth between my hands, “it’s what I’m here for.”
“Nah,” he rejects, holding at a hand to me once the waitress has finished mopping up the mess and spewed another incomprehensible number of apologies, “you have other benefits, too.”
“Oh yeah?” I tease, accepting the hand after hesitating, warm comfort sizzling my skin, his adoration lacing my knuckles with a refreshing, subtle smell of lemonade. “What else am I good for?”
“Being the best damn girlfriend in the world,” he states proudly, a blush rising in his cheeks as he smiles, blooming flowers invading my nose with a gentle tickle. He notices my face twitch, his lips splitting into a smirk. “Too sweet?”
“Yeah,” I laugh, a sound now only a few managed to draw from the depths of my chest, “just a little.”
“I’ll tone it back,” he tries, but I shake my head, gripping harder to the hand he attempted to retract for my benefit, a faded red pulsating around him momentarily before dissipating.
“Please don’t.” His eyebrows quirk as he smiles softly, placing his other hand atop mine; another gust of flowers swirling. “It smells like spring.”
“Aww, spring’s your favourite,” he chuckles, looking genuinely flattered by the impact his actions were having, feelings of comfort leaving my body to taint his own, “does that mean I’m your favourite?”
“Would I be about to ask you to move in with me if you weren’t?” The shock of his surprise bites, my hand flinching away as I shake it, trying to expel the stinging and glaring half heartedly. He reacts with stammers, sunflower yellow glowing golden beneath his hat. “Are you serious?” he demands, challenging my offer in disbelief. I just smile, a beaming grin reserved for special occasions. “Of course, I’m ready for it to be spring all the time.”
“Won’t it be painful?”
“Only when you’re not there.”
Exhaustion sets in as I force my feet to touch the steps leading home, cracks uneven beneath my sneakers. Tumblers turn with the key I jam into the lock, bitterness catching the back of my tongue distastefully. Opening the door, I expect the familiar moans of the house, the same dusty air to invade my lungs with cold, stinging accusations; but as I brace, nothing comes. Instead the hallway welcomes me, a confusing warmth resonating from the floor boards, cream walls smiling down as I take a tentative step inside.
I can’t remember the last time the house had held so much cheer, uncharacteristic and uncomfortable as I beeline towards the kitchen, the smell of moss so strong it burned. I wanted nothing more than a cup of tea, something warm to fill the hole exhaustion had dug, drained and buried beneath the toll of emotions. Though the offer for Jeremy to move in had been sudden, it felt right. The idea of spring filling the home for even a day sees my heart leap, desperate to wash away the stagnant pain still lingering, burrowed into the carpet.
The kitchen is somehow warmer, the fragrance of forest trees and blooming moss clearing my lungs, giving an unanticipated moment’s peace as I collect the journal from the bag, eyelids weighed down with sleep. Looking up I freeze, book clattering from my hands at the sight of a pained, confused face; eyes silver with agony, hair as pale and shining as silk. Pages spew around my feet, fluttering in the astonishment tainting my skin with cold nausea, the smell of forest far too strong. My kitchen flickers with his static form, void of pigmentation bar the translucence mirroring the longing emptiness swirling in my chest at the sight of his panic, dwelling in the smell of his burning frustration.
He seems equally taken aback, eyes searching my face and hair constantly shifting in the still air, question faint and fractured as it shatters the silence. “Y/n, where am I?” The sound of my name uttered in a whisper from his still lips has the world flashing, darkness swallowing my vision and filling my senses with the smell of stale pond water and the hammering of rain before I’m spinning, gripping the bench to stop my knees from buckling. The kitchen swims into a fuzzy focus, the alarm in his eyes screaming while his face struggles to remain calm, childlike confusion peeking through the mask with every twitch of his lips. “How do you know my name?” I’m surprised by the strength of my voice, unwavering and brimming with authority. At the sound the man’s head shakes, attempting to back away with his hands raised in surrender, he movement flickering through his body.
“You told me,” he urges, blue eyes pleading and scared, “I told you mine was Ryan, remember?”
“No,” I say shortly, trying to control the wobble shaking my legs as I push through the undergrowth clogging my mind with a freezing sharpness, lungs struggling to operate through the waters of anxiety pressing down, “you left before I could tell you.”
“Oh, that... happens sometimes,” he admits, embarrassment tainting the world a deep blush pink, sweet like scorched caramel. I cling to the emotional embodiment like a life line, hauling back to plant myself firmly back home; his words swimming through as his lips make no effort to form a whisper, “I’ve never met someone who could hear me before. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
I shake my head, expelling the remaining foreign memories to sink to the floor, knees colliding with faint thuds against the wooden boards. The smell of moss washes over me, curling around my shoulders as his image fades with my realisation, understanding thick with sympathy. Though he no longer stands before me, I feel his presence, warm and confused as it settles on the opposite side of the kitchen. “Did you follow me home?” I ask, vainly hoping that the answer would go against my better judgement, but the confirmation I needed doesn’t come. Instead a strained, sorrowful tone greets my question, “I don’t think so...?”
