Mila Pixelbottom AKA Miss Angry Ghost

This book is a Work In Progress

Chapter One

Red Paint & Silly Humans

“You know this just isn’t right! You’d think someone would do something about this!” I snapped, gesturing toward the graffiti splashed across the wall above the cake shop in front of us. The old man sitting next to me on the bus bench barely glanced in my direction, his gaze fixed on the distant street.

Bright red paint dripped from the rough brickwork down to the glass windows, spelling out words I couldn’t even begin to decipher. Some foreign language, I supposed. But whatever it said, it couldn’t have been anything good. Nobody writes poetry in crimson paint on a bakery wall, after all.

This wasn’t an isolated incident. It was the fifth shop in as many weeks to be vandalized with the same ominous slogan. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before every storefront in town was smeared with red paint.

The old man shifted slightly, lifting his wrist to check his watch. His face wrinkled with mild irritation, not at the graffiti, but at the bus running late. He didn’t so much as acknowledge me or my outburst.

“So, what do you think of this then?” I demanded, waiting for a response. Nothing. “Nothing to say, huh?” I jabbed my finger toward the graffiti, leaning closer to his face, wearing my best stern expression. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t see me, not a hair on my head, not a freckle on my face, not a single damn pore on my skin. Being invisible really pissed me off.

“Of course, you can’t hear me either,” I huffed, throwing my arms up in frustration. “You’re just like all the rest. Did I ask to be a ghost?” My voice dripped with sarcasm as I began pacing in front of him, my footsteps silent on the concrete. “Did anyone bother to ask me, ’Hey Mila, would it be okay if we turned you into a ghost? You know, so you can spend eternity talking to your goddamn self?”

I spun around and wiggled my butt at him in mock defiance, my irritation boiling over. “Oh sure,” I said, my voice rising as I narrowed my eyes at the clueless old man. “Just great! Fabulous idea!” He didn’t flinch, still sitting there, grumbling about the late bus. It only made me angrier.

The old man stood up unsteadily from the bench, his knees cracking audibly as he straightened. Without so much as a backward glance, he shuffled forward and walked right through me. The icy jolt rippled through my entire being, like stepping into a freezing shower. I shuddered, more annoyed than startled. Apparently, he’d decided to walk instead of waiting for the perpetually late bus.

“Just typical,” I muttered, slamming my hands onto my hips. “Ignore me like I don’t exist.” Which, of course, I didn’t. Not anymore. I shook my head, watching the old man’s hunched figure disappear around the corner, his shuffle fading into silence.

Fifty years. Fifty godforsaken years I’d been stuck here as a ghost. No one to talk to, no one to notice me, not even a fleeting touch. Just endless days of me talking to myself, the monotony broken only by my own occasional tantrums.

I tilted my head back and glared at the sky, raising a clenched fist. “If I ever find the idiot who turned me into a ghost,” I bellowed, my voice echoing off the walls of the empty street, “I’m gonna kick their ass, his, her, or it, all the way from here to Hell! Do you hear me, you piece of mother shite? Your butt’s gonna be mine when I get hold of you!”

The sky, naturally, said nothing in return.

I jabbed a laughing woman in the forehead, my finger sinking into her skin like it wasn’t even there. “Do you see what I have to put up with?” I grumbled, more to myself than her, since, of course, she didn’t flinch or even stop chuckling.

“Not a letter, a note, nothing!” I hollered at a man standing nearby, puffing away on a cigarette. I got right in his face, waving my arms as if he’d suddenly take notice. “Not even a ‘kiss my ass’ or a damn sticky note explaining anything! And quit smoking, buddy, it’ll kill you, and then you’ll end up like me. A fucking lost ghost, wandering around with no one to talk to!”

Feeling the familiar sting of futility, I stomped over to the cake shop’s window, peering through the streaks of red paint at the glorious display of pastries.

Lamingtons, cream buns, custard tarts, they all stared back at me, smug in their sugary perfection. My mouth watered as I imagined the taste of each one.

I sighed, my shoulders drooping under the weight of my longing. “What I wouldn’t give for just one bite,” I murmured, pressing my ghostly nose against the glass. “A lick of cream, a nibble of an éclair…” My voice trailed off as I imagined the absurdity of it all. Who was I kidding? If I could eat, I wouldn’t stop at a taste. I’d be rolling around in there, bathing in custard and frosting, devouring every single crumb.

Groaning, I spun on my heel and stomped off in the opposite direction of the old man. Fury coursed through me, and I didn’t bother avoiding the pedestrians in my path. Whether they walked through me or I through them didn’t matter, I shrugged it off. Normally, I would sidestep people, out of some lingering sense of decency. Not that I needed to, of course, but it felt like the right thing to do. Plus, I’d endured more freezing, soul-jolting showers from being passed through in the last fifty years than I ever had as a living, breathing person. At least, I thought so.

Today, though? I didn’t give a rat’s ass sprinkle. I trudged down the street, grumbling and ranting to myself. My words spilled out in a stream of curses and bitter laments, echoing off the oblivious crowd around me.

The truth was, I didn’t have a clue who, or what, I was before becoming a ghost. Whoever did this to me had conveniently wiped away all memory of my life. No name, no family, no story, nothing. Just me, stuck here, angry and aimless. I was pretty sure I’d once been a human female, but for all I knew, I might’ve been a pink giraffe or a polka-dotted ferret.

Whoever they were, they’d dumped me into this ghostly existence with no explanation, no mission, no purpose. No reason, no rhyme. But someday, somehow, I’d find them. And when I did, they’d damn well know me. I’d make sure of it. I’d spit right in their eye, or at least, I’d try. For all I knew, they’d be just as intangible as I was.

I paused, a ridiculous thought popping into my mind. Can I even spit? I’d never tried. Curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned forward slightly, just enough to avoid accidentally spitting on my dress, assuming that was even possible. Taking a deep breath, I gave it my best shot.

Nothing.

For a split second, I panicked at the absurd idea that I might’ve accidentally spit out my own tongue. Could that happen? Laughing to myself at the mental image of my tongue flopping around the street like some grotesque slug, I shook my head. I had definitely lost it. Still, the thought of my tongue loose and unattended sent a shiver down my spine.

The laughter faded quickly, replaced by the familiar flood of anger. It surged through me, boiling and hot, pushing a guttural growl from my throat. My scowl deepened, the edges of it sharp and venomous. Fifty long fucking years, I thought bitterly, remembering the painstaking effort it had taken to figure out how to walk on the sidewalk instead of falling through it. Those first years had been frustrating, tumbling endlessly into the dark, damp caves below the surface. Hell, I might’ve been happier if I’d kept falling straight into the fiery pits of Hell. At least that would’ve been something.

But no. Here I was, stuck in this frustrating purgatory of half-existence. My fist shot toward the sky, trembling with rage. “You evil beings!” I screamed, my voice cracking as it echoed uselessly into the open air.

I marched onward, my lips pressed into a tight line to hold back the torrent of anger bubbling inside me. Not that I knew what would happen if I let it all out, probably nothing. That’d be just my kind of luck: scream the heavens down and still get nothing for it.

Hospitals had become a strange sort of solace for me over the years. I’d taken to sitting with coma patients and the dying. Not out of any noble desire to comfort them, I wasn’t that saintly—but because they were the only ones who didn’t walk away. Not that they could see or hear me either, but at least their silence wasn’t intentional.

Even when their bodies gave out, and the guardian angels or reaper demons came to collect their souls, I was invisible to them, too. You’d think a guardian angel would be all-seeing and all-knowing, wouldn’t you? But nope, they floated right past me, not even a flicker of recognition. The demon reapers were no better dark, hulking things, terrifying in their cold purpose. And yet, even they didn’t give me a second glance.

It was like I wasn’t even a ghost to them. Just... nothing. A nobody. I couldn’t decide whether that was more insulting or depressing.

I’d see it happen over and over, people being taken away, their fates marked by the type of light that claimed them. A soft, radiant white light for the good ones, and a sickly, dirty green fire for the bad ones. Each time, I’d wonder: Why don’t I get a light? At this point, I wouldn’t even care if it was the green fire. Hell, I’d gladly waltz into it with the demons if it meant escaping this endless, mind-numbing boredom.

Once, I tried to follow an angel. It was when Mrs. Chisholm, a sweet old lady I’d spent weeks talking to, was taken. I trailed right behind the angel, close enough to feel the edges of its glow. But as soon as we reached the light, I was thrown backward like I’d hit an invisible wall. By the time I recovered, they were gone.

It didn’t stop me, though. Sometimes I’d try again, not out of hope but just for something to do. It didn’t hurt; if anything, it felt like being launched from a slingshot. A little thrilling, I suppose, if you could find thrill in eternal monotony.

Then there was the time I attempted to follow a reaper. When the green fire roared up through the floor, I charged after it, determined to see where it led. Big mistake. The fire’s force was so strong, it left me clinging to the nearest solid thing, unfortunately, a fire hydrant. Anyone who could’ve seen me would’ve thought I was a stray dog humping the thing like a lunatic. Even in death, it seemed, I couldn’t escape humiliation.

“Why couldn’t I have been a guardian angel?” I shouted at two women passing by their laughter drifting behind them, oblivious to my outburst. Frustrated, I spun around and spotted a man pushing a wheelbarrow down the street. Without hesitation, I jumped onto it, facing him.

“I wouldn’t have minded being a reaper demon, do you know that?” I barked, leaning in as if he’d hear me. He didn’t, of course. He just kept walking, the wheelbarrow wobbling slightly as he turned the corner. And me? I knelt there in mid-air, hovering as though the barrow were still beneath me. Perfect. Just another indignity in the endless parade of ghostly absurdities.

Did I die? Did I even exist? The questions rolled around in my head, relentless and unanswered. Where had I come from? Was this my world, or did I come from somewhere else? Had I done something terrible, like kill someone—or even an entire city of people? I had no memory, no clue, and no answers.

And if I didn’t know any of that, then why the hell was I here? The thought gnawed at me, a maddening itch I couldn’t scratch. It was enough to drive anyone insane. Hell, maybe I already was. Crazy, insane, trapped, and completely, utterly nonexistent. I laughed bitterly to myself, the sound echoing into nothingness.

“That’s me,” I muttered. “The ghost of nothing, in the middle of nowhere, with no fucking reason why I am here.”

If I had died, shouldn’t I have gone to Heaven or Hell like everyone else? Instead, here I was—a silent prisoner of this forsaken world. Other ghosts who hadn’t been collected either wandered aimlessly or murmured incomprehensibly to anyone and everyone. Did they ever hear me? Not on your wellies they did. They ignored me, just like the living did. They shuffled about, muttering to themselves, searching for... well, who knows what. Monkey knows what, apparently.

I stamped down the street, my frustration boiling over. I didn’t bother to count how many people I walked through, poked, or ranted at along the way. What difference did it make? None of them even noticed my presence. The humans, the ghosts, they were all the same. Oblivious to me, indifferent to my anger, my existence—or lack thereof. I wanted to scream, to force someone, anyone, to see me. Instead, I just kept walking, my intangible feet pounding uselessly against the pavement. Or rather, the memory of pavement, because what did it matter to a ghost anyway?