What the dead don't tell

For Everything We Cannot Say

Have you ever wondered if sometimes the easiest thing you can do is simply stay quiet?

Sometimes I wish I’d learned when to keep my mouth shut. God, it would have saved me a lot of trouble.

“I’m telling you, Lora, Mrs. Rachel is definitely cheating on her husband with Mr. Walker. You know my instincts are never wrong. There’s something weird going on between them. I’m telling you, it’s more than weird.”

“Other people’s love lives really aren’t a priority for me. Especially when those people are teachers I’d rather not picture anywhere outside the classroom. What worries me more is how weirdly excited you are about all of this.”

“Because I’m dead, in case you forgot.”

Seventeen months ago, Phoebe fell down the east staircase between classes and cracked the side of her head against one of the steps.

At first, everyone thought she had a concussion. She was awake, talking, even complaining about how humiliating it was to be carried out on a stretcher.

A few hours later, she lost consciousness.

By then, it was too late.

I really had forgotten.

I’d forgotten that the person standing next to me was Phoebe’s ghost.

Tragic.

The whole school had been shaken by her death. Personally, I thought the more tragic part was spending eternity haunting the same hallways where you’d once worried about chemistry tests and cafeteria food, all because you felt you still had unfinished business among the living.

“No, I didn’t forget. It’s just that everything about you feels so natural. So real. Sometimes I lose track of the obvious.”

I glanced at her.

“And I’m not saying that just because I’m the only one who can see you. If you ever want to talk about what happened, I’m here.”

“I don’t want to talk about it again. Not yet.” Her expression shifted. “My memories are still hazy, and sometimes I can’t tell the difference between what I really saw and what I wanted to believe I saw.”

If you’ve ever thought people were complicated, try dealing with a ghost who doesn’t understand why she died, knows she has unfinished business, and still has absolutely no idea what it is.

I’d been trying to help Phoebe ever since she came back to school after the accident.

The first time I saw her, she was screaming at the janitor for clearing out her locker without permission and getting increasingly furious when the poor man completely ignored her.

We spent the rest of that afternoon in Mr. Taylor’s lab, long after everyone else had gone home, while I explained what had happened over and over again.

I showed her news articles. Photos. Anything I could find that might make it real.

She cried.

She swore at me.

She screamed.

Then, somehow, she got excited.

And eventually left to test out her new “superpowers.”

Since then, she hadn’t wanted to talk about the accident. She pretended everything was fine, even as she slowly began losing pieces of herself—forgetting things more often, holding on tighter, forcing herself to stay anchored to this world.

I was starting to wonder how long she could keep doing that before there was nothing left of her but a shadow.

“You’re staring again,” Phoebe said.

“I’m thinking.”

“That usually looks more painful.”

Whoever said ghosts don’t have a sense of humor clearly never met Phoebe.

“I have a question for you. Since no one can see you except me—lucky me—why don’t you just follow Mrs. Rachel and Mr. Walker around and find out if they’re actually having an affair instead of speculating?”

Phoebe looked horrified by the suggestion.

“And where would be the fun in that?”

I’d never been happier to hear the bell ring, announcing the start of first period and giving me the perfect excuse to escape the conversation.

“Saved by the bell,” I muttered.

Phoebe frowned. “You know I can still follow you, right?”

Unfortunately, I did.

By the time I reached English, most of the class had already settled into their usual seats. I slipped into mine near the window and dropped my bag beside my chair.

Phoebe perched on the edge of my desk.

Not technically on it, I supposed.

More like halfway through it.

“You’re crushing my notebook,” I whispered, trying not to look like the weird girl talking to herself and give people even more reasons to question my mental health.

“I’m dead, Lora.”

“Right. Forgot again.”

“That’s getting old.”

“So are you.”

She stared at me.

“Too soon?”

“I died seventeen months ago.”

“So... no?”

Before she could answer, Mrs. Rachel walked into the room carrying a stack of papers.

Phoebe immediately straightened.

“Oh, look who it is.”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“I’m just observing. Sherlock Holmes said, ‘You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.’ And I refuse to be superficial, especially when there’s a potential scandal involved.”

“You were observing her yesterday,” I said, keeping myself busy with whatever I could find on my desk. Maybe she’d take the hint and go do whatever ghosts did somewhere else, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a while.

“And the day before that.”

“That’s not observing anymore. That’s stalking.”

Phoebe looked genuinely offended.

“Ghosts cannot stalk people.”

“I’m pretty sure being invisible makes it worse.”

Mrs. Rachel dropped the papers onto her desk and started writing the date on the board.

Phoebe leaned closer to me.

“She’s wearing the same perfume.”

I stared at her, completely stunned by what had just come out of her mouth.

“What?”

“The same perfume she wore yesterday.”

“That’s generally how perfume works. And since when can ghosts smell anything? At this point, I think you’re just bluffing, Sherlock.”

Phoebe ignored me.

Mrs. Rachel turned around.

“Good morning.”

The room responded with the kind of tired mumble only teenagers at eight in the morning could produce.

“Before we start, I need to remind everyone that the east staircase will be closed during lunch today. Maintenance is replacing part of the railing, so you’ll need to use the west staircase.”

For a second, the room seemed strangely still.

Or maybe that was just me.

The east staircase.

Phoebe’s staircase.

Mrs. Rachel continued talking, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

I looked at Phoebe.

She wasn’t smiling.

She was staring at the board.

“Phoebe?” I whispered, forcing a cough afterward to cover it. The last thing I needed was to draw even more attention to myself.

Nothing.

Her face had gone completely blank.

Not sad.

Not scared.

Just empty.

I lowered my voice.

“Phoebe.”

Her eyes shifted toward me.

“What?”

“You okay?”

She blinked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just—”

Mrs. Rachel looked in my direction.

“Lora?”

I froze as twenty-seven heads turned toward me.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to share something with the class?”

Beside me, Phoebe covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Traitor.

“No.”

Mrs. Rachel raised an eyebrow.

“No, Mrs. Rachel,” I corrected.

“Good.”

A couple of people laughed. I sank lower into my chair.

Phoebe was still smiling when she whispered, “Smooth.”

“I hate you.”

“You’d miss me.”

That shut me up.

Her smile faded too.

Mrs. Rachel began explaining something about symbolism in The Great Gatsby, but I kept watching Phoebe from the corner of my eye.

She looked normal again.

As normal as a dead girl sitting halfway inside a school desk could look.

Still, something had changed.

Her fingers tapped rapidly against her knee.

Phoebe never did that.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Rachel began handing out worksheets.

As she passed our row, Phoebe suddenly stood.

So quickly that I almost flinched.

“What?”

She didn’t answer.

Mrs. Rachel placed a sheet on my desk.

A second later, the smell reached me.

Floral.

Sweet.

Slightly powdery.

Phoebe stared at her.

Not with the curiosity she’d shown earlier.

With fear.

Then Mrs. Rachel moved on.

Phoebe whispered, “I remember that.”

My stomach tightened.

“The perfume?”

She nodded.

“From when?”

“I don’t know.”

“You just said you remember it.”

“I said I remember it. I didn’t say I know where from.”

She pressed both hands against her temples.

“Phoebe.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a puzzle you’re trying to solve.”

Fair enough.

For the next few minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then Phoebe said quietly, “There was someone on the stairs.”

I turned so quickly my chair squeaked.

Mrs. Rachel stopped talking.

I immediately bent down and pretended to pick up my pen.

When she continued, I whispered, “What?”

Phoebe stared straight ahead.

“I don’t know.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said.”

Her voice sounded different now.

Smaller.

“I remember standing near the stairs. And I remember smelling that perfume.”

My pulse quickened.

“Mrs. Rachel was there?”

“I don’t know.”

“But—”

“I don’t know, Lora.”

The words came out sharper than she intended.

Before I could say anything else, she was gone.

There was no warning. No slow fading like I might have expected.

One moment she was standing beside me, tense and angry, and the next there was nothing but empty space where she had been.

I stared at the chair beside me, waiting for her to reappear.

She didn’t.

Phoebe had disappeared before. She wandered off whenever she got bored or annoyed with me.

But never like this.

Never so suddenly that it felt as though something had pulled her out of the room.

“Lora?”

Mrs. Rachel again.

This time, her expression was irritated.

“Yes?”

“Would you please read the first paragraph?”

I looked down at the worksheet.

The words might as well have been written upside down.

Somewhere in the building, Phoebe had remembered something.

And for the first time since she died, she had run from me.

I didn’t see her again for the rest of the day, and that worried me more than I wanted to admit.

Phoebe disappearing for hours was about as normal as her respecting someone’s privacy.

Besides, where could a ghost even hide when only one person in the entire school could see her?

I found her after the final bell.

She was sitting halfway up the east staircase, in the exact place where she had fallen seventeen months ago.

For once, Phoebe didn’t make a joke when she saw me.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“Where have you been?”

She didn’t answer.

Her eyes were fixed on the step beneath her feet.

“Phoebe?”

“I remembered something.”

My stomach tightened.

“What?”

She looked at me then.

“I wasn’t going upstairs.”

I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“The day I died.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Everyone said I was going upstairs when I fell.”

She looked back at the staircase.

“But I wasn’t.”

A cold feeling settled in my chest.

“Then where were you going?”

Phoebe was quiet for a long moment.

Finally, she shook her head.

“I don’t remember.”

The hallway lights flickered above us.

And for the first time, I wondered if Phoebe’s death had really been an accident.