Young Writers Society

I just realized that halfway through this piece, I forgot one of my main characters names and started calling her "Gulia" instead of "Gulie." Please forgive this terrible, and rather silly, oversight.

Possessed with the spirit of adventure, Oak Forrest hitches her maxiskirt to her belt and clambers over the chain-link gate. She ignores the massive sign fixed to it, and it’s serious looking message: KEEP OUT.

Past the fence, she takes a moment to catch her breath, and to appreciate the view. In the 2020s, Cornland had been the prime-time theme park in the Midwest, with head-spinning roller coasters, old-fashioned carnival games, and the tallest Ferris Wheel in the area! (Apart from the one in Soybean Town, which was twice the height and had thrice the prestige, only a short jaunt down I-90.) Oak had never seen it up and running; she’d been nine when it closed. But she read all about it in Corntown’s local library, from its fascinating history as an actual farm, to its mysterious founder, Cornell Cobbler.

Legend had it, he boarded the Ferris Wheel, but never stepped off it. The last anyone ever heard of the eccentric fellow, who only wore yellow t-shirts and green pantaloons, was his excited hoots! and huzzahs! as his carriage swung higher and higher, into the dusky blue sky.

The 30s proved unkind to Cornland. After a tornado tore through, taking the great Cornstalk roller coaster with it, financial strain led to the administrators cutting corners, making the once supreme theme park of the Midwest an undesirable destination for locals and tourists alike. And when one of their teen employees died in the park, that spelt the end for Cornland. 

But even today, abandoned, Cornland is grand in the bruise-color light of early evening. The silhouettes of decrepit rides stand in repose, like fallen titans, on the horizon, creaking as the wind whistles past them.

If anywhere is haunted, it's gotta be here, Oak thinks, thrilled. She smiles with teeth, cheeks pink from cold. After the fence, hopping the turnstile is a slice of pie- she breezes through the entrance, and is greeted by a plaza.

“I feel so cool right now,” she says. Cornland replies with a chilly breeze, like the sigh of an aggrieved ghost, and the groan of abandoned machinery.

Next week, Oak starts her first semester of college. She moved here from the East Coast; she misses the ocean, her mom, and her cat, Weenie. But there’s nothing like an old-fashioned ghost hunt to chase homesickness from her bones- she has never found anything resembling the undead in all her life, but she figures that maybe ghosts don't live in New Jersey.

She supposes ghosts don’t live anywhere, and chuckles at her clever wordplay.

The ticket booth stands in the center of the plaza like a large tomb, its electric light-up sign long dead. The clear plastic window is dark. Oak admires her rugged reflection; her delightfully windswept hair, softly glistening studded earrings, and sparkle-y eyes.

Oak blinks, and it takes her a second to realize that there’s a new face in the window, one that isn’t hers.

“By all means, don’t let me interrupt your preening,” says the new face. Dark eyes, set in deep sockets. Thin lips, dry and flayed. A gleam on her brow, like sweat, all beneath a greasy mop of hair, tied back.

A ghost! Oaks' brain squeals. Must look cool.

“You look grisly,” she observes, going for a suave disinterest, but definitely leaning more toward plain-old ‘rude.’ Abashed, she drops the act right away. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that, you look lovely, especially for being, you know… dead.”

”I look exactly like I did when I was alive,” says the now slightly bemused ghost. “I thought. I mean, I can’t see myself in mirrors, so it’s hard to say.”

“But I thought that was a vampire thing? Unless you are a vampire, and not a ghost? I’m sorry, I assumed.”

“You’re good, girl. I am a ghost,” her voice does not lose that dry, unimpressed quality. Pinned to her uniform, a yellow, pit-stained polo shirt, is her name tag.

“Gulie, it’s so nice to meet you! I’m Oak Forrest.”

Gulie’s expression doesn’t change, aside from her right eyebrow, which shoots comically high up her forehead. Oak wonders if that’s her equivalent of a startled guffaw. “Parents had a sense of humor, didn’t they?”

“Ah. No. My real name is Bailey, but I’ve always hated that, so I thought, what better time to reinvent myself than college, y’know?”

“I don’t,” says Gulie, shrugging, “I never went to college. And my name has served me well enough. Served me better than ‘Oak Forrest,’ anyhow.”

She doesn’t look all-too despairing. In fact, other than her overly animated eyebrows, which betray her total judgieness, her face and posture represent perfect disinterest. Is that an effect of being dead? Oak wonders, Or just how she is? Either way, it seemed doubtful that she was actually that cold.

“How long have you been dead?” Oak asked. She already knew the answer, but it was important to get an idea how time passed for the ghost. She learned this in her horror novels.

“Uh, well, let’s see,” Gulie thinks for a long moment, her at first unblemished forehead contorting more and more with each second. At long last, she guesses, “I died August something, 2032. And it’s been, what? Twenty years?”

“Nine, actually.”

“Damnit.” (There! Thinks Oak, spotting a blink-and-you-miss-it moment of complete and utter despondency!) “That was my conservative guess. Oh well,” she tries a thin-lipped, painful smile, “my work-shifts were that way, too. I’d swear on my life I’d been out here for an hour, but look at my watch and lo and behold, no more than fifteen minutes had passed. I’d say there’s a curse on this place, but…”

“You aren’t waiting for something, are you?” Oak asks. Gulie doesn’t reply, so she elaborates, “Like, ‘The End of Your Shift?’”

Gulie pales, and her eyes dart away, “That would be nice. But I couldn’t tell you how to go about that.”

“Usually, a ghost has some kind of unfinished business.”

“Usually?” Gulie snorts, “You’ve met other ghosts before?”

“No, I guess not. But that’s how it works in movies and books, and that’s all we have to go off of, isn’t it? So, how did you die?”

Gulie’s eyebrows lift in mock-offense, “That’s the kind of question you ask a girl over dinner. ‘How did you die?’ How do you know it wasn’t terribly traumatic? How do you know I even want to talk about it?”

Oak fixes her with a hard, searching look, but finds the other girl unyielding as stone. She puts her hands in her skirt pocket, and makes a show of sauntering off, “I won’t press you then. It is none of my business, after all, and if I were a ghost, I’d certainly not mind haunting here for all eternity. Better than a dingy haunted house anyway,” she calls over her shoulder, “see you, Gulie!”

Gulie falters, then sighs. “Wait a second,” She steps out of the ticket booth, (not out the door, but through a side wall,) and places her hands on her hips. She doesn’t cast a shadow, but the sunlight filters through her like a heat wave. She’s dead on her feet. Not literally, but like she’s worked an eight-hour shift in summer’s heat and hasn’t slept in a hot minute. She looks at Oak impatiently, “Come on, then,” she says, tapping her foot, “let’s go see where I died.”

-

Oak thought Gulie would take her to a precarious-looking ride. Even though she’d read up on the ghost of Cornland, all she’d learned was that it’s alleged haunting had pushed the place over the brink to financial ruin. She imagined a horrifying freak accident: a roller coaster gone haywire; a sinkhole beneath the carousel, or even just a wayward dart that’d been intended for a balloon.

Instead, Gulie brought her to a large stall, three counters on three sides, lined with small catapults pointed inward. They are aimed at a large basin in the center, empty except for comically large dinner plates at the bottom. All covered in a thick blanket of dust. There is a space between the counter and the basin all the way around just wide enough for a person to slide sideways through. A sun-bleached sign reads, Fish Splish.

“You’d take a rubber fish, from the barrel, there,” Gulie explained, pointing it out to Oak, “place it in one of the catapults, and try to land it on one of the dinner plates. Pretty simple. The basin’s meant to be filled with water, of course.”

Rather than phasing through the counter, as she could’ve done, Gulie swings her legs over it and slides to the other side. She continues, “Fish Splish was nobody's favorite game. No employees favorite game, I should say. Guests loved it, even though it was rigged top to bottom. Something about seeing the fish flop through the air, I guess. But I digress. Nobody liked it, because there was no way to avoid being splashed. The fish hit the water like cannonballs, and you’d stink like swamp water for the rest of your shift. Try.”

Retrieving a fish from the barrel, Oak obliges. She carefully folds the fish onto the catapult, but doesn’t bother to aim. There is nothing to aim for, with the dinner plates at the bottom of the basin. Launching the fish into the air, it shot through Gulia like a bullet; this is a weapon of war.

“If I had a corporal form,” Gulia says blithely, “that would’ve hurt like heck.”

Oak winces, “Sorry,” horror dawned on her, “is that how you died?”

“No.” She laughs sharply, startling Oak, “Via fish? I’d be so embarrassed. No, I slipped on a puddle of water and hit my head right there.” She gestures to a space on the counter to the left of Oak. “Right on the ledge.”

The wet thud of a head popping open like a watermelon reverberated through time. Oak shuddered. “That’s horrible.”

Guila shrugs, “It only hurt for a second. Worse was afterward. It’s awfully disorientating being dead.”

“I can’t imagine,” she frowns at the spot where Gulia died, as though it might reveal some hidden truth to her. She sighs, “But this can’t be it.”

“Can’t be what?”

“You’re unfinished business! There must be something else. Something you still need to do that’s keeping you from moving on. Do you have any other ideas?”

“Oh. Hm.” Gulie thinks. And thinks. And thinks a little bit more. Then, “Nothing in particular comes to mind.”

Oak hesitates. She’s no good at beating around the bush, but with as much caution as she’s able, she asks, “Areyou happy as a ghost?”

Like a candle in a torrent, Gulia’s whole body flinches. Her emotive eyebrows take a nosedive, meeting in the center of her face. She scowls so hard, Oak can see her teeth, ground together like heavy machinery. “Of course I’m not,” she thunders, “What is wrong with you?

“I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” Oak says in a hurry, “I just wanted to check to make sure I wasn’t being… insensitive. Like, maybe you don’t want to move on and I’m being pushy? I’m sorry.”

“You are being pushy,” Gulie sighs. A deep sigh, that rattles her bones, “but I don’t mean to go all-nuts on you. I would like to move on, or ‘Clock Out,’ or whatever. Truthfully, I’ve been trying for, what was it, nine years? Nine years. I don’t think you’ll be able to solve my problem in an evening.”

“Maybe not,” says Oak, “But I can come back tomorrow! I’ll brainstorm ideas all night, and you should as well. And if nothing else, at least I can keep you some company.”

A smile creeps onto Gulie’s face, perhaps against her will, “It does get lonely. Alright, Oak. You can help me.”

Oak returns Gulie’s ghost-of-a-smile with a wholehearted beam. “Can I hug you?”

“You can certainly try,” says Gulie doubtfully.

Careful not to phase through her, (for who knew what terrible consequences that would spell?) Oak circles her arms around Gulie. She is the type of person who believes hugs are as vital to the human psyche as fiber is to the stomach. Maybe an embrace is all her emotionally-constipated-ghost-buddy needs to reach emotional catharsis and move to the next phase of her afterlife?

But the cold air in her arms does not dissipate, and when she steps away, Gulie is still there, looking bashful. As though reading Oaks mind, she asks, “Is it weird I thought that might be it? I’m not even much of a hugger.”

“Not at all,” Oak agrees earnestly, “Hugs do solve most things. But I guess we can’t count hauntings among them.”

“I guess not.” Oak can barely make out the blurry lines of Gulia in the dark. Only her eyes, glowing like coals in the pits of her face. She smiles and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-

The next day comes, and they make a plan to complete Gulia’s last day of work.

“Fish Splish was my morning shift,” she explains, “which was the worst, because my uniform would stink for the rest of the day. But after that, I was meant to operate the rides. The Corn-ousel, Colonel Corn’s Haunted House, and The Ferris Wheel.”

“Well, then,” says Oak, “let’s hip-hop to it.”

-

The Corn-ousel is like every other carousel Oak has seen. Not even corn themed, which feels like a scam. Gulia ushers her onto a dapper gray mare, then makes a lap around the whole carousel, and finally checks that the entrance and exit gates are locked by rattling each of them back and forth.

“Spooky,” says Oak.

“Got to make sure no one gets on or off the ride while it’s running,” Gulia explains. Oak nods solemnly. “There’s no electricity in the park. Are we using our imaginations?”

“Or ghost magic,” Oak suggests. Gulia wrinkles her nose.

“Ghost magic?”

“Yeah, see if you can possess the ride, maybe.”

Gulia sighs grandly, than saunters toward a little gray box at the heart of the carousel. She braces both hands against it, then looks to Oak, as though seeking approval. She, of course, nods enthusiastically.

Again, Gulia sighs. And then she’s gone.

The lights flicker on, and a terrible, trumpet-comprised cacophony perfectly befitting a horror film begins to play, as the carousel whirs to life. Is this what it sounded like in it’s heyday? Oak wonders, head already pounding, Or is she just trolling me?

“The former,” came a familiar voice from inside her brain, “It gave me a headache, too.”

Oak yelps, nearly toppling off her horse.

“Sorry, I just…” Gulia’s voice trails off, and the ride stops with a shudder, terrible music shrieking to a halt like a record scratch. Gulia’s head pokes out of the carousels floor. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Oaks heart pulsates in her throat, “You’re alright, startled me, is all,” she says, “Is that the only way you can communicate from inside the ride?”

Gulia’s shoulders float out of the floor, then fall back down out of sight, “I guess so.”

“Then don’t worry about it. I want to keep talking to you. Start the ride again.”

Gulia smiles, “But cut the music, right?”

“Oh, god,” says Oak, “Please.”

-

The haunted house was nothing to write home about, even when it’s literally haunted. The first go-around, Oak tried to maintain the pretense of being frightened. By the third and fourth, she took the time instead to brainstorm other ideas about how to help Oak Clock Out, as they’d earnestly taken to calling it.

“What was it that you wanted to do after you graduated your senior year? Where did you want to go to college?”

“It felt like all my classmates had these larger-than-life plans. I just wanted to go home and play on my Nintendo.”

“You must have had some hobbies,” Oak insisted.

“Sure. I liked to play the guitar, and I volunteered at the pet shelter after school. But that’s it.”

A weird, puppet clown springs out at Oak. By now she knows it’s coming and pulls a face at it. “So you dreamed of becoming a famous singer and guitarist, and that’s your unfinished business. Or maybe you could’ve become a vet!”

“Neither of those careers were really my jam, though believe me, my school councilor was insistent I drop a hundred grand in student loans just to ‘test the waters,’ or whatever.”

“Was there really nothing you wanted to do? No dreams or aspirations?”

There’s a pause, then, “You make me sound so sad.” Gulia jokes, “I’m sure I would’ve found my niche eventually. Everyone said I would. I just never had the opportunity to. That’s my tragedy, I suppose. My ‘unfinished business’ is growing up.” She lets that hit Oak like a sledgehammer, then asks lightly, “What about you? What’re you going to college for?”

“Animal Sciences.”

“Oh.” she can hear the strained smile in the ghost’s voice. Gulia means it when she says, “That’s wonderful, Oak.”

-

The Ferris Wheel carriage swings slightly in the breeze as it lifts Oak skyward. The stars are poking out through thin sheets of wispy clouds. She stares at them as though they personally slighted her.

The ride comes to a creaking halt when she reaches the top. Gulia comes clambering up through the bottom of the carriage. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, sitting opposite of Oak, “I’d rather speak to you face-to-face, rather than invading your brain like that.”

“You’re good, girl,” Oak repeats Gulia’s earlier words, albeit somewhat distantly. She says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help to you.”

Gulia settles into her seat, then offers a smile, “It’s just been nice to have someone to talk to. Really.” When Oak doesn’t reply, she asks, “Why’d you come here in the first place?”

“I guess I was lonely, too.” For some time, they enjoy each other’s company in silence. The dark theme park stretches out far beneath them. Somewhere even farther past that, the distant lights of Corntown wink at them. Oak is a stranger in the odd Midwest city. She wonders if Gulia would be, too, hurled back home, but ten years into the future.

Quietly, Oak asks, “Do you really think you’re unfinished business is that simple? That it’s just life?”

Gulia thinks. And thinks. And thinks. Then says, “I can’t sleep, you know? I try, every night, because maybe if I sleep I can dream that I’m somewhere else. It doesn’t come, though. I don’t even get that relief.” She squeezes her eyes shut, like she’s trying not to cry, “I want to move on. To grow. But I can’t even leave the stupid park. I’ve tried that too. Your company has meant everything to me,” she smiles, soft, but her bunched-up eyebrows reveal the truth, “I have to accept I’m stuck here forever.”

Oak places a hand over Gulia’s transparent one. It’s so cold it burns, but she doesn’t mind. A conspiratorial grin is creeping up her face, “Oh, let’s not be so corny.”

-

They stand at the base of the Ferris Wheel, in the center of the plaza, fleshy-face to ghostly-one. Gulia’s eyes are wide as the dinner plates at Fish Splish. “Are you sure?” she asks for the umpteenth time.

Oak checks her watch: 6:40 AM. They’d been arguing for almost twelve hours, but she didn’t feel very tired. Energy thrums beneath her skin, and she couldn’t keep a grin off her face for more than a few minutes. This is serious, she told herself, while hopping foot to foot.

“I am surer than sure.” Oak says.

“Sure as sure can be?” Gulia asks. She doesn’t seem to believe it.

“Sure as the Jersey Shore. Come on. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” Oak cuts off Gulia’s next sentence, “If you ask me Are you sure one more time, my head will explode.”

Gulia’s mouth zips shut. Slowly, incrementally, she reaches both her hands towards Oak, stopping halfway. Her eyebrows are working themselves into a frenzy, quivering like leaves on a tree. They relax, as Oak interlaces their fingers, and Gulia vanishes.

It’s like drinking a smoothie, Oak thinks of the cold feeling settling in the pit of her belly. Everything else is less pleasant: her skin prickles like it’s been punctured by a thousand needles, and her head splits in two; she buckles to the ground, knees scraping against the uneven pavement; tears sting her eyes, as her vision doubles. Her stomach churns.

Then, it subsides, and she’s upright again, feeling just as she did before. Sorta.

On unsteady feet, she hobbles towards the ticket booth, and peers into her reflection. Nothing looks different about her, either, not at first: her hair still cascades elegantly down her shoulders; her eyes have their characteristic twinkle; she’s got her jeweled earrings in either lobe,

and her eyebrows are pinched together, wound tight as a spring.

You’re going to give us wrinkles, Oak thinks. The eyebrows jump apart.

Sorry, Gulia winces.

Even though their reflection is smiling, Oak can see Gulia’s fear written all over it. She recognizes it so much better now than she did only a day ago. Carefully, she wraps her arms around herself, and squeezes.

Are you still trying to hug me? Gulia asks.

I’m hugging us. We look like we need it.

She hears Gulia sigh inside their now-shared brain, I won’t argue that.

The hug redoubles, as Gulia joins in.

Oak says aloud, “I’m ready when you are.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, before Oaks lips move again. Gulia says, “I’m ready.”