Blackfeather Woods champagne, cocaine, gasoline

What are you doing? The ghost asked. He had no idea what was happening or why, so he just sank to the earth as if it was his intention to lay down. It wasn't, but Mou couldn't think of anything else he could do in that moment. Really, he couldn't think at all.

She was looking at him, and he stared back at her. Pale eyes—empty things, the same color as the rest of her. He stared at her with his one good eye, and in his intoxicated state he saw through her. Yes, to him she was a real ghost. Perhaps she was the guardian of these woods.

He opened his mouth to say something but immediately forgot what that was, so he gawked for a bit instead. Then, as he found himself plastered against the crunching leaves and pine needles, he felt much better. Grounded. More attuned to parts of himself—and gradually, a pins-and-needles feeling in his lower back. Not quite reaching his limbs yet, but a hint that this was not permanent.