Blackfeather Woods champagne, cocaine, gasoline

Mou watched as the trees danced. He thought the shadows looked so very solid across their reaching trunks, and they seemed to dance in opposition to the physical world. The trees would tremble and the shadows would sit across them as if to constrict them, but the more he watched the more he felt the darkess was separate of them—settling across the trees in order to constrain them, maybe reaching in their own right for the stars.

The boy was intently (or as intently as he could given his mental state and drug abuse) staring up at the sky when the ghost arrived. He wouldn't have noticed her even if he had been sober; she was a child of this forest, she knew how to move through it without being discovered. There were secrets here that the dark held for its beloved children, and thus far Mou was not one of them. But when the girl launched herself at his hindquarters, Mou was taken by surprise.

He may have survived being tossed off a cliff, and nearly drowned by the sea, and nearly eaten by a bear over the course of multiple weeks, but everything had taken their tole—Fate had struck him down and earned a pound of flesh each time. His mind had been incapacited, his body, now his voice. Mou was still recovering. He would likely always be this frail boy who leaned too strongly upon the aid of the poppies—and this wiry little ghost was yet another twist of fate. As she came in to contact with his lower back he let out a boof of surprise and collapsed beneath her.

It didn't take much, but there was a pop.
He didn't notice as the feeling in his lower back began to fade.