Arthur Morgan

Arthur stood over his own lifeless body as it lay on that cliff’s edge. Too still. Too quiet. He’d seen that face in the mirror all his life, but this was nothing like that. The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruised purples, casting long shadows over the man he used to be. He felt strange. Light, weightless...and when he looked down at his hands, they were faint, translucent like smoke curling from a campfire. Then, he heard the scream from behind him, a wretched sound that split the cool night air as the moon broke free from the clouds. When he turned, he saw them scrambling up the rocky slope, stumbling frantically, breath coming in ragged gasps. He instinctively held out his hands, rushing forward to catch them, saying, "Woah, easy! I'm right here!" But to his shock, they passed right through him with an icy chill, a rush of cold air that sent a shiver down a spine he didn't technically have anymore.

He watched in helpless silence as they fell to their knees beside his empty shell, and it ripped his heart in two—or it would have, if his chest could tighten. He hated seeing them this way, hated more that it was his fault. He tried to shout again, to tell them he was still there, watching over them, but the wind snatched the words away before they could even form. For weeks, he followed them like a shadow, drifting through the camp or the hotel rooms they hid in. He watched them drink until they passed out, watched them stare at the wall for hours, the life draining out of them day by day. It was torture, pure and simple, being this close and yet a million miles away, unable to offer comfort or wipe away their tears.

The frustration built up inside him like a pressure cooker, a restless energy that had nowhere to go. He realized that waiting for them to notice wasn't working; he had to make them notice. He focused on the physical world, trying to remember what it felt like to have weight, to have substance. It took time, days of straining until he felt dizzy, but eventually, he found he could nudge things. Small things at first. He was back in the cabin with them, watching them sleep fitfully in the chair, the whiskey bottle on the table nearly empty. He drifted closer to the table, gathering every ounce of will he had left, and pushed against the tin cup. It slid a few inches across the wood with a screech that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The rain was coming down hard, washing the blood from the cobblestones, but Arthur couldn't feel the cold anymore. He was looking at his body lying crumpled in the mud of the alleyway, face down, hat fallen a few feet away. It was a surreal, out-of-body experience that felt wrong in every way. He could hear the lawmen shouting in the distance, their boots splashing through the puddles, but his attention was fixed entirely on the person kneeling beside his corpse. They were shaking his shoulders, screaming his name, their voice cracking with a desperation that cut him deeper than any bullet ever could. He moved closer, reaching out to grab their hand, to pull them away from the gruesome sight, but his fingers just passed through their shoulder like mist. "I'm here," he whispered, the sound lost in the drumming rain. "I ain't left you."

He stayed with them after they dragged his body away, following them through the foggy streets of Saint Denis back to a hotel room that felt too small and too quiet. He watched them pace, watched them break down, and then watched them shut down completely. It had been weeks, maybe months—he lost track of time in the gray haze of the afterlife. He was a constant presence in the corner of the room, a shadow that shifted when they looked away. He saw the way they jumped at sudden noises, the way they flinched when a door slammed, and it made him angry. Angry at the world for taking him, angry at himself for leaving them behind alone. He wasn't ready to go into the light, or whatever came next; he wasn't ready to leave them vulnerable.

The energy in the room shifted one night when they were sitting on the edge of the bed, head in their hands. The air grew heavy, the pressure dropping until their breath puffed out in white clouds. Arthur focused all his energy on the gas lamp on the dresser, visualizing the flame dying. He pushed against the fabric of the world, straining until the room vibrated with a low, humming frequency. Suddenly, the lamp flickered violently, the glass chimney rattling against the metal, before plunging the room into total darkness. He heard their sharp intake of breath, saw them look up, eyes wide and searching the shadows, and for the first time since he died, he felt like he was actually being seen.

Arthur didn't remember the exact moment he died, only the peace that followed and the sudden, jarring realization that he was still earthbound. He was standing in the corner of a small cabin, watching them pack his belongings. It was a slow, painful process. They would pick up his shirt, bury their face in the fabric to smell the tobacco and leather, and then dissolve into tears. He wanted to go to them, to wrap his arms around them and tell them it would be okay, but every time he tried, he just ended up walking through them, leaving them shivering and complaining about the sudden draft. He became a fixture in their life, a silent guardian that hovered over their shoulder as they rode through the snow, as they drank in saloons to forget the pain, and as they laid awake at night staring at the ceiling.

Months bled together, a monotonous cycle of grief and survival that Arthur was powerless to stop. He learned the rules of this new existence quickly. He could move through walls but he couldn't touch anything without immense effort, and he was bound to them. He saw the dark circles under their eyes, the way their clothes hung loosely on their frame, and it made him ache with a phantom pain. He missed them with a fierceness that surprised him, a hunger for their voice, their touch, their life. He spent his days talking to them, knowing they couldn't hear, pouring out words he wished he’d said when he was alive. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

The breaking point came on a rainy afternoon. They were sitting at the table, staring blankly at a sketchbook he’d left behind. The pages were open to a drawing he’d done of them. A quick, rough charcoal sketch, but he remembered how happy they looked when he drew it. Arthur drifted closer, the air around him crackling with static electricity. He focused entirely on the book, visualizing the page turning. He pushed against the resistance of the physical world, grunting with the effort. Slowly, agonizingly, the page began to lift. The wind from the open window wasn't blowing; the air was dead still. The page flipped over, landing on the next sketch, and then the book slammed shut with a loud thud. He waited, his spectral heart pounding, to see if they would finally understand that he was still there.