Member-only story
The Woes of Tiffany Youngblood
Oh, dare to defy fate.
“Tiff, come on,” Jonathan Hughes said as his best friend stood beside the open grave. “I thought we were done grave-robbing. It’s a nasty habit you’ve fallen into.”
The friend in question — one Tiffany Youngblood — did not heed his words. Instead, she knelt beside the open grave as if she had every intention of climbing in and prying open the coffin within. But she hesitated ever so slightly before looking at him.
“I’ll have you know, Jonathan, that I’m doing this for your sake,” she said. “I wouldn’t be out here in the dead of night, scouring through artifacts of the dead, if not for your predicament.”
That predicament, of course, was that he was dead.
And a ghost.
“It’s really not so bad,” he said, even as his form wavered with the tumult of his emotions. Dead. It was still a revelation of sorts. One day, he had been able to move about as he pleased, living his life as a reporter’s son — and then one day more he was feeling his heart begin to slow to a standstill as Tiffany stared down at him in pure shock, her lips parted with the beginning onslaught of grief. “I mean, I do miss it, being alive. But all things must come to an end, right?”
