A lot of us were raised with the idea that “its normal for wives/children to get hit! it helps them learn– only white folk don’t get beaten when they misbehave”. That’s not true, white people aren’t the only ones who deserve a safe and abuse free environment. Black and brown people can and do have loving families. 

I nod, setting down my chalk and spellbook. “It does sound like there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“She took against me, that's what happened,” the dead girl says with a scowl. She looks about fourteen, round faced and spotty, with whisps of brown hair peaking out from under her mob-cap. Her face and her crossed arms have a tell-tale bluish tinge to them. A cholera death.

“I been here for don't know how long and never gave any trouble. Nobody ever complained about me 'till her.”

…well, that's not strictly true.

Number 12, Barclay Street has been attracting rumours of haunting since the mid nineteenth century.

Sounds of faint singing and crying in the corridors at night. Cold spots. Doors that open and close by themselves. Animals acting strangely. Harmless, mid to low-level stuff, typical for a bored teenage poltergeist.

Still, pointing that out isn't likely to achieve much, and certainly the most recent complaints of blood running down the walls, screams in the dark and paralysing night terrors seem distinctly out of character.

The ghost toes the chalk again, more tentatively this time. It stays resolutely unbroken.

She could get out if she wanted to. I'm not one of those assholes who brings out their full arsenal of wards and sigils for a first meeting with a level 2 spectre. The summoning circle will keep her in one place for as long as I need her to talk, but it wouldn't hold for a moment if she really fought against it.

I take it as a good sign that she's still here. Pouting or not, she's clearly willing to work with me.

“None of the others could do this,” she says. “None of 'em even saw me.” She looks up. “Are you here to exise me?”

“Exorcise,” I say instinctively, and curse myself when she flinches. “Sorry, no, no! I don't exorcise people from their homes without good reason, not if they're happy where they are.”

“I was happy. Till she started calling in all them ghost hunters.”

Mrs Delaney had been quite persistent in her attempts to 'fix' her haunted house. Most of the people she found were charlatans, of course, but I'd still arranged an appointment as fast as I could once word reached me. It wouldn't have been long before she happened upon somebody with Talent, and unfortunately not everybody in this field knows how to behave like a professional.

“I think we might be able to help each other,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm and level.

“Don't see how. Not unless you can exorcise Her.”

“Not quite what I had in mind.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos. “You say that you're not the cause of the most recent incidents of paranormal activity?”

A pause. The ghost gnaws on her lip. I wait, patiently, keeping my body language open and nonthreatening. “I… I knocked her coffee cup over,” she admits at last. “She was being mean and talking on her telephone, saying I done all these things when I never did! So I decided to show her what I could do if I wanted.”

“Hmm.” The ghost eyes me nervously, as if expecting me to pull out a book, bell and candle and banish her on the spot.

“I only tipped it,” she adds. “I didn't break it or nothing!”

“You shouldn't have touched it at all,” I say sternly. “But… I can appreciate that you were frustrated, so let's say no more about it.”

The ghost looks relieved.

“My point is,” I continue, “if you weren't the one making blood rain from the ceiling or tormenting people in their sleep, then what was? There's no other ghosts on the property.” I find the picture I was looking for. “You can get anywhere around the house, right? Including behind the furniture and in the backs of cupboards?”

“Yes'm.”

I hold the phone up so that she can see the picture on the screen. “I'm going to let you go free in a moment, and I need you to see if you can find anything that looks like this.”

The ghost wrinkles her forehead. “What's that when it's at home?”

it's okay to not flag black people's selfies as mature 💕

you don't have to reinstate that kiwifarmer 💞

you can leave that trans woman alone ❤️

you don't have to make the most horrendous ui updates possible as soon as people's muscle memory starts to kick in 💓

you can leave that trans woman alone 🩵

it's okay to give a human reaponse to people's ban appeals in a reasonable timeframe 💗

you don't have to ban that mother from gaza trying to fundraise for her family 💝

it's okay to ban blogs dedicated to stalking that trans woman online 💛

yes you can leave that trans woman alone too 🩷 no her selfie isn't sexually explicit content

you can bring back the fast queue button. i believe in you 💜

it's okay to *cough* replace your ceo 🤍

please remember to leave that black woman alone 🧡 yes and her girlfriend too, it's okay 💚

i promise you don't have to reblog that genocide apologist on the staff account 🩶

trans and intersex education isn't sexually explicit content 💛

you can leave that trans woman alone 💖

you can leave that black person alone 💖

You may be wondering how I got into this situation. That's good. Keep wondering. If you pay close attention to the rest of this movie and employ your critical thinking skills, you may find that the answer unfolds as it goes along. Sometimes it's good not to know yet, and to wonder. Sometimes that's the entire point.

You are not going to pass a skillcheck against a rip current once it has you.

Waves will not bow to your physical prowess no matter how impressive.

Shock does not care that you used to be on your school swim team.

If you hit your head, being good at swimming isn't going to turn you face-up while you're unconscious.

Romeo wakes up in Hamlet's body and meets the ghost of "his" father telling him to kill his uncle. So if course Romeo just fucking does it, because he never considers consequences, and then gets onto more important shit, like romancing Ophelia, political fallout be damned! But given that he's the son of the murdered king, he'd probably end up on top.

Juliet is a doer, her actions drive the play. Juliet meets a boy, makes a plan, and marries him the next day. She and Hamlet are both schemers rather than followers, but Juliet makes a plan and commits to it, and it’s only forces out of her control that doom her. Everything would have been fine if that messenger had made it to Romeo before news of her death did.

Hamlet on the other hand overthinks. He spends months debating what to do. Every detail and implication has to be thought through. He can’t commit to a plan, and he can’t commit to Ophelia. Hamlet’s playing chess, Juliet’s playing capture the flag.