Of course, with him around, she was definitely the main attraction. The headliner of the freak show. “I can’t imagine there’s anything here you’d actually like,” she said, eyes scanning the rows of handmade booths. She didn’t bother looking at him.

Wooden tables lined the path, strung with fairy lights and signs in curly cursive inviting you to step right in, promising rare finds and unbelievable prices. Most of it was obviously DIY, with that charming level of imperfection that made it feel alive.

She browsed slowly, giving everything her attention, jewelry first, then vintage bags and worn-in leather jackets. Eventually, she drifted toward stacks of LPs and cassette tapes. She didn’t have much room in her dorm for anything big, but knick-knacks were different. Knick-knacks had a vibe.

Minimalism, in her opinion, was a tragic aesthetic. Every shelf, every ledge, every inch should be packed with stories, objects, layers. Bare was boring. An old woman shot a suspicious look toward BJ. Lydia didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, my father’s terribly ill,” she said dryly, giving the woman a small, solemn smile. “But the fresh air does wonders.”

Instant understanding. A flicker of pity crossed the woman’s face, and Lydia moved on, satisfied. If he was going to tag along, he could at least serve a purpose, like being mistaken for her senile old father. Fitting, really. “So,” she began, pretending to casually flip through records, “since you’re tagging along… How exactly did you escape your apartment? And your… what was her name? Rita?”

He would be the father of her nightmares.

"Watcha lookin' at?" He whisked the cassette out of her hands. "Eh, The Cruxshadows? I ain't buyin' ya this shlock." Betelgeuse, having no idea who the Cruxshadows were, turned to the booth owner and pointed a gnarled claw at the tape. "How much fer this crap? I'll give ya a quarter n' I think I got a costume ring I pocketed from an old lady. Might be too small fer ya', though. You've got some big sausage fingers fer a girly girl." The girl, who indeed had mannish hands, gasped in offense and immediately glared at Lydia. A look that read "Do something. Now."

"Excuse me?" She was still looking at Lydia, hopeful that she would come to the defense of another sister. Betelgeuse sussed her out the moment he saw the Sculpey uterus brooches she was selling for 75 cents a pop, laid out beside the music paraphernalia. Goddamn feminists ruin everything. "Alright, alright. Calm your tits, Miss Piggy." He presented her with a dollar from his breast pocket. "I can't say no t'my little girl." Betelgeuse wasn't sure how much the Crapshadows album cost, but he wouldn't go higher than a Washington. And frankly, he'd bet his left nut (twice removed thanks to some bitter ex-girlfriends) that it was worth even less.

But now, hiding in the bathroom, it felt like the universe had rubber-banded her right back, the same dark colors clinging to her like a second skin, and the same weight pressing down. Like she’d never left her bedroom at all.

She yanked a too-small t-shirt over her head, the hem riding up to flash a sliver of stomach. It felt wrong, and she wore it because it felt wrong, maybe if she could force herself into discomfort, she could trick herself into changing, into becoming.

"Join me," she said, stepping back into the bedroom, the bathroom door still swinging behind her. "I can't stop you." Like that was news. Beetlejuice was a one-man wrecking crew with no brakes, and least of all for her.

"Fine," she muttered, crossing her arms, "just don’t haunt my room tonight. I don’t care." But she knew he would find a way to peel her out of her Doc Martens and scramble whatever sense of self she had left. He always did.

Beetlejuice didn’t get nervous. He didn’t get scared. And definitely not because of her.

Maybe it was the usual trick not working. Her saying his name hadn’t zapped him back to the Neitherworld like it was supposed to. Maybe he was stuck here. With her. And somehow, that thought was... what? Unappealing? Uninteresting? Boring?

"Yeah, that's totally my thing," she said, voice soaked in sarcasm. "I lie in bed every night just pining away for you."

She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t detach, then pushed off the windowsill and stormed to her closet. The doors were papered in layered posters, obscure bands, gothic art, and quotes she had found in different poetry books. Inside: a spectrum of darkness, from ink to void. In her defense, she had been trying new things. A velvet purple dress here, dark forest green pants there. Small rebellions against the monochrome. She was proud of that.

Pulling an outfit together, she walked out, arms full of carefully curated gloom. “I’m getting dressed, going to the farmer’s market, and picking up some new records,” she said over her shoulder. “You can catch a bus back to whatever haunted hole you crawled out of. But when I come back? I want you gone.”

She was grateful for her private bathroom, if only because it had a lock. A solid door between her and the world, and the weird, sour ache she didn’t want to name. Because why, exactly, did the idea of him not wanting to be here make her feel... exposed?

Betelgeuse hopped off the bed and tiptoed to her closet. It was left open, like an invitation. If she was testing him, he already failed. Betelgeuse's fingers graze the body of a velvet cami dress. Lydia's shoulders were as much of a mystery as her ankles. She was like nun. It drove the imagination wild and made the thought of what lied beneath the habit all the more sweeter.

He took the dress off the rail and brought the fabric to his nose. Much to his disappointment, it smelled like detergent. But he wanted to smell Lydia. Tossing the dress, he searched for something else that would satiate his curiosity and the hankering for her natural musk. He was already out of control, and all she'd done is exist. What would happen if he spent the day with this newly blossomed Lydia? The seed he had planted now taunts him with her voluptuous petals.

Digging through her closet, he finds an old, flannel skirt. It was long and pleated. He instantly recognizes it as part of her school uniform. What the hell was this doing here? Not that he's complaining. Oh no, no, quite the contrary. He was enjoying himself very much. In his hands he held a memory of the one who got away. His amazing grey schoolgirl.

She settled into her usual perch by the window, where the view was always the same: trees, strangers, the quiet hum of a college quad pretending it wasn’t slowly decaying. Sometimes she read there. Sometimes she just stared out and pretended she didn’t care.

"Why are you here? Why aren’t you gone?" Her voice was sharper now, edged with something like desperation dressed up as annoyance. She’d said his name more than three times, shouted it, hissed it, screamed it like a curse, and nothing. No smoke. No vanish. No door slamming shut in the fabric of reality. Just him, sitting there like a bad habit.

So she kept going, until her throat felt raw and she didn’t feel powerful anymore, just small and tired.

"I was supposed to have a new start." She said it into her chest, voice low, curling in on herself like she could shrink until she disappeared, too. Knees to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs like a barrier, like armor.

"What do you want?" she whispered, not looking at him. "What do I have to do?"

In the past, when she was just a cute kid, Betelgeuse had no trouble looking at her. Now that she's lost some of her baby fat, her profile is undeniably woman-like, which terrifies him. He wonders what other cytherean gifts she's hiding from him under her modest night gown.

Betelgeuse clutches the sheets like a Victorian at the sight of her white ankles and indulgent slip of calf as she climbs onto the windowsill.

They could not be more out of sync.

Geez, when was the last time he had his dick sucked?

He lights a Newport between his lips with trembling fingers, anxiously bouncing his leg. He looked like a tweaker, which wasn't an inaccurate assessment per se. He liked to shoot, boot, slam, and spike. But she was freaking him out with how goddamn sexy he suddenly found her.

"Nothin'. I don't want anythin'. You must've summoned me subconsciously or something." But for once, he wanted to go back.

She was free of all of it. She left home. Delia and her father had orchestrated some grotesquely sentimental farewell dinner, all forced smiles and designer napkins. And for weeks now, she’d lived away from it all. Had her own room. The girl who was supposed to bunk opposite her had dropped out suddenly, leaving Lydia alone to transform the space into something that looked like it had crawled straight out of a Caroline Bonarde photograph.

Spring break was supposed to be spent exactly where she was—on campus, catching gigs, having coffee with the only two people she could stand here. But no. That had been ruined.

“How are you here?”

She slid down the wall, legs stretching out against the carpet as if she was just now realizing they existed. He wasn’t supposed to be able to follow her here. That was the whole point of leaving. And yet, he’d been here since yesterday. And she—she hadn’t slept. Not even for a second.

Bleary-eyed, she blinked up at him, sprawled out on her bed like he owned the place. Like she wasn’t supposed to want to scream.

Pushing herself up from the floor, Lydia walked over, taking in all his repulsive, unwashed glory. He wasn’t going to let her have a life without him. He simply wouldn’t allow it.

It was almost out of body, the way she climbed onto the bed—one leg slung over his waist, fingers curling tight around his throat.

“What will it take for you to leave me alone?” Her voice was low, edged with something sharp. “Why aren’t you haunting Delia? Or my father? Or—I don’t know—some recently deceased poor soul?”

She wasn’t being gentle. For the first time, she wondered if she could actually hurt him. And for the first time, she realized she wanted to try.

"Fer fuck's sake-"

When she climbed on top of him, his mind instantly went southward, literally. Now, before anyone gets any nasty ideas, let him remind the dear reader that he's a man. And Lydia, incorrigible, hopeless, and downright annoying, was a young girl, freshly turned eighteen, with a tight little body that would make anyone with a limp piece of meat between his legs red with lust. So, yeah. He got the wrong idea. For a second, he thought she was sweet on him.

Oh, Betelgeuse, you're such a stud. I've wanted you since I was a little girl, but you know how it is...people would never approve of you...of us. But now that I am a free woman in the eyes of the law, I can have you all to myself!

Or so, he pictured the exchange would go.

She sat on the ground, the wreckage of the car crash smoldering in front of her. Not exactly part of the plan—not that she had one. But then again, when did she ever? Maybe it was about control, or at least the illusion of it. She didn’t have any—not here, not back home. The only power she could claim was in the tiny rebellions, the small acts of defiance that kept her from fading into the background. It wasn’t about wanting to fight—it was just that if she didn’t, she’d be nothing more than a passenger in her own life. So yeah, she chose the battles. The shoes, the room, and now… this.

"And what exactly are you going to do?" she asked, exhaling sharply as she pushed herself up, brushing at the dirt clinging to her dress—not that it made much difference. "You’re always there, aren’t you? Watching, lurking, waiting. You do whatever you want, so why can’t I?"

He wouldn’t hurt her. Not in the obvious ways. And not because he actually cared—more because she was probably the most entertainment he’d had in a while. She wasn’t sure what he wanted from her, and she wasn’t about to start asking. Knowing more felt like a very, very bad idea.

"There are no rules here," she said, though even as the words left her lips, she knew they weren’t true. "So I did what I wanted, and now I’m going home." She jabbed a finger at him. "And you? You stay here. Do not follow. We’re done."

     Goddammit. Betelgeuse hurries after Lydia. She had no right to be angry at him; she had come along willingly and crashed his car in a fit of teenage rebellion. If anything, he should be the one angry. And oh, he was; his fury could consume a small village. His body felt like it was on fire; rage poked at his ossified flesh, his bones; it suffocated him, or maybe it was all the sand entering his throat, the wind whipping him in the face, forcing some color into his cheeks. The only thing stronger than his anger was his fear of her leaving

     "Get back here, ya lil chit! Yer not going anywhere, not under my watch!" He could sense the origins of his name on her lips. Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. Anxiety, trepidation, indignation, or a cocktail of all three propels his body. Betelgeuse clamps a clammy hand over her mouth and drags her from behind into a ditch walled by deciduous shrubs. Dirty water fills his nose and saturates his suit, but his grip on her remains iron.

     "I shoulda let ya die. I'M AN IDIOT!" How many girls her age are found dead in ravines per annum in the state of New Jersey? She'd be another statistic. Betelgeuse pictures obsequious Charles and insufferable Delia standing over their daughter's empty casket, providing him with some relief regarding the totaled Beetle.

Her eyebrows shoot up to meet her choppy bangs, surprise evident on her face at how he speaks to her. Lydia had spent years, secretly feeling guilty for betraying him at the last second during their would-be wedding. She’d always wondered what had happened to the poltergeist after Barbara brought that giant, serpentine creature crashing through their roof. For a brief moment, the young woman feels genuinely bad for the way his afterlife has turned out–she never meant for any of that to happen, she’d only been trying to save her friends from the true death. Dark, honey-colored eyes soften towards him in sympathy.

And then he’s being downright hateful to her. Lydia’s used to people being rude or dismissive to her, but the way he speaks to her is absolutely awful. And worst of all, he’s wrong. She’s got classmates and neighbors but at the end of the day, there’s no one that Lydia Deetz can call a genuine, true friend. She’s utterly alone.

Betelgeuse turns away from her, heading back down the sidewalk and she just simply stands there, staring after him. His harsh words ring in her mind and she can feel the slightest burning behind her eyelids, but she rapidly blinks it away as she feels the sudden, hot spike of anger shoot up her spine and settle at the base of her skull. Her feet are moving before she can even think to stop herself, and she catches up with him as quickly as her short little legs will allow her.

Time has passed, and this Lydia is older, angrier, and already tired of his shit.

The words are tumbling out before she can stop them as she’s keeping pace beside him.

“Do you feel better after that?” Her voice has the tone of mocking concern. “You could have turned me away back at the diner if my presence was so very offensive to you.” Lydia glares up at Betelgeuse and dares to move in front of him, abruptly stopping him with all 5’3” of her height (not counting the worn-out heels of her doc martens). She pokes him in the chest with a dainty little finger, her dark eyes wide with indignation as she continues, her voice steady yet hard. 

“I spent years feeling bad for what happened to you–having nightmares about that giant worm eating you, or you ending up in that Lost Soul’s Room I read about in The Handbook–” Lydia cringes, realizing about halfway through her spiel she should’ve just let him walk away. He doesn’t need to hear all this. Doesn’t deserve to hear it. He’ll probably laugh in her face. She tries to meet his eyes behind the aviators, but all she sees is herself mirrored in the lenses.

The goth woman finds herself running out of steam and she just stops, wrenching her hands back away from him as if she’s been burned. She scowls and turns her eyes away from him, aware of people walking by and starting to stare at them. 

“I’m just sorry, okay? There. You can fuck off and enjoy the rest of your afterlife now. Hope you enjoyed the ice cream that I paid for, by the way. Asshole.”

     He smoked his pack clean. Betelgeuse locates a 7-11 and goes inside serenaded by a Feng Shui door chime. He still has money left over after fucking that old whale, so he figures he'll treat himself to more Newports and a raspberry Slurpee. The Slurpee machine is covered in graffiti and stickers advertising local garage bands and businesses. One in particular catches his eye: "Call 917-366-DOLL for a Good Time." Yeah, maybe, he thinks, slurping on blue. He asks the Indian cashier for two packs of Newports, haggling over the price. The kid ends up so overwhelmed he kicks Betelgeuse out, but at least the slushie came free.

     Betelgeuse is still thinking about calling that number; maybe they had cigarettes. They definitely smoked. All whores were smokers. He wondered about the face behind the sticker; no photo accompanied the number, just a bold impact font against an all-white background. Maybe it was a dude. He could handle that, so long as he didn't have to put any dicks in his mouth. Or, a girl with a dick. In this case, he was more open to the former. Just as he was occupied thinking about girldicks, the lights in the first-story window of the duplex across the street saturated the neighborhood in a spectral glow.

     Framed by the window was a young girl changing out of her day clothes. She carefully stepped out of her grey shift. Underneath, she wore a matching black lingerie set and toast-colored stockings. Betelgeuse leaned against a street light, hands folded over his belly, watching her. He was reminded of Lydia; the girls were around the same age. Both coeds except blondie here looked like her boyfriend was captain of the varsity football team. The comparison instantly killed his half-chub; he didn't want to think about Lydia while rubbing one out. Betelgeuse buttoned his pants and kept on walking.

     He had been meandering aimlessly; hours must have passed. He was no longer in the slums but a hip, downtown area. Couples with arms linked past him, all carbon copies of one another. The men had long beards styled with mousse, and the girls wore ugly tan booties with fringe hanging off them. Was there a block party happening? He slipped through the crowd, but nothing awaited him on the other side. Only more buildings.

     Standing underneath a vinyl canopy, he made a daring bet to enter the cobblestone apartment. The concierge gave him a hard time, likely due to his crazed appearance and electroshocked hair, and he refused to open the door, so Betelgeuse made himself flat and slipped through the gaps. He entered the elevator, closed his eyes, and pressed a random button. It took him to the 13th floor.

     "13J" read the number sign. It was the first door Betelgeuse saw when he exited the elevator. Lydia Deetz's apartment (even though the building directory said it belonged to a "David Kowalski"). The one she allegedly couldn't afford the rent for.

Getting angry would be too obvious. Complaining about the hypocrisy of it all—how he hated anyone prying into his life but had no problem tearing through hers—would be even worse. So she said nothing. Arms crossed. Eyes drifting over the scenery, if you could even call it that.

The sky couldn’t decide on a color—blue, green, streaks of pink and purple clawing through it. Smoke? Fog? Something in between. Too far away to tell. The air was thick, hot, sticky, like it was trying to smother her. She shouldn’t stay here long. That much was clear. She didn’t belong—not yet. Hopefully never. There had to be other places to go after death, right? And now that she knew...

"Watch it."

Lydia pressed herself back against the seat—not that there was much room. She shifted away from him, then from the car itself. If she died here, he wouldn’t care. Hell, maybe that was the plan. Maybe he wanted to make sure she could never leave.

Idiot. She should have never come.

Her thoughts slammed to a halt. She moved her feet, just to stop them from cramping, and that’s when she saw it. A photo. Her photo.

For a second, as she reached for it, she wondered how he’d managed to steal one of her Polaroids. She had a whole box under her bed, locked. Not that it would stop him. Obviously.

"Why do you have this?"

The question felt stupid as soon as she asked it. Of course, he went through her things. Of course, he had no boundaries. Why was she still surprised? Stupid.

Before he could answer, before she could even think about what she was doing, she reached over and yanked the steering wheel. The car lurched, veering off the road, straight toward a building that was getting way too close, way too fast.

     Then, the car lurched.

     Betelgeuse couldn't get his head straight, struggling to reel himself in from the shock of heading sixty miles per hour toward the municipal building.

     Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His mind had gone into survival mode despite being in no grave danger. Perhaps it was a mistake caused by misfiring neurons, blurring his memories of death, but he felt nauseatingly, terrifyingly alive. Even more terrifying was having no health insurance, so if he were to be flattened like a pancake against the side of the building, he'd spend the rest of his afterlife paying off the debt of an astronomical hospital bill after being made three-dimensional again.

     There was also the issue of Lydia. Unlike him, she had no hope of surviving a ménage à trois with a speeding ticket and a facade of bricks. She'd be pulp in no time. Deservedly, considering she'd gotten them into this mess. But then Lydia would be stuck down here with him, and he'd never hear the end of it. He didn't want a second Rita.

     His mind was made up.

     Betelgeuse kicked open his door and dragged Lydia out of the moving Beetle by the armpits. The truth is, and he couldn't really place why, he preferred Lydia alive.

     The car collided with the city council in a biblical blaze of smoke and flying debris. Betelgeuse lets out a strained sob. "My car..." He moaned as they floated above the wreckage. Lydia held bridal style in his arms under the kaleidoscopic sky.

He has no sense of smell, but is certain this man smells utterly repugnant. The only visible blue eye he has narrows.

She could have stayed in her room, updated her herbarium, and enjoyed the rare silence of an empty house. Maybe even made a sandwich in the kitchen without the risk of someone walking in and demanding to know what she was doing—as if it wasn’t obvious. Watched The Twilight Zone until way too late. Not exactly the most rebellious thing a teenager could do, but still, a solid way to spend an evening. And, honestly? It would have been safe.

Being alone was familiar. Comfortable. But she’d spent way too much time writing dramatic prose about all the things she wanted to do, all the adventures she should be having. And staying home wasn’t exactly a fast track to anything remotely adventurous.

Which is why she now found herself crammed into the passenger seat of a car that was probably older than she was, her feet hovering over an almost impressive collection of magazines littering the floor. She’d tried to buckle the seatbelt, but it didn’t seem to click into anything, so she just kinda… held onto it. Not that it would do much.

Unlike everyone else in this town —including the driver—she could actually die.

“So,” she said, glancing at him, “what exactly is there for someone like me to do here? I mean, let’s be clear—I have zero intention of sticking around.” The message was obvious: I’m alive, and I plan on staying that way. Not something she would’ve cared about a year or two ago, but things change.

Her gaze flicked toward him. She shouldn’t ask. But since when did he care about boundaries?

“…And was that your—” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Wife? Girlfriend?”

She couldn't really picture him having either, but apparently, at some point, he had. Which was a weird thought. Why was she even thinking about that? Gross. Icky. And yet… if even he had someone, what did that say about her?

     "She's none of yer business, that's what."

     He drummed his nails against the wheel. They were long, filed into claws, with lots of grime under them.

     The engine roared to life, and they sped down the highway.

     Rita was the longest relationship he had ever had; the ones before her never lasted more than a month. They weren't married or engaged; she was more like a live-in maid he shared his pigsty with. Betelgeuse knew Rita was anxious for him to put a ring on her finger, but that day would never come. She was a catch, though, who waited on him hand in foot in an era where most women wouldn't stand for such humiliation. Nowadays, finding a girl who'll bring you beer and massage your foot calluses is a snowball's chance in hell.

     Betelgeuse rests his arm out the rolled-down window. A gust of dry air entered the car. The suffocating aridness would make a normal person wheeze and cough, irritating their eyes to tears, but Betelgeuse was impervious to the harsh weather. He had gone down this highway a million times, and a million and one times would make no difference.

     "Move." He motioned for her to back away as he reached across her lap to open the glove compartment. For a moment, the car steered itself; they were lucky, Lydia in particular, that the road was empty. Meanwhile, Betelgeuse rummaged through the glove box, spilling old receipts and empty cigarette boxes on the ground. "Ah, there it is." He retrieved a Modern Talking cassette from the clutter and fed it to the stereo. Unbeknownst to him, an old Polaroid followed suit, landing at Lydia's feet face-up.

     Her mirror looked back at her; Lydia Deetz, pristine, preserved in eternal, cellulose youth.

     "There's a gas station a few miles away. Mind if I make a quick pit stop?"

dialogue prompts from woman, eating: a literary vampire novel by claire kohda.

people have appalling night vision.

i've marked crosses where you need to sign.

where did you say you live? anywhere near ____?

you hate me, don't you?

you won't make it without me.

it's hard to know what's real with you.

i did everything for you. everything was for you.

i don't like eating alone.

god wouldn't want to help a demon survive, and that's what we are.

this place is beyond new beginnings.

what do you see yourself as?

demon is a subjective term.

i'm not very good at goodbyes. or any form of greeting, actually.

how are you? i miss you. i want to hear about your life.

everything in everyone's life is temporary.

just imagine i'm dead.

people are like flowers: seasonal, wilting, and finite.

am i the only other person who can see you?

it sounded like you were dragging a body across the floor.

we cannot have any more catastrophe.

don't talk back to me.

my body isn't mine. it isn't a good fit for me.

you were very human. that was what i liked about you.

you never told me how ___ died.

i have to do everything for you, don't i?

give it time. you just haven't found yourself yet.

i don't really get contemporary art.

i'm trying to figure out what i want to do with my life.

how come you stopped ____?

what does the winner get?

it's kind of like being a kid again.

i don't want to be walking too late.

just be careful.

watch out for ___.

we're the same.

sorry if i said anything bad or embarrassing.

everything looks different, but it's hard to pinpoint how.

i like your look.

will you swap with me? can i be you for a bit?

i guess i feel small. undervalued.

it's hard to see what's beautiful anymore.

taking is not good for the soul.

what are you doing? lost?

did i make you feel bad?

i feel like i've been standing completely still.

i'm not sure what i feel when i look at you.

sorry. i'm not good at talking about it.

what are you going to do?

i'm really sorry about the ____.

when you left, you took something of me with you.

i'm sorry. i don't know what's wrong with me.

life is a line, not a circle.

i think i like you.

i don't want to feel at home in the dark.

take me with you. please.

i can't take you with me.

memories make life.

move away. i'm dangerous.

i don't know who i am anymore.

are you high or something?

i don't think i ever hated you.

can i do anything to help?

i wish i could be honest.

i don't want to bring you down with me.

i can't tell what it is i want.

the other night was a mistake.

you don't like me?

i am completely alone.

will you let me in?

i think i've known for a while.

you can't just listen to one side and block out the other.

neither side of me can be separated from the other.

i don't have sides at all. i am two things that have become one thing.

are you okay? do you need help getting home?

i'm not sure what i am anymore.

for the first time, i feel like i'm exactly where i'm meant to be.