Death isn't the end.
Trust me. I would know.
You'd think dying once would be enough, right? That the whole "life flashing before your eyes" gig would mean closure, finality, peace. But nope. Turns out death is just another stage in the weird, tangled-up mess that is my existence. And my name? I'm Akaash.
Yeah. Akaash the ghost. Used to be Akaash the zombie. And before that... hell, I don't remember. Human, I guess. Probably had a job, a favorite food, maybe even a crush on someone who didn't notice I existed. Funny thing is, becoming a zombie made people notice me — just before they started running, screaming, or, you know, trying to blow my head off.
Now? I'm translucent, weightless, untouchable.
But back in the day — oh man — I used to eat brains. And let me tell you, it wasn't just a mindless craving like they show in movies. It was... sublime. Rich. Creamy. Every bite was a swirl of memory and emotion, a gourmet buffet of thought and fear, served up fresh from the skulls of terrified humans.
God, I miss that.
Ghosts don't get hungry, see. That's the real tragedy. Not the bullet hole I took to the eye socket back when some twitchy survivor figured I was trying to eat his dog. Not the loneliness of the afterlife. Not even the fact that I can float through walls but can't feel a goddamn breeze on my face.
No. The real curse?
No appetite.
It started — I think — in an abandoned hospital.
Which is, I know, cliché as hell. But I didn't choose the setting. You ever try directing your afterlife? It's not like I got a brochure at the Pearly Gates. I woke up, or maybe I un-died, in Room 406. Rusty light fixtures flickering. Dried blood smeared across broken tiles. The sour tang of rot clung to the air like an old shirt soaked in something vile.
My form shimmered in the cracked windowpane — not quite invisible, but definitely not solid. I passed a hand through an overturned gurney. My fingers, or what passed for them, sliced through rusted steel like mist through trees.
It was quiet. That bad kind of quiet. The kind where even silence feels like it's watching you.
I drifted.
Down twisted corridors. Through shattered doors. Past abandoned stretchers and wheelchairs turned into nests by rats fat off the remains of the apocalypse. Humans? Gone. Zombies? Not many left. Turns out when everyone turns, there's not much left to eat. The world dies not with a bang, but a belch.
Then I saw them — a group of survivors.
Huddled in what used to be a pediatric wing, trying to be brave while the world burned outside. There were five of them, all armed, all weary. But one — one was on the floor, bleeding. Young guy. Looked like he might've been a med student once. Or maybe just someone with a white coat and a dream.
He was dying.
And something in me stirred. Not hunger. Not malice. Something deeper. Recognition.
Before I knew it, I was inside him.
Ghosts like me — we don't usually possess. It's frowned upon in the afterlife, probably. But no one handed me the rulebook. So I did what came naturally.
I slipped into him like a hand into a glove.
At first, everything hurt. Pain shot through my ribs, my spine. Breathing was a chore. His heart fluttered like a wounded bird.
But the moment I settled in, his blood began to clot. The gashes stopped oozing. A strange warmth spread from the inside out. I didn't know I could do that. Ghost healing? Who knew.
Problem was — he didn't wake up.
His body worked, sure. I could move his fingers. Flex his jaw. Blink. But he — the real guy — was gone. His mind was a locked room. I was a guest squatting in someone else's house, flipping light switches, opening drawers, yelling into the dark.
No answer.
So now I'm stuck.
Wearing a body that isn't mine. Not dead, not alive. Ghost with flesh. Zombie with manners. Akaash the Almost-Human.
And I can't tell the others.
They think I'm him. His name is Ravi, apparently. At least, that's what the tough woman with the machete keeps shouting at me every time I act weird. ("RAVI! Stop STARING at the WALL, you freak!") She's the leader. Fierce. Name's Jyoti. Got a scar down her cheek that says she's seen too much and survived anyway.
Then there's Dinesh, the mechanic who keeps fiddling with broken radios like he can will them to life. Mira, the medic. And little Zayan — just a kid, maybe ten, who watches me with these huge, suspicious eyes like he knows I'm not Ravi.
And me? I'm playing house. Saying the right words. Nodding when they talk. Laughing when they joke. Pretending I understand how it feels to be alive.
But it's all a lie.
The real Ravi is still in there. Somewhere. Maybe hiding. Maybe broken. Maybe watching me through the cracks of his own skull.
And at night, when the camp is quiet and the fires burn low, I drift out of the body. Float just above it. Like steam off soup. I hover there and whisper:
"Hey. Ravi. Buddy. Wake up. I don't want to keep wearing you like a suit. You probably had dreams. Hobbies. A girlfriend? I dunno. But listen, man — I'm trying to do right by you. So just... wake up. Please?"
He never answers.
But that's not even the weirdest part.
No, the weirdest part came three nights later.
We were holed up in what used to be the maternity ward. Jyoti was on watch. Dinesh was asleep with a screwdriver still clutched in his hand. Mira had passed out from exhaustion. And Zayan was pretending not to cry in the corner.
I'd stepped out of Ravi's body again, floating like a restless dream through the ward. That's when I saw her.
A ghost.
Like me.
Except not like me at all.
She shimmered in the air like moonlight. Pale blue eyes. Hair that floated like it was underwater. She didn't look dead. She looked perfect.
And she was eating a brain.
No body. No corpse. Just the memory of a brain. A psychic echo, floating in her ghostly hands. She saw me staring and smiled, lips parting over translucent teeth.
"You're new," she said.
"I'm... confused," I admitted.
She laughed — not unkindly. "You don't remember your death, do you?"
"Bits and pieces."
"You must've been a fresh one. Zombie-turned-ghost. Rare breed."
"You too?"
She shook her head. "Nah. Died clean. Bitten in the throat before I turned. Got lucky, I guess. No time to rot."
I floated closer. "Who are you?"
"Name's Amara. And you?"
"Akaash."
Her eyes lit up. "The Akaash? From Sector 12?"
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Oh yeah. The brain-eater. The prankster. You once lured a squad of humans into a fake hospital just to watch them scream when the walls started bleeding ketchup. That was you, right?"
"...maybe."
She grinned. "You were a legend, you know. Among zombies. Like a walking meme."
I should've felt proud. Instead, I felt hollow. Like an echo of who I used to be. Because back then, I didn't care. Not about survivors. Not about anything. Just the hunger. The endless, gnawing need to feed.
"I don't eat brains anymore," I muttered.
She tilted her head. "Can't or won't?"
"Both."
A beat passed between us.
Then she said, "Well, Akaash. You're in luck. Something big's happening. Ghosts are gathering. They say there's a ripple in the veil — a way back. A chance to... change things."
"What kind of things?"
"Life. Death. Rules."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why tell me?"
"Because someone like you? You matter. You were chaos when the world ended. But now? You could be balance."
Then she faded.
Just like that.
No sound. No goodbye. Just gone.
The next morning, I woke up in Ravi's body again, heart thumping with something I hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Purpose.
I didn't know what this "ripple in the veil" was, or why Amara thought I was special. But I knew this: I wasn't just a ghost anymore.
I was a ghost with a mission.
And somewhere out there — past the dead cities, the haunted roads, the ruins of humanity — something was waiting for me.
A chance to change everything.
A way to remember who I used to be.
A way to taste life again.
Or maybe... just maybe...
Brains.
To be continued...