A part of me is a ghost

Matthew Jackson had always been different, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly how. At seventeen, he was the kind of boy who faded into the background at Roosevelt High—average height, brown hair that never quite behaved, and the sort of face that people forgot five minutes after meeting him. His best friend David Perry was much the same, which is probably why they'd stuck together since third grade. But Matthew's dreams were anything but ordinary. The dream always started the same way. He would find himself standing in a world that shouldn't exist—a place where mist curled around his ankles like grasping fingers and darkness stretched endlessly in every direction. The ground beneath his feet felt solid but wrong, as if it were made of compressed shadows rather than earth. In this realm, shapes moved through the darkness. Long, black silhouettes that shifted and wavered like smoke caught in a slow current. They didn't threaten him—instead, they stood as silent guardians of this strange world that existed between sleeping and waking. For reasons Matthew couldn't explain, the darkness felt familiar, like coming home to a place he'd never been. But there was always the hand. It would reach out from the deepest part of the shadows, pale and cold, dragging itself toward him with terrifying patience. Matthew's chest would tighten as he watched its approach. The shadows he could accept, even welcome. But that hand... it was wrong. Fundamentally, horribly wrong. It wanted him. It terrified him. "No," Matthew would whisper, taking a step backward in the dream. "I won't take your hand. I won't be dragged into whatever lies beyond." But the hand would stretch closer, its fingers grasping at empty air just inches from his face. And then— "Matthew... wake up, sweetheart." His mother's voice would cut through the darkness like sunlight through storm clouds. The shadows would dissolve instantly, the hand vanishing into growing brightness. Matthew's eyes would flutter open to find Mitchell Jackson standing beside his bed, sunlight streaming through the window behind her gentle smile. "You're going to be late for school again," she would say, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his face. This morning was no different. Matthew glanced at his bedside clock: 6:15 AM. He'd slept through his alarm again, lost in that strange realm that felt more real than his own bedroom. "Sorry, Mom," he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Bad dream." Mitchell Jackson's expression softened. "The same one?" He nodded. For months now, the dreams had been coming more frequently, more vividly. Always the same landscape, the same shadows, the same terrifying hand reaching for him from the darkness. "Maybe you should talk to someone about these dreams, sweetheart. They seem to be getting worse." "I'm fine, Mom. Really." She didn't look convinced, but she nodded and headed downstairs to start breakfast. Matthew could hear his family beginning their morning routines—his father John rustling through the newspaper, his older brother Parker stumbling around getting ready for college classes, and four-year-old Sara humming to herself as she arranged her cereal into patterns. After a quick shower, Matthew joined them at the breakfast table. The normalcy should have been comforting—the familiar sounds of morning, the smell of toast and coffee, his mother's gentle reminders about homework. But Matthew found his mind wandering back to the dream, to the strange sense of belonging he felt in that dark realm. "You look tired, kiddo," his father observed, looking up from the sports section. "Another rough night?" "Just couldn't sleep well," Matthew said, spreading jam on his toast with more concentration than the task required. "Maybe less video games before bed," Parker suggested with a grin. "I can hear you playing until all hours." Matthew didn't bother correcting him. It was easier to let his family think he was staying up too late gaming rather than explain that he was afraid to sleep because of where his dreams took him. The walk to school was quiet. David fell into step beside him as they reached the corner where their paths converged, both boys lost in their own thoughts until they spotted trouble ahead. Simon Mateo and his crew were waiting near the school entrance, and Matthew's heart sank. Simon was the kind of bully who had peaked in elementary school and spent his teenage years desperately trying to reclaim that feeling of power over others. "Well, well," Simon called out as Matthew and David approached. "If it isn't the dream team of losers." "Just ignore him," David muttered, but it was too late. Simon was already blocking their path. "I heard you talking to yourself in the library yesterday, Jackson. Having conversations with imaginary friends now?" Matthew felt heat rise in his chest—not embarrassment, but something else. Something that made the air around him feel thick and charged. "I wasn't talking to myself." "Right. So who were you talking to? Your girlfriend from dreamland?" The words hit closer to home than Simon could have known. Matthew clenched his fists, and for a moment, the world seemed to darken around the edges. Simon took a step back, his confident smirk faltering. "What's wrong with your eyes?" Simon whispered. Matthew blinked, and the darkness receded. Simon's face had gone pale, and he was staring at Matthew as if seeing him for the first time. "Nothing's wrong with my eyes," Matthew said quietly, but his voice carried an edge that made Simon's friends shift nervously behind him. Without another word, Simon and his crew hurried away, leaving Matthew and David standing alone near the school entrance. "What just happened?" David asked, staring after the retreating bullies. "I don't know," Matthew said, though he suspected it had something to do with the dreams, with that dark realm that called to him every night. The school day passed in a blur of half-heard lectures and unfinished assignments. Matthew found himself staring out windows, watching shadows move in ways that didn't quite match the movement of the clouds above. Twice, teachers called on him for answers to questions he hadn't heard. But it was during lunch that things got stranger. Matthew was sitting with David in their usual corner of the cafeteria when a girl approached their table. She was about their age, with long dark hair and eyes that seemed to hold depths Matthew couldn't fathom. He'd never seen her at Roosevelt High before. "You're Matthew Jackson," she said, settling into the chair across from him without invitation. "Do I know you?" She smiled, and something about the expression made Matthew think of moonlight on dark water. "Not yet. But I know you. I've been watching your dreams." David choked on his sandwich. "Excuse me?" The girl's attention remained fixed on Matthew. "The shadow realm. The hand that reaches for you. The shapes that move in the darkness like old friends." She leaned forward. "You're not going crazy, Matthew. That place is real, and so am I." Matthew's blood ran cold. "Who are you?" "My name is Olivia," she said softly. "And I've been waiting a very long time to meet you." Before Matthew could respond, the lunch bell rang. Students began filing out of the cafeteria, but when Matthew looked back to where Olivia had been sitting, the chair was empty. "Did you see her leave?" he asked David. "See who leave?" Matthew stared at his best friend. "The girl. Olivia. She was just sitting right there." David's expression grew concerned. "Matthew, there was no girl. You've been talking to an empty chair for the past ten minutes." As they walked to their afternoon classes, Matthew couldn't shake the feeling that his ordinary world was beginning to crack, letting something else bleed through. The dreams were becoming more than dreams. The shadows were reaching into his waking hours. And somewhere between sleep and consciousness, between the real world and whatever lay beyond, someone named Olivia was waiting for him. That night, as Matthew finally allowed sleep to claim him, he whispered into the darkness: "What do you want from me?" The answer came not in words, but in images—a realm of shadows and mist, a hand reaching from the darkness, and a girl with moonlight eyes who had been waiting for him far longer than he could imagine. The dreams were calling him home. The question was whether he was brave enough to answer.

Matthew couldn't get Olivia out of his head. All through his afternoon classes, he replayed their brief encounter in the cafeteria. The way she'd known about his dreams, about the shadow realm that haunted his sleep. The way she'd vanished without David even seeing her. Most unsettling of all was the certainty in her voice when she'd said that place was real. The walk home felt longer than usual. David had soccer practice, so Matthew was alone with his thoughts as he made his way through the familiar suburban streets. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows between the houses, and more than once, Matthew caught himself staring at those shadows, wondering if they were moving independently of the objects that cast them. At home, dinner was the usual chaos of family life. Sara chattered about her day at preschool, Parker complained about his economics professor, and their parents discussed weekend plans. Matthew went through the motions of normal conversation, but his mind kept drifti