Blog #3 - A Clue

Marie had never been a nosy person. When she was alive, she kept her nose out of other people's business, respecting others' privacy. Now a ghost, Marie had changed. No one knew she existed, no one could judge her. But she remained respectful and did not use her ghostly abilities to spy on others, she simply couldn't.

Another week had passed, and Marie had not come any further with Mr. Evans. She had taken on the mystery, and it took up all her time. And to some extent, Marie was happy. Time usually crawled by, staring out the cracked window, stuck in her own mind. The case gave her something to think about, something to do.

Marie was wandering the halls, lost in her thoughts. She turned Mr. Evans's last words over in her mind, wondering what the significance was. He specifically said "Time ran out," not anything else. Mr. Evans could have been working on something, Marie thought. Something important, until time ran out and he was killed. Marie brushed the thought off, knowing she was reading too much into this. She had nothing else to go on, though, no new clues.

Frustrated, she found herself on the 10th floor of the building, and came out of her zoned out state. Marie looked up, staring at the door of Mr. Evans's apartment. The police tape hung loosely across it, and Marie debated going inside to search the apartment for clues.

Swallowing down the already growing guilt in her stomach, she glided through the door and entered the dark apartment. Cursing her inability to touch anything, including a light switch, Marie squinted to make out something, anything. Startled by a figure sitting in the old maroon armchair in the living room area, Marie inched closer, recognizing him quickly. It was Mr. Evans's ghost.

"Mr. Evans?" came her hoarse voice. Marie could not remember the last time she spoke.

"Time ran out," Mr. Evans mumbled.

"Mr. Evans? I'm Marie. A ghost, like you." She kicked herself for sounding so stupid.

"Time ran out," he said, raising his voice.

"Time ran out? For what? What were you working on?"

"It's all there, in the desk." Mr. Evans looked at Marie with empty eyes before fading away.

There was a desk close by, and again Marie hated her ghostly state. She had so many questions. But she finally had something new.

A clue.

Blog #2 - Time

The week following Mr. Evans's murder was quiet. From Marie's regular wanderings of the halls and her rare sightings of human life, she could tell the town was paranoid. No one went outside their apartments more than they had to. Even Sayori and her annoying squeaky little cart had disappeared from the halls.

The only sign of life in the building was Mr. Lamar, his low voice always asking the same questions. Marie listened everyday as he asked the next person if Mr. Evans had any enemies, if they saw him the night of the murder, what they were doing that night. The answers were always mumbled in the same irritated tone, wanting to be left alone. Mr. Lamar's investigations found nothing of relevance, and no one knew anything about Mr. Evans's murder.

At least, up until the concert.

Marie heard whispers about the mayor bringing in a songwriter, Conrad. He was supposed to pull the town up out of the slump it seemed to be stuck in. And although his concert did manage to lift some spirits, it left Marie feeling more depressed than ever.

Marie used to love music, the way the lyrics and the music came together to represent emotions in a way words never could. It could make her feel the artist's euphoria, hope, heartbreak,  pain. Music could do anything, and Marie loved that. She always had some song stuck in her head, singing to pass the time away.

Since her mysterious death, however, music lost its magic for Marie. Music was supposed to help communicate, but Marie had no one to communicate with. It had lost its purpose, and time crawled by for Marie without the help of music.

Marie did not attend the concert, and sat sulking in her corner (always the far right), trying to block out the music seeping through the windows from the amphitheater. It did not work. Closing her eyes, Marie wished now more than ever that she could sleep. Instead, her mind floated back to Mr. Evans's ghost, repeating those words over and over.

"...But I don't know what time is, it's in a jar"

Marie jumped to her feet when she heard that line of Conrad's rough voice. Not because the line was painfully relatable, but because of Mr. Evans. Time! That's what he was saying. Repeating three words. Time ran out. Time ran out.

Time ran out.