The Giantess and The Ghost

Chapter 1

The scent of floor wax and teenage angst hangs heavy in the air. Margie’s strides eat up the hallway, her towering frame parting the sea of students. It’s like Moses leading me through the Red Sea, except the Red Sea is a bunch of kids gossiping about prom, and Moses is a girl who could probably dunk on LeBron James. I am just 5'1 feet tall and Margie is 7'2 feet tall.

"Relax, Roscoe," she says, her voice a low rumble that vibrates through my back. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

If only it were that simple. Ghosts are at least explainable. This… this is like waking up in someone else’s life. My life, but subtly, terrifyingly altered.

"Easy for you to say," I mumble, clutching the strap of my backpack. "You're not the one who woke up with amnesia about the last, oh, I don't know, forever."

Margie chuckles, a sound that draws a few curious glances. "You'll get used to it."

Get used to it? How can I get used to this? I barely reach her shoulder. Yesterday—or what I think was yesterday—I was average height, unnoticed, perfectly normal. Now, I'm a miniature backpack accessory clinging to a giantess everyone seems to adore.

We stop in front of my locker. Or, at least, a locker with my name on it. I punch in the combination—a reflex I apparently still possess—and the door swings open, revealing a jumbled mess of textbooks, crumpled papers, and a half-eaten bag of chips. Standard.

"See?" Margie says, nodding at the locker. "Everything's normal."

I glare at her. "Normal would be me remembering the past few months. Normal would be you not being a head taller than everyone else. Normal would be…" I trail off, overwhelmed.

"Look," Margie says, her tone softening. She leans against the lockers, her presence somehow both comforting and intimidating. "I know this is a lot to take in. But we'll figure it out. Together."

That word hangs in the air between us: together. It implies a history, a bond I can’t grasp. I open my mouth to protest, to demand answers, but the bell rings, a jarring screech that cuts through the noise.

"Come on," Margie says, grabbing my arm—gently, but firmly. "We're going to be late for Advanced Bio. Mrs. Davison will have our heads."

She steers me through the throng of students, a human bulldozer carving a path to our classroom. As we walk, fragments of conversations drift around me.

"…did you see Margie's new project? It's insane!"

"…heard Roscoe helped her with the calculations. Total genius, that kid."

Each word is a tiny knife twist, deepening the chasm in my memory. I supposedly helped Margie with some "insane" project? I'm a "total genius?" This isn’t my life. This is some bizarre alternate reality where everything is just slightly… wrong.

We reach the classroom, and Mrs. Davison, a kindly woman with a perpetually frazzled expression, smiles at us. "Ah, Margie, Roscoe, right on time. Take your seats, please."

Our seats. Plural. Implying that we sit together. Always.

I follow Margie to the back of the room, my mind reeling. As I sit down, I can’t help but wonder: what exactly have I forgotten? And what am I going to do about it?

Advanced Bio is a blur of complex diagrams and unfamiliar terminology. Margie, beside me, takes copious notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. I, on the other hand, stare blankly at the chalkboard, trying to decipher the alien language scrawled across it. Every now and then, Mrs. Davison asks a question, and Margie answers with an ease that borders on arrogance. I feel like I am attending a class for a subject that I have never heard of before.

"Roscoe, are you with us?" Mrs. Davison asks, her voice tinged with concern.

I blink, startled. "Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just… processing."

Mrs. Davison sighs. "Well, try to keep up. We're discussing the potential applications of CRISPR technology in…" She trails off, launching back into a lecture that I am hopelessly lost in.

I glance at Margie, hoping for some sort of explanation, but she's completely engrossed in her notes. I nudge her arm gently. "Hey," I whisper. "What's CRISPR?"

She doesn't even look up. "Gene editing," she mumbles. "Pay attention, Roscoe."

Gene editing? What happened to basic cellular biology? I feel like I’ve skipped several grades. The feeling of disorientation intensifies, and I start to sweat. I need to get out of here, to find some space to think.

"Mrs. Davison, can I be excused?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly. "I don't feel so good."

Mrs. Davison frowns. "Are you alright, Roscoe? You look a little pale."

"I think I'm coming down with something," I say, feigning a cough.

"Alright, go to the nurse's office. And tell her I said to call your parents if you don't feel better soon."

I nod, grab my backpack, and practically bolt out of the classroom. Margie watches me go, a strange expression on her face. Is that concern? Or pity? I can't tell.

The hallway is blessedly empty. I lean against the cool metal of the lockers, trying to catch my breath. This is insane. I need answers, and I need them now. But where do I even begin?

I pull out my phone, a sleek, unfamiliar model that I don't remember owning. I unlock it, my fingers moving automatically, and scroll through the contacts. Mom, Dad, a few names I vaguely recognize… and then, one that makes my heart skip a beat: "Margie."

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the call button. Should I confront her? Demand answers? Or will that just make things worse?

Before I can decide, my phone buzzes. A text message from an unknown number.

"Don't trust her."

The message sends a chill down my spine. Who sent it? And who are they talking about?

I look up and down the hallway, but I am alone. The fluorescent lights hum above me, casting long, distorted shadows. I feel like I'm being watched, like I'm caught in some elaborate game.

I type a response. "Who is this?"

The reply is immediate.

"Someone who knows the truth."

This is getting weirder and weirder. I need to get to the bottom of this. I decide to take the sender of this mysterious message seriously.

"What truth?" I reply.

"She is not who you think she is."

I stare at the message, my mind racing. What does that even mean? Who is Margie, if not the towering, slightly overbearing classmate everyone seems to know and love?

I decide to answer. "Who do you think she is, then?"

But this time, there is no immediate response. The person is gone.

I run towards the exit to find that mysterious texter.

I burst through the school's front doors, scanning the parking lot. Students are milling around, waiting for rides or heading towards the buses, but no one stands out, no one looks like they're furtively watching me. Just the usual teenage chaos. The sun beats down, turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirage. I clutch my phone, the cryptic message burning a hole in my memory. "She is not who you think she is." Who is she then? An alien? A government agent? A figment of my imagination? The possibilities swirl around me, each one more absurd than the last.

I decide to follow the only lead I have. If Margie isn't who she seems, then maybe her "project" has something to do with it. I don't know what the project is, but I know that everyone I overheard in the hallway seemed to know what it was and think it was pretty unique. I head back inside, my mind racing. The nurse's office is empty, the nurse probably out to lunch. I creep back toward the Advanced Bio classroom, peering through the window. Mrs. Davison is still lecturing, and Margie is still taking notes, her face an inscrutable mask. I can't just barge in and demand to know what's going on. Not yet.

I need information. I need proof. I glance down the hallway, searching for inspiration. My eyes land on the open door of the school library. Maybe there's something in there, some clue that can help me understand what's happening. I slip inside, the cool air a welcome relief from the oppressive heat outside. The library is mostly deserted, just a few students hunched over books or computers. I wander through the stacks, aimlessly pulling books off the shelves, hoping something will catch my eye. Nothing. Just the usual assortment of classics, textbooks, and young adult novels.

I head towards the computers, hoping to find some information about Margie's project online. But as I approach the computers, I notice something strange. A small, almost imperceptible flicker in the corner of my vision. I turn my head, trying to focus, but it's gone. Was it just my imagination? I sit down at a computer and start to type, searching for anything related to Margie's name or her supposed project. The search results are…odd. There are mentions of her name in school announcements, yearbook photos, and club rosters, but nothing concrete, nothing that explains her sudden appearance in my life. It's like she's been photoshopped into reality.

Suddenly, the flickering starts again, more intense this time. It's not just in the corner of my vision anymore; it's like the entire room is shimmering, the edges of objects blurring and distorting. I grip the edge of the desk, trying to steady myself. What is happening? And then, I see it. A figure standing in the corner of the library, partially obscured by the bookshelves. A figure I recognize from the text message. But before I can get a clear look, the flickering intensifies, and the library dissolves around me, replaced by a swirling vortex of colors and shapes. I lose consciousness, falling into an abyss of the unreal.

I gasp, jolting awake. The swirling vortex is gone, replaced by…nothing. Just a blank, white space that stretches in every direction, an infinite canvas devoid of any features. Panic claws at my throat. Where am I? How did I get here? I stand up, my legs shaky, and take a tentative step forward. My foot lands on…nothing. There’s no ground, no floor, just an endless expanse of white. I take another step, and another, moving aimlessly through the void. The silence is deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart. Am I dead? Is this some kind of bizarre afterlife? A voice echoes around me, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “You are between worlds, Roscoe.” I whirl around, searching for the source of the voice, but there’s nothing to see.

“Who’s there?” I shout, my voice cracking. “Show yourself!” The voice chuckles, a low, resonant sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Patience, Roscoe. All will be revealed in time.” “Revealed? Revealed what? What is this place? What’s happening to me?” “You are experiencing the consequences of a rift, a tear in the fabric of reality. Your world, as you know it, is fracturing.” A rift? Fracturing reality? This sounds like something out of a science fiction novel. “What does that have to do with me? And with Margie?” The voice pauses, as if considering its words. “Margie is… a key. She is both the cause and the solution to the instability.” “A key? What does that even mean?” “It means that you must choose, Roscoe.

Will you embrace the change, or will you fight to preserve what was?” “What change? What was? I don’t understand!” “You will. The path will become clear. But be warned, Roscoe. Time is running out. The longer you linger in this place, the more your memories will fade, the more difficult it will be to return.” My memories? Already, the events of the past few days feel distant, hazy. I struggle to recall my parents’ faces, the name of my best friend, the taste of my favorite food. Panic surges through me again, stronger this time. I have to get out of here. I have to remember. “How do I get back?” I plead, my voice desperate. “How do I stop this?” The voice grows fainter, as if fading into the distance. “Find the source of the rift.

Follow the path of fractured memories. And trust… trust your instincts.” The voice is gone, leaving me alone in the endless white void. I close my eyes, trying to focus, trying to remember. Images flash through my mind: Margie’s towering figure, Mrs. Davison’s concerned face, the cryptic text message. The text message… ‘She is not who you think she is.’ Who is she then? I open my eyes, a sudden realization dawning on me. I might not know what’s happening, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t trust anyone. Not even Margie. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever lies ahead. I have to find my way back to reality, to uncover the truth behind the rift, and to protect myself from whatever—or whoever—is trying to manipulate me. Now, I must embark on this journey, starting with trying to find my way back home. Home is the next place I have to get back to.

I stand alone in the white void, the echo of the disembodied voice still ringing in my ears. Home. The thought is a flickering beacon in this featureless expanse, a reminder of the life I'm desperately trying to reclaim. But how do I even begin to find my way back? There's no sun, no stars, no landmarks of any kind. Just endless, blinding white.

"Think, Roscoe, think," I mutter to myself, my voice sounding hollow in the vast emptiness. The voice said to follow the path of fractured memories. But what does that even look like in a place like this?

Suddenly, a faint shimmer appears in the distance, a subtle distortion in the white nothingness. It's barely perceptible, but it's enough to catch my attention. Could this be it? A fractured memory, somehow made visible?

Hope surges through me, and I start walking towards the shimmer. As I get closer, the distortion becomes more defined, resolving into a faint, translucent image. It's a classroom, Mrs. Davison's classroom. I can see desks, chairs, and the whiteboard covered in equations. But something is off. The colors are muted, almost ghostly, and the whole scene seems to flicker and waver like a mirage.

Hesitantly, I reach out my hand towards the image. As my fingers brush against the shimmering surface, a jolt of energy courses through my body. Memories flood my mind, fragmented and chaotic. I see myself sitting at a desk, struggling to solve a math problem. Mrs. Davison is leaning over me, offering encouragement. Margie is there too, her towering frame casting a shadow over my desk. She offers help, but her face is blurred, indistinct. The memory is fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving me breathless and disoriented.

The classroom image fades, replaced by another shimmer in the distance. This one is different, darker, more ominous. It pulses with a faint red glow, and I can hear a faint, distorted sound coming from it, like a scream muffled by layers of cotton.

Fear grips me, but curiosity compels me forward. I have to know what this is, what it means. As I approach the red shimmer, the sound intensifies, and the image begins to solidify. It's a hallway, but not the familiar hallways of Northwood High. This hallway is twisted and distorted, the walls stained with dark, viscous liquid. The air is thick with the smell of decay and something else, something acrid and metallic that makes my stomach churn.

Figures lurk in the shadows, their faces obscured, their movements jerky and unnatural. They seem to be whispering, but I can't make out what they're saying. As I move closer, one of the figures turns towards me, its eyes glowing with an eerie red light. A wave of pure terror washes over me, and I instinctively recoil. This isn't a memory. This is something else, something darker and more sinister.

This is a warning. I have to turn back. But as I take a step away, the figure lunges at me, its hand outstretched, its fingers tipped with sharp, metallic claws. I scream and stumble backward, desperate to escape its grasp.

Chapter 2

I stumble, my back hitting something solid. I whirl around, expecting to see the distorted hallway and the menacing figure, but instead, I am faced with a…door. A simple, wooden door, standing incongruously in the middle of the white void. Relief washes over me. A way out? A way back? Without hesitation, I reach for the handle and turn it. The door creaks open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The air is thick with the smell of dust and old paper. I step through the doorway, leaving the white void behind me. The door slams shut behind me with a resounding thud. I turn to face it, but it´s gone, vanished as if it were never there. Now, I´m alone in the corridor, surrounded by shadows.

The walls are lined with bookshelves, filled with ancient-looking tomes. The titles are written in a language I don’t recognize, a series of strange symbols and glyphs. As I walk further down the corridor, the shelves begin to shift and rearrange themselves, as if they have a life of their own. The air grows colder, and I can feel a presence watching me, studying me. I pass a doorway on my left, leading to a small, circular room. In the center of the room, there´s a pedestal, and on the pedestal, there´s a book. The book is bound in leather and clasped shut with a silver lock. An irresistible force draws me into the room. I approach the pedestal, my eyes fixed on the book. As I get closer, I can hear a faint whispering coming from it, a chorus of voices murmuring in unison. I reach out and touch the cover. The leather is cold and smooth against my fingertips. The whispering intensifies, filling my head with images and sensations.

I see faces, places, events, all swirling together in a chaotic kaleidoscope. I feel a presence trying to invade my mind, to take control of my thoughts. I resist with all my might, clinging to my sense of self. The lock clicks open, and the book falls open to a random page. The page is filled with text and illustrations, depicting strange creatures and otherworldly landscapes. As I stare at the page, the images begin to move, to come to life. The creatures crawl off the page and onto the pedestal, their eyes fixed on me. They snarl and hiss, their fangs bared. I step back in terror, knocking over the pedestal. The book falls to the floor, its pages scattering in every direction. The creatures vanish, and the whispering fades away. Silence descends upon the room, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. I sink to my knees, my head spinning.

What was that? What did I just see? I scramble to gather the scattered pages, desperate to put the book back together. As I collect the pages, I notice something strange. The illustrations have changed. The creatures are gone, replaced by images of Margie. She´s smiling, laughing, reaching out to me. But her eyes…her eyes are cold and empty, devoid of any emotion. A chill runs down my spine. This book…it´s not what it seems. It´s a trap. And I think I just sprung it.

I clutch the pages of the corrupted book to my chest, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. Margie's image, once a source of confusion and suspicion, now feels like a direct threat. This book, this corridor, this entire reality-bending nightmare – it's all connected to her. I have to get out of here. I have to find a way back to some semblance of normality, even if that normality includes a seven-foot-two tall enigma named Margie. I stand up, my legs wobbly, and retrace my steps to the doorway. I peer back into the long corridor. The shelves still shift subtly, whispering secrets in a language I can't understand. Knowing I have no better option, I step back into the corridor, and start walking in the opposite direction. As I walk, I clutch the book even tighter, the pages digging into my palms. The air crackles with a strange energy, and the shadows dance around me, playing tricks on my eyes. I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched, that something is lurking just out of sight, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Suddenly, a voice echoes down the corridor, a voice that chills me to the bone.

"Roscoe…" It's Margie's voice, but distorted, warped, as if it's being filtered through a broken speaker. I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. Is she here? Is she somehow able to reach me, even in this bizarre place? "Roscoe… why are you running?" The voice continues, closer now. I start to run, my feet pounding against the stone floor. The corridor seems to stretch on forever, the shelves blurring into a chaotic mess. I glance over my shoulder, but there's nothing there. Just shadows and empty shelves. But the voice… it's still there, following me, taunting me. "You can't hide from me, Roscoe. We're connected. We always have been." I turn a corner, desperate to escape the voice, and find myself in a large, open chamber.

In the center of the chamber, there's a pool of water, shimmering with an ethereal light. I cautiously approach the pool, drawn to its tranquil beauty. As I gaze into the water, I see a reflection staring back at me. But it's not my reflection. It's Margie's. Her face is contorted in a grotesque smile, her eyes burning with an unholy light. "Hello, Roscoe," she hisses, her voice dripping with malice. "Did you miss me?" I recoil in horror, stumbling backward. The reflection shatters, and the water in the pool turns black and viscous. A figure rises from the pool, dripping with the foul liquid. It's Margie, but not the Margie I know. This Margie is monstrous, her body twisted and deformed, her eyes glowing with malevolent energy. "You can't escape your destiny, Roscoe," she growls, her voice a guttural rasp.

"We're going to be together… forever." She lunges at me, her claws outstretched, ready to tear me apart. I scream and raise my arms in defense, the book clutched tightly in my hands. In that moment, a surge of energy courses through me, emanating from the book. The pages burst into flames, engulfing Margie in a torrent of fire. She shrieks in agony, her body dissolving into ash. The chamber is filled with the smell of burning flesh and the sound of her tormented screams. And then, silence. I stand there, trembling, the charred remains of the book falling from my hands. Margie is gone. But I know, deep down, that this is not the end. This is just the beginning.

I stand in the aftermath, the scent of burnt leather and something acrid clinging to the air. The monstrous Margie has dissolved into ash, and a fragile quiet has descended. The charred remains of the book crumble in my trembling hands. This twisted library, this warped reality, has thrown everything I thought I knew into chaos. But one thing remains: the desire to return home. With newfound resolve, I turn away from the now-still pool, a sense of direction pulling me forward. The corridor awaits, still lined with its unsettling shelves, but now the air feels different, lighter.

As I walk, the shelves seem to recede, the shadows less menacing. A faint light begins to appear in the distance, growing steadily brighter with each step. Hope surges through me. Could this be it? The way back? I quicken my pace, my heart pounding with anticipation. The corridor opens into another chamber, this one bathed in a warm, golden light. In the center of the room, a swirling vortex shimmers, pulsating with energy. It looks familiar, like the gateway that brought me here in the first place. This must be the exit. Without hesitation, I run towards the vortex, leaping into its swirling embrace. A rush of sensations overwhelms me: colors blurring, sounds echoing, my body twisting and turning. Then, everything goes white.

I gasp, inhaling a lungful of familiar air. The white void is gone, replaced by the comforting chaos of my own bedroom. Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the posters on my wall, the clothes scattered on the floor, the familiar mess that is my life. I'm home. I stumble to my feet, my legs shaky, and run to the window. I look out at my street, my neighborhood, my town. Everything seems normal, ordinary. It's as if the nightmare in the library never happened. But the lingering scent of smoke on my clothes, the phantom weight of the charred book in my hands, tell a different story. This wasn't a dream. This was real. I turn away from the window, my eyes falling on my phone, lying on my desk. Hesitantly, I pick it up and turn it on. A text message pops up on the screen. It's from an unknown number, the same number that sent me the cryptic warning about Margie. The message reads: "You're not safe yet. She's still out there." A chill runs down my spine. The battle may be over, but the war has just begun. And the seven-foot-two shaped shadow of Margie still looms large over my life.