// Author's Note //

Right, I'm rewriting this (: Sorry for neglecting this fic for so, so, so very long. I didn't really like this that much at first, so I abandoned it. But now, I'm inspired! :D It's still partially based on Meg Cabot's brilliant The Mediator series -- love Suze and Jesse… mmm, especially Jesse ;) -- hope you guys really enjoy! I loved writing this! I have the entire plot all mapped out, so I think I won't be putting this on hiatus anytime soon :D Hee.


Chapter One - Bella's POV

What comes to mind when you think, "ghost"?

White, translucent apparitions that go 'boo!'? Bloody masses with a bloodthirsty hunger for revenge? Rotting corpses rising up from the dead? Or even just sad remainders of the dead who have unfinished business?

Here's an interesting little fact: five in ten people will tell you that their worst fear is bumping into a ghost.

I meet up with ghosties on a daily basis, and this I can readily assure you: ghosts - they're mostly just annoying. And also confused.

Sure, sometimes I get your average I'm-so-angry-I'm-dead-I'm-going-to-get-some-sweet-fucking-revenge ghostie, but most of them are too astonished or aggravated about their death to hone their supernatural powers. Only those that stay dead and don't move on get bored enough to start properly scaring people. Those are the ones that really, really piss me off. Those are also the ones that usually get a fierce butt-kicking from me.

'Please.' the grungy, punky, dead teen begged doggedly. Just go away, I thought. Saying it out loud would be unwise. Ghosts can be rather sensitive. I steadily ignored him and the other ten or so agitated ghosts that were crowded up in my room.

Grunting heavily, I pushed down on my suitcase. It wouldn't budge an inch.

'Please just help me. Just a little favor. C'mon.' he continued to plead. I turned around and glared. He had black dyed hair and an atrocious number of piercings on his lip.

'What's your name again?' I asked lightly.

'Trevor.' he replied eagerly. 'So, you'll help me--?'

'Trevor.' I cut through. 'My answer is still the same. No. Go get some other ghost whisperer. I'm done.'

'Dude.' he said, running a frustrated hand through his hair. 'You're the only one they recommended me to. Look, just tell my best friend that I was the one who cheated on Juliet, not Keith, alright? Plain and simple. Just a few sentences. And tell my mom it wasn't her fault.' he blinked rapidly.

Ghosts like Trevor are the ones who come and bug me. A classic I've Just Died ghost. Ghosts like Trevor are the reason I have officially quit as a ghost whisperer.

Well. Seeing ghosts isn't actually something you can quit. I was born with this stupid, cursed ability to see the dead and it sure as hell ain't going away.

You think it's cool, being able to see ghosts? Well, put yourself in my shoes: you've been pestered by ghosts since the day you were born. Everyone thinks you're a freak of some sort because you're frequently caught talking to air. You're dubbed as a juvenile delinquent because you're often thrown into jail for breaking and entering (helping ghosts solve problems involves a lot of house visits). You have no social life because the ghosts won't leave you alone. After you've pleased one ghost, another comes trotting along.

I tell you, I'm through.

So, approximately a month ago, I've decided that if the ghosts won't ever leave me alone, then I'll simply refuse to assist them.

Now, you probably think I'm a cold-hearted little bitch, or something. They're dead, woman! Why not just help them move on? I'm sure it's not that hard! Right?

Wrong. So very wrong.

Some of them just want me to pass on a personal possession, or rely an apology. Return some money. Reassure a loved one that it wasn't their fault they died. Comfort their parents.

All of this is nice and heartwarming, but most people don't believe that weirdoes like ghost whisperers exist. So it doesn't go down too well, sometimes, when you show up at a recently deceased person's home and tell their family, 'Well, sorry to barge in, but Jeremy wanted me to tell you that the totaled Ford was his fault - not his brothers'.'

Yeah, people don't like that.

Sometimes they tell me to go away. Or they resort to physical violence. Ouch. Let me just say that it's not pleasant.

Getting all bruised up comes with being a ghost whisperer, so it was only natural that I would take up a little self-defense. Coupled with the fact that I'm a terrible klutz, I'm almost constantly injured. I still have this gigantic kumquat-shaped bruise on my lower back from a previous encounter with an angry girl ghostie. It aches when I bend over.

So, like I said, I'm officially retiring as a ghost whisperer. No more monkey business. My mom - Renee - is thrilled.

My mom doesn't exactly know what's wrong with me, I think. I've never told her before, but I think she's guessed. You would have guessed too, if your daughter spends sixteen years hissing to things that aren't there, if she's always getting into trouble with the police.

I love my mom. Any other mom would've either put me up for adoption or thrown me into the streets when she discovered her only daughter was insisting that 'those floating humans really exist, Mommy!' She's the best mom ever, but I sort of feel guilty for putting her through all of this, you know? I mean, having a sixteen-year-old daughter that has never been in a relationship before and spends all her free time getting into scuffles instead of gossiping on her cellular phone or shopping mindlessly. I bet it wasn't easy, raising me.

But I digress.

New York is a breeding ground for ghosts. Do you know that the average number of deaths in New York is around 55,000? And about half of them die unhappy deaths. The ones who die peacefully move on. A quarter find their way to me. Every. Year.

Wonder why I'm packing? I'm moving to Forks. Tomorrow.

Why Forks? Aside from the fact that it's relatively far away from New York - almost 2,500 miles - I want to start over. I'm sick and tired of people labeling me as strange or abnormal. It'd be nice to be somewhere where people didn't know you saw things.

'I'm begging you. You're my only hope.' Trevor implored desperately.


'I need help too.' another one piped up nervously. 'Um, my mother's killing herself over my death, and I would really like it if you could just, sort of, pop over and pat her on her back a bit?' the ghost, a twelve-year-old girl in a blue top tucked her sunny blonde hair behind her ear.

'They've misinterpreted my will, can you go clear things up -'

'My grandfather blames my sister for my death, can you tell him to shut up and let it go already-'

'Stop my best friend from dating that bastard-'

'Did you guys not hear me?' I said angrily. I gave my suitcase one more push. It still wouldn't budge. 'I'm not helping you guys anymore, alright? I QUIT.' I almost yelled.

They slowly dispersed, muttering angrily. All except for Trevor. Of course.

'You really not going to help me?' he asked, crushed. I almost gave in, then. Ghosts can also be horribly persuasive. You know, with the whole being dead thing, and all.

'Yes. Sorry, but I hear there's another pretty good and responsible ghost whisperer in the Bronx.' I told him, wiping sweat off my brow. 'Now could you please…?'

Trevor pushed his hand down on the suitcase, and it popped shut cheerfully. That's another thing - ghosts can be freakishly strong.

'Thanks.' I murmured, breathing heavily and sitting down on my bed, lifting my feet up. 'Sorry. I really can't do anything for you.'

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. 'That's okay.' he said. His large blue eyes pierced me. 'How come you're not into being a ghost whisperer?'

I stiffened. 'It's kind of personal.'

'Oh.' he fell silent, contemplating me. He was leaning against my bedposts, a faraway expression on his face.

'Sorry,' I sighed, apologizing again.

'I never knew dying would be like this, you know?' Trevor mumbled. He absent-mindedly picked up a photo frame lying around, and his fingers sailed right through the solid wood.

'Argh. I'll never get used to that.' he stared pensively at his empty hands.

'You'll be able to pick stuff up soon enough.' I reassured him, propping my face up on my hands. 'You get stronger, you see.'

'Ah.' Trevor let out a deep sigh, and sank down on my bed. His behind didn't make any sort of indentation in my bed. Springs didn't creak. My bed sheets didn't rumple. It was kind of sad, actually.

'How'd you die?' I asked randomly. It may not be the most sensitive question to ask someone recently deceased, but I got the feeling Trevor wouldn't mind. Much.

Trevor gave me an amused smile. 'Tactful, aren't you?'

He waited a while before he answered, swinging his legs. 'It was a pretty pathetic way of dying, if you ask me. No fancy murders. I choked on this stupid golf ball. It was a dare - before you get all judgmental. He wanted to see how many golf balls I could stuff in my mouth. I choked, he panicked too much to perform a Heimlich maneuver and I - I died, I s'pose. The fucking golf ball got lodged in my throat. Stupid, huh?'

'You're not the first one.' I chuckled. 'You'd be surprised. I've had a dirty old man who took too much Viagras.'

'Wicked.' his eyes flashed with merriment. 'Well, I'd better get going. The Bronx, you say?'

'Yeah, her name's J-somthing.' I rolled over in my bed, feeling very tired. It was already midnight, and I would be waking up in five hours to take a plane to Forks. When I turned around to look at Trevor again, he'd disappeared. Gone. Vanished. Poof.

I hate it when ghosts do that.

// Author's Note //

Please tell me if I've made any critical grammar mistakes in my story! I don't receive a very adequate English education here so my knowledge on nouns and verbs and sentence compounds or whatever is very limited. Very, very limited (I live in Asia).

And... review! :D:D