PROJECT GHOSTMODE CHAPTER ONE: THE CALL

Okinawa mornings weren’t supposed to start like this.

Usually, I’d wake to bugles blaring a reveille, the hum and flicker of fluorescent lights, maybe the thud of boots in the hallway, or someone shouting down the corridor. But this morning? A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Almost respectful.

I opened the door to find two Marines standing there, with eyes a little too serious.

“There’s a phone call for you,” one of them said. “Come on.”

As I followed them down the hallway, still groggy and barefoot, something in my stomach tightened. Why wouldn’t they just call my room? Why the strange looks? 

Why were there so many people already gathered in that one room?

I stepped inside. Marines were leaning on bunks, arms crossed, quiet. Watching.

They handed me the phone. 

I sat down.

At first, static. Then, crying. Muffled.

“Mom? What’s going on? I can’t hear you.’

 Her voice was tangled in grief. She kept repeating something, but it wasn’t coming through clearly.

“Mom, slow down.”

Then her voice hit clear and sharp, like glass breaking:

“Your uncle Robert is dead.”

I couldn’t breathe. 

My throat swelled shut. My skin went hot, like fire was chewing through every layer of armor I’d ever built around myself.

“NOOOOOO!”

The scream ripped out of me. I couldn’t stop it.

Tears poured down my face. My fists clenched, useless.

Everyone was watching. But in that moment, I didn’t care.

The world went silent. 

Details slipped away. 

I don’t remember much after that.

The few weeks that followed were a blur.

I flew home for a funeral and a wedding. 

I buried my uncle. 

I married my fiancée. 

All within thirty days.

The emotional whiplash wrecked me. 

Grief and joy covered, congealing into something ugly. Something confusing.

Back in Japan, I tried to slip back into routine. But I was dragging a secret behind me.

While I was home, I got high. Real high. Smoked weed like I used to. 

I knew it was a mistake. Knew the risk. 

Did it anyway.

Back in uniform, I kept my head down and prayed the random piss test wouldn’t come. 

But it did.

I pissed in a cup and handed over the fear that lived inside me.

Days passed.

Then a week. 

Nothing.

I started to breathe again. Maybe I passed somehow. Maybe it wasn’t tested. Maybe I got lucky. Then Gunny found me.

He told me I’d be attending the funeral of a Marine with no family, and so there was no one else to go. 

He said, “We don’t leave our own.”

So, I went. 

I stood there. Blue uniform, white gloves, stone face.  Grieving someone I never knew while still grieving everything I’d just lost.

When the service ended, Gunny and the Chaplain approached me. Their faces gave it away before they spoke.

“Your grandmother passed.”

I didn’t scream this time. 

Didn’t cry. 

Didn’t move.

But something in me was extinguished.

Not sad. Not shocked. 

Just… gone.

I think that was the moment Ghost Boy stepped out of me and stayed behind.

Ghost Boy’s Perspective

I remember that morning, too.

The light didn’t feel like that of morning. 

Too gray. Too still. 

Like even the sun knew something was wrong.

I was already awake. I usually am. 

But he doesn’t know that.

He never sees me anymore.

When they knocked, I followed. Quiet. Never leaving his presence, just a step behind.

He didn’t know what was coming. 

I did.

He took the phone, sat on the bed. 

I stood right beside him. Nobody noticed.

Then the words came through:

“Your uncle Robert is dead.”

His scream cracked the air. It burned. It was a sound that didn’t have words. A sound I felt in my chest.

But I didn’t scream. I just stood there, watching.

The room blurred around him. 

But I stayed sharp, watching every inch of his face as it shattered.

I didn’t have tears. 

Not anymore.

He went home. I trailed along after him.

I watched him at his wedding. I wanted to smile. He looked happy, but only on the outside.

Then I watched him light up. Just once. Then again.

I wanted to pull his hand back, shake him, and say, “You’re not that kid anymore.” 

But he couldn’t hear me.

Not now.

Then Grandma died.

And I felt something rip open in both of us.

She was the last person who still remembered me. The last one looked into his eyes and saw me looking back.

When she left, the light went with her.

And that’s when I knew: 

He wouldn’t see me for a long time.

Maybe not ever again.

So, I made a home in the shadows. 

Remained a little boy, forever the same age. 

All the while watching him become someone I didn’t recognize. 

Waiting. Hoping one day he’d finally turn around.