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Teen Ghost Magazine Quiz: What Type of Ghost Are You?

Every teen—from *spectacular spectrals* to (yawn) conventional corporeals—knows the importance of figuring out your type. Otherwise, how will you know where to situate yourself in the cafeteria/at the pep rally/during the Feast of All Souls? No need for a Ouija board; the answer is just a few questions away. We’ve got you, ghoul!

***1) How did you die? (Make sure to include your death-day fashion)***

a) Victorian-style: languishing in a sanatorium for the tuberculosis-ridden, clutching a brooch bearing the image of my beloved, who preceded me in tuberculosis-death. (Death-day ensemble: high-necked white nightgown, boned corset, girdle, pantaloons—you know, casual sleepwear.)

b) A boogeyman with a hook for an arm caught my motorcycle-jacket-wearing sweetheart and me unawares when we were canoodling at the drive-in. (Poodle skirt, saddle shoes, bobby socks. Chantilly lace and a pretty face.)

c) I had just let myself in with my latchkey and was playing with my pogs when that dreamy Keanu-Leonardo all the girls have crushes on, wearing a creepy mask from the Halloween store, climbed in through my bedroom window and stabbed me right in the flannel shirt. (Flannel shirt.)

2) What is your deepest regret?

a) ‘Twas I who gave my beloved TB—I knew not that I was infected, and passed the plague from mine own lips to his.

b) My boyfriend, who was the leader of the pack, kept saying, ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, angel doll,’ but I really should have kept a closer eye on that guy at the popcorn stand who had a rusty sickle poking out of his sleeve.

c) My crush on Keanu-Leonardo blinded me to all the foreshadowing that he was the killer.

3) What would bring peace to your restless soul?

a) I would like to find my beloved in this spectral realm and apologize for the brashness of my passion, the recalcitrance of my lusting lips, and also for not masking and staying at least six feet away when there was a pandemic going around. By the 1800s, you’d think people would know better.

b) In defiance of the gender norms of my time and the chivalric reassurances of my pomade-coiffed, bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold beau, I would like to learn ghost-karate so that if harm threatens a loved one or myself again, I can protect us.

c) I want to kill Keanu-Leonardo. Wait, no. That would make me the killer. That would make me the bad guy. Then Keanu-Leonardo would hunt me for vengeance, and so on and so forth, for a million sequels that audiences would grow tired of until a few decades pass and there’s a reboot.

4) Do you think this peace is achievable?

a) I do—Percival! Stay put, my love; I’ll find you. Don’t exert yourself, in case your ghost form is as fetchingly frail as your humanly, perennially consumptive, forever-coughing-into-an-embroidered-hankie one was. Wait, come to think of it, perhaps ‘twas not I who made you ill. Perhaps ‘twas you who made me ill! (Plot twist!)

b) Right-o; I’m a fast learner with good reflexes. Never again will a purveyor of popped corn with a farm implement for a limb murder my greaser date and make me miss the ending of Rebel Without a Cause.

c) I want to say yes. I want to say that if I show Keanu-Leonardo the love he perhaps never received in his formative years… or perhaps ghost-guided him to a place where he could obtain counseling… we could be… dare I say… Friends. But my apathy and angst run deep, as deep as the largest-size bottle of Crystal Pepsi, and I am going to say the answer is… no.

If you answered…

Mostly ‘a’: Boo, you’re a Basic Bore ghost. White nightgown? A brooch of your beloved?! You’re what people think of when they think ‘ghost.’ You might as well don a sheet with eyeholes cut out of it. At least your new thirst for revenge gives you some edge. (For added spiteful-sprite flair, try adding a choker from Hot Topic; you can find it at the ghost mall.)

Mostly ‘b’: You’re a Spirit with Sass! You’ll do well here; things can get gnarly in the land of the dead. Maybe you’ll be leader of the Poltergeist Pack. Ghost-karate classes start Monday. Welcome aboard!

Mostly ‘c’: You’re a Philosophical Phantom. Exploring the existential, grappling with the grotesque consequences of your potential actions in the afterlife. You’re correct, by the way. Ghosts can’t find peace. Our whole *aesthetic* revolves around being haunted, tortured, conflicted. When you get right down to it, there’s only one kind of ghost: ghost. (All the segmentation and identity-insecurity helps our advertisers sell ghost-deodorant and ghost-jeans; hey, we gotta pay our ghost rent.) Don’t share spoilers with ‘a’ and ‘b,’ though. They’re still figuring themselves out.

About the artist

Christie Chapman is a writer and mom in Springfield, VA. Her work has been published and is forthcoming in Electric Literature, LEON Literary Review, L’Esprit, Ghost Parachute, The Bulb Region, Gooseberry Pie Lit Magazine, and elsewhere. She was a Lascaux Prize finalist for flash fiction and nominated for Best Microfiction.