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Five minutes and forty two seconds.
That's how long the man had been dead on the operating table, according to the doctors.
It was supposed to be a simple surgery. Relatively noninvasive, but just invasive enough that they had needed to put him under for it. But something to do with an allergic reaction to the anesthesia or something or other had caused some complications.
That's what they'd called it— "complications". We are required by law to inform you that there were some complications during your surgery. An undisclosed allergic reaction resulted in some complications. Some complications with the surgery killed you for nearly six minutes.
Whatever. In the end, it just meant more paperwork for the man to fill out. One more thing on the list of his medical complications to remember.
A few years ago, he might have freaked out over the implications. He was legally dead for several minutes, after all. But he lived in Amity Park, where the dead walked and wreaked havoc among the living on a daily basis. It was hard to worry about being dead when he knew he'd probably get up the next day. And he wouldn't have to go to work. And he'd be able to fly wherever he wanted. He swore, ghosts had it lucky. If not for his own laziness and his attachment to good pizza and fine wine, he'd probably be a ghost himself.
The world said he could rest when he was dead. He sighed. Well, he had gotten five minutes and forty two seconds of rest. He supposed he could wait a bit longer before he could relax for good.
Five minutes and forty two seconds.
It was a miracle the patient had survived.
Upon cardiac arrest, the surgeon barked for someone to bring in the ectopsychologist. You couldn't be too careful in a place like Amity Park General. And as they had discovered in the years since ghosts had started appearing, a psychologist on hand in the hospital was a must.
Thirty three seconds. A wisp of ectoplasm began to form above the doctors attempting to resuscitate the patient. The nurse spotted it first, calling its attention to the surgeon.
"Keep an eye on it," she told the nurse. "Let me know when it forms a mouth."
The nurse nodded his assent, eyes fixed upon the wisp.
Fifty seven seconds. The wisp had grown into a mass about nine inches in diameter, its glow giving the room and the doctors and the patient a sickly green tinge.
One minute and three seconds. The mass had formed a mouth. As the nurse opened his mouth to tell the surgeon so, an unearthly groan emanated from the mass, making the surgery team pause for a second as they collectively suppressed a shudder.
"Mouth formed, ma'am."
"Alright. If it speaks or moves, keep it talking until the ectopsychologist gets here."
One minute and fourteen seconds. The mass stopped groaning. It opened hazy red eyes, staring up at the ceiling.
What the... The words were garbled, as if heard through a filter of static and noise.
"Hello," the nurse said. His voice was low and calm, soothing to the ears of the living. But the ectoplasmic mass didn't seem to notice him - it just remained above them, staring at the ceiling.
This was typical of newly formed ectoplasmic masses in the hospital, though— they rarely noticed or understood their surroundings at first, however loud or chaotic they may have seemed to the living. More often than not, they fixated upon a single feature of the room— the rhythm of the heart monitor, a crack in the ceiling, or the reflection of light on a saline bag were common fixations. The trick was to keep them fixated until the ectopsychologist got there.
One minute and forty three seconds.
I should... go to work... The mass began to float towards the ceiling.
"Hey!" the nurse cried, snapping his fingers. The mass stopped. Slowly turned around to stare at the nurse's fingers. He snapped them again as the ectoplasmic mass began to turn towards the ceiling, directing its attention back to his fingers.
Two minutes and fifty seven seconds. The nurse was still snapping, and the ectoplasmic mass was still staring. The nurse had started to hum a tune to go along with it— it sounded like a shanty of some sort, with the way it swung and swayed and repeated. The surgical assistant was bouncing to the beat. The surgeon was not.
"Where the hell is the ecto— oh, here you are." The surgeon glanced up as the door burst open, a short, skinny woman with thick glasses bustling through, still pulling on her gloves.
"Yes, I'm here. And I see you've kept the patient here as well, good good." The ectopsychologist's voice was high and reedy— jarring to those in the room who were living, but it captured the attention of the ectoplasmic mass.
The... patient? The hazy red eyes of the ectoplasmic mass were staring at her, transfixed and curious.
"Yes, the patient. That's you. Do you know where you are?"
No... but... I need to go to work... The ectoplasmic mass began to turn back towards the ceiling.
"No, hun, you took the day off, remember? For the surgery?" The ectopsychologist took a step closer, and her reedy voice echoed in the room. The ectoplasmic mass fixated upon her once more.
Oh... yeah... the surgery... that went well, right? Just a simple procedure they said...
"Well, not exactly. You see, the surgery's still happening. You're having what we call an out of body experience. And we need you to move your consciousness back into the body."
The ectoplasmic mass stared confusedly at the ectopsychologist for a moment as it processed what she had said.
Still... happening?
"Yes. You are having an out of body experience. We need you to move your experience back into your body to continue the procedure."
The ectoplasmic mass stared at her for a minute.
Oh... okay.
Four minutes and fifty eight seconds. The ectoplasmic mass began to float towards the body of the patient.
Five minutes and ten seconds. The ectoplasmic mass touched the chest of the patient. It hesitated for a moment, before beginning to phase into the patient's body.
Five minutes and thirty seven seconds. The ectoplasmic mass had disappeared completely into the body of the patient.
Five minutes and forty two seconds. The heart monitor began to beep regularly. The nurse let out a sigh of relief. The surgeon closed her eyes for half a moment, before returning to her work.
"My work here is done," the ectopsychologist stated firmly, before walking out the door.
Danny's ghost sense went off as he was passing the city bus stop. That was weird. He kept walking, but searched the skies. Maybe a ghost was flying above him on its way to somewhere else. His head turned upwards, he didn't notice the man walking towards the bus stop until he had bumped shoulders with him.
"Oh, sorry du—"
"Watch where you're going, kid!"
The man glanced back at him in annoyance, and for an instant they seemed to glint bright red. But then the man looked away with a huff, still walking towards the bus stop.
Danny stared at the man's back for a moment, perplexed. Did he just—
"Wow, that was rude." Sam raised an eyebrow at the man's back.
"Yeah, man, you can't, like, expect people to pay attention all the time!" Tucker's nose was buried in his PDA.
Danny turned back around, grabbing Sam's arm to turn her around with him, and Tucker's arm to keep him from walking into the street.
It was probably a trick of the light or something.
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