Camilla Covington has been around longer than she cares to admit. Her father, Caleb Covington, died in 1929, when she was just 6 years old. After her own death 10 years later, she joined her father in running and performing for the Hollywood Ghost...
Almost 40 years have passed since I died. My dad and I have created what is known as the Hollywood Ghost Club, a very exclusive club where lifers (People who are still alive) sell their souls to get in. While I don't agree with the price and I don't understand the need for their souls, I've learned not to ask questions about that kind of stuff.
The club would travel over the world, but we mostly resided in Hollywood, due to most of our customers being there. Many ghosts joined the club over the years, the thought of being seen by lifers as well as being able to party for eternity was very appealing. Plus here they could eat, something they wouldn't be able to anywhere else.
My "life" was almost perfect. I was a lead performer alongside my dad. I was featured in most of the dances and songs. There were times I would also perform on silks or trapeze, which stunned the crowed. According to my dad, I was the reason they came.
For the first 20 years, it was weird having grown men watch me on stage, but I got over it, knowing that they couldn't do much else, and the fact that I was probably just as old as them mentally.
Besides being able to perform, I had grown to have many different powers. I could make other ghosts and myself visible, levitate, summon some objects, and lastly make myself "solid". This made me able to interact with lifers if I wanted to, as well as objects.
But despite all of this, being at the club was lonely. There wasn't anyone else my age, all the other performers were over 20, and they would stay away from me, probably because my father threatened them. Besides, I didn't want to talk to many of them anyways, many of the girls reminded me of my mother, just less drunk. And most of the guys reminded me of the men she would bring home, shady and with other intentions.
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I spun around rapidly, keeping my gaze on the back of the room. I slowed myself down my spreading my legs into a split, flipping myself upside down on the hoop. I made sure I was secure before letting go with my hands and daintily moving them around to the music. A Jazz number was being played, and many other dancers were dancing around me in short colorful flapper dresses. Both my father and I wore darker colors, allowing us to stand out from the rest, showing the audience who was actually running the show.
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As the music came to an end, I passed through the hoop, flipping down and landing softly on my feet. The crowd cheered, some tossing roses onto the stage. As usual, a black rose landed near me. I grabbed it quickly, smiling towards the general direction it came from. For the past few weeks, every time I performed, a black rose was tossed towards me. It wouldn't strike me weirdly, except for the fact that the roses only showed up for me. I wanted to find out who it was from, but no one new talked to me. I bowed and waved to the crowd, before poofing out to my room. I placed the rose into a vase on my desk, which was filled with them. I pulled out one that started to wilt, and tied it upside down to dry. I smiled and changed into a longer flapper dress. While it was cool to see the different fashion throughout time, the club had a modern 20s feel to it, meaning there was a general dress code for performers. I often broke it with some of my costumes when I was performing on the silks and hoops, but that was for my comfort.
