Below is an example of Ghost RP. It was played by Mike and Sheling, who narrated the entire scene using NPCs.
In the calm of a summer's afternoon, the clouded skies finally conspire to shed their rain in gentle, soothing drops onto the thirsting ground below. Through the air they tumble, banding together like refugees in their descent until they land heavily upon the dry earth and shatter into a thousand droplets once more.
The city drinks eagerly of the brief summer shower; barely a drop is wasted as it sinks heavily into the earth or is soaked rapidly into the wood and stone of the city's structures. One such structure seems to have verily opened itself up to the pouring heavens; its roof missing, the tattered treads of its shattered staircase preparing to welcome the deluge and convey it to the ground floor in a short-lived but glorious cascade.
At the foot of the once-magnificent step-well stands a woman. Her hair is tied into a severe bun and secured at the nape of her neck. A darkly-coloured shawl hangs about her shoulders and a long, full skirt falls to the ground where it brushes against the faded rug which, by the magic of the magnanimous rain, slowly returns to colour. The woman sends a seething glance up the stair well and then walks off toward the front entrance, a perfect circle of faded rug remaining in her wake.
The garden is overrun with weeds, their dull green and silvery stalks strangling those plants that might otherwise flourish and provide delicate blooms. The tall man regards them with malice before he feels the first bit of rain. Each drop seems to lend color to those blossoms in the garden that were lost in the rampant vegetation, as if they are in the act of blooming before the very eyes, a rose here, a daffodil there. Each raindrop seems to unlock some new spot of color on the landscape.
Still, the man scowls.
When the rain begins in earnest, he hurries from the garden toward the stately house, the unused clippers still hanging in his hand. He moves with an erect precision that hints at a love for formality and a hatred of those wild and unpredictable things that ruin the world. Like weeds.
"Oh, now you come in," scolds the woman from the doorway as the man - apparently her husband - seeks shelter from the weather. "I can be calling for a morning to no effect, but a drop of rain sends you hurrying right along!" She tsks quietly as she steps aside to let him enter, but it seems clear that her heart isn't in it; her eyes are drawn quickly back over her shoulder and up the stairs while her hands nervously smooth over the stiff white apron tied over her skirt.
"Bloody garden," she mutters beneath her breath, though her tone seems oddly remorseful. She turns stiffly and returns to the foot of the stairs, her eyes carrying her gaze once more up the case. "How much longer, do you think?" she whispers. "I can't stand the wait."
"I cannot very well garden in the /rain/," the man retorts stiffly. He adds, under his voice though easily loud enough for the woman to hear, "it is, however, possible when one's wife merely wants to interrupt him in the act of something he /enjoys/." His tones are clipped, formal, a man accustomed to speaking and needing to be understood. Footsteps make oddly distant sounds as he crosses the wooden floor, disappearing completely when he crosses the rug, then resuming their strange echo on the other side, as if coming from far, far away.
He pauses at the foot of the stairs, a look of fear crossing his features as he stares up their murky length. At his side, he squeezes the garden sheers and they snicker-snack twice in succession.
"She promised she would come down when it was ready, dear. And she's not exactly the type one wants to /rush/." A grey eyebrow arches and he turns to regard his wife in the dim light. "Did you give her everything she requested. /Exactly/ as she requested it?"
The man's question causes a long, drawn sigh to pour out with such gravitas that it seems to almost condense in the air before her face. "Of course I did," she replies with quiet melancholy. "Like every time before." Her eyes remain fixed upon the stairs; the hand that hangs at her side twitches before moving blindly to see out her husband's coolly reassuring grasp.
His touch is as cold as his words, but then, so is his wife's skin, so perhaps he doesn't notice. His fingers lace through hers like roots penetrating the seams in a coffin. He pulls her closer and his scent is earthy, perhaps from his work outside. "Still," he murmurs, voice a soft wind, "she has never taken quite so long. Maybe he is growing too strong." The man regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth and he straightens his back even more if such a thing is possible, as if more iron in his spine will produce more in his soul. "I'm sure it will be fine," he adds, though a slight quiver in his voice betrays him.
With a perfectly-timed sense of dramatic irony, a sudden, loud thud shakes the crumbling ceiling and echoes through the house. The woman winces, closes her eyes, hesitates with her foot on the bottom step and murmurs, "It's my turn, I know. But would you fetch the candles and the herbs?" Her expression, when she looks to her husband, is soft and fearful; the severe woman who wound her hair into a businesslike bun that morning has evaporated into thin air.
Responding with actions, rather than words, the man walks stiffly from the room, disappearing around the corner. There is a sound of objects shifting slightly, as if he were searching through rubble rather than a drawer. It must be the drawer, however; he returns a moment later with two candles that have been burnt halfway, their shafts knobby with the ooze of a prior melting. In his other hand he no longer carries the shears. Instead, a small sachet of strong smelling leaves is clutched. As he hands it over he adopts a look of forced nonchalance. "Shall I go with you, my daisy?" It is a nickname that has long lost its affection. And yet, the offer is real.
A long, jarring scream echoes through the house, almost like a breath of memory more than a cry made in that place, at that moment. And yet the woman's eyes screw up tight at the sound, tears beading from their corners. "Nay, husband," she whispers finally, taking the two half-burned tuppenny-tallows and the precious sachet from his trembling fingers.
She pauses there, on the bottom step, as if summoning her nerve - there will be no surprises beyond her continuing astonishment at being able to withstand such punishment as this when she reaches the top of the stairs. There comes a break in the rain, and the darkness of the house lifts a little as the sun threatens to break through the clouds. "I'd best go," mutters the woman, lifting her long skirt with one shaking hand. "There isn't much time."
And then a peculiar thing happens; she mounts the stairs effortlessly, without having to side-step or seemingly avoid any of the broken treads or shattered steps. Indeed, in one section, the stairs have fallen in completely, and she simply continues her climb as if the stairwell was in perfect repair.
"Anetha!"
Her name, coming from his lips, sounds curiously like the sound of a tree branch scraping the house in the storm-breeze. As if in response, the house shakes violently and the scream sounds again, part-anguish, part-memory. A crow, taking shelter in the eaves of the house leaves with a loud flapping of onyx wings, heedless of the rain. Little motes of dust float in the air and obscure his face for a moment.
"I don't think…" A loud cracking sound, sharp as thunder rends the air.
From the floor above come sounds of a struggle, as if an epic battle is being waged on an intimate scale. Following the bangs and crashes, there is a long moment of silence, and then a girl's voice can be heard quietly sobbing. Moments pass and the sound does not abate. Instead, it is joined by the sound of chanting; a gutteral, feral mantra being repeated over and over in low tones that, perhaps, disguise a new battle, this time against a rising hysteria. A heavy thud marks the end of all sounds in the house except the slowly rhythmic tapping of leather-heeled shoes on a wooden floor.
The woman appears at the top of the stars. Her apron is torn, her hair is in great disarray, her face is suddenly ashen with age. "It is done," she murmurs, steeling herself against the flood of tears that wells inside as she grips a handrail that no longer exists and descends the stairs.
"Done," the man repeats in a dusty whisper. With slow, precise steps he climbs the stairs to stand next to his wife, pale and silent. There is nothing now but the sound of the rain drumming overhead to be heard and it too seems to be fading as the drops lessen. Outside, the afternoon light appears to be growing stronger, winning its battle against the clouds.
His hand seeks his wife's, his eyes sad. "At what cost," he wonders out loud.
"The same cost as ever," she murmurs, her fingers entwining with her husband's. Her free hand smoothes over her apron and tucks her hair back into place. "It's time," she murmurs with relief as the rain lets up, turning to kiss her husband gently on the lips. As their kiss connects, the sun finally makes good its break from behind the clouds, its salubrious clarity returning life and colour to the world - but not the struggling garden beyond the doors of the house.
As the burgeoning rays make their way into the dark reaches of the crumbling house, the husband and his wife clasp their hands tightly. The beams creep steadily over the faded rug to where the couple stand silent. And as the light finds them, they, too, begin to fade together out of existence.
Until, that is, the next time there comes another rainy summer's afternoon.
