She was a hungry ghost. One of the new ones that modern medicine so blindly made. Transplants after an untimely death, of vital organs still with a spark of life, seemed a blessing and little else. She’d signed the donor card willingly, a generous girl at heart. And then the motor accident, and then her liver taken from her, to save another.
And that should have been that, but she didn’t know, and they didn’t know, what the loss on the material level meant on the immaterial.
Her earthly form reflect the numinous spiritual body, and now it was broken apart, not whole. And that made her hungry. A hungry ghost.
The road to hell is indeed pathed with good intentions.
She’s one of many, haunting hospitals mostly, though sometimes also in other places, darker places, where the harvesting of organs comes before a death caused by ill-prepared physicians for black market activities.
It doesn’t matter, though, how they are made, it only matters that they are.
Hungry ghosts have to feed, they have to try to spiritually ingest back what they have lost. So others die in the hospital wards, or in the back alleys of disrepute. And it just looks like medical failings, nothing supernatural.
They don’t see her feeding. They don’t see any of them feast. But feed they must, creating more of their kind, until, perhaps there is no-one left, and nothing but hungry ghosts.
And then we will all starve.
(c) Helen M Valentina 2016