ã€ŠLingeringã€‹


 Chapter 1

    As a large vehicle with heavy crates tied to its roof parked in front of 37 Muriel Greenwood Street in the picturesque town of Strona, several passers-by could catch sight of the young man who stepped out from the passenger¡¯s seat. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, dressed casually but tastefully, conventionally handsome.

    Those same passers-by would probably never imagine that they were looking at a retired spiritual investigator. His name was Isaiah Hargraves, and Strona was to be his new home after eight years of dedicated work in the capital.

    There¡¯s an old saying in these parts that goes ¡°they¡¯d help an ant cross a boulevard¡±, no doubt referring to someone kindhearted enough to even entertain the idea of doing such a thing. Isaiah would probably build a special path just for the ants. He was one of those invaluable people who are driven solely by their motivation to change the world for the better, one small step at a time. Unsurprisingly, his immense efforts went beyond what was required by his calling, for better or worse. The ¡°worse¡± came into play a lot sooner than it should have: after suffering serious consequences in the aftermath of a particularly difficult case, he was sent to retirement by his commanding officers. It was meant to be a reward, a lifetime of guaranteed leisure at the government¡¯s expense as a way of paying him back for his services. But for Isaiah, it almost felt like a punishment. More than anything else in the world, he longed to be useful.

    A plump man wiggled out from the driver¡¯s seat. Whistling a jolly tune, he began to unfasten the binds holding the crates in place. Isaiah picked one up and entered the building, followed by his husband Nigel. The two of them slowly climbed up flights of old marble stairs until they reached the third floor. Panting, Nigel put down the crate and began to search his pockets for the keys of their new apartment.

    After an all too long rummage through every pocket on his person, he found them and began to unlock the door. Sure enough, the doors of both other apartments on the same floor opened, their tenants peeking into the hallway, curious as to who was moving in. Isaiah and Nigel turned towards them. One was an ancient looking woman whose big bob of chestnut hair was obviously a very poorly placed wig. The other, their next-door neighbor, was a slightly younger but still wrinkled man. They both stared, the former inquisitively, the latter with a barely concealed annoyance.

    ¡°Don¡¯t do it,¡± Nigel whispered to Isaiah, hardly moving his lips. He knew full well what was coming up.

    ¡°Good day! Pleased to meet you!¡± Isaiah greeted the oldies cheerfully. ¡°I¡¯m Isaiah and this is my husband Nigel, we¡¯re your new neighbors.¡±

    The woman just gasped and shut her door at lightning speed, as if startled. The man just mumbled something incomprehensible with disgust clearly written on his face, and slowly closed his door.

    ¡°I told you not to do it,¡± Nigel said with a sigh as he picked the crate back up and walked into the apartment.

    They were used to situations like this, unfortunately. It didn¡¯t happen too often in the capital, but there were people who reacted to their presence with disapproval or distaste. For Isaiah, this always led to a kind of joyless guessing game: what was it that was putting them off? Was it his dark skin, or the fact that he was married to a man?

    ¡°Come on, darlin¡¯,¡± Nigel called him from inside. ¡°Bring that box in so we can go get the rest of the stuff.¡±

    Isaiah walked into a small hallway that led to the living area. Putting down the crate, he took in the surroundings. It was a spacious room with huge windows and a gorgeous chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There were still things lying around that needed to be cleared out, but overall, it felt like a good place to call home.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    After several trips downstairs and back again, most of their luggage was in their new flat. But just as they were about to go pick up the last of the crates, Isaiah felt a sudden sharp pain in his left calf. It made him audibly wince, and though he tried to downplay it, Nigel noticed.

    ¡°Is it hurting again?¡± he asked, concerned.

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± Isaiah answered. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    Nigel walked up to him, placing his hands on his husband¡¯s shoulders.

    ¡°It¡¯s ok,¡± he said gently. ¡°Stay here and take it easy, I¡¯ll get the landlord to help me with the last crate.¡±

    Normally, Isaiah would try to resist, but the pain was so strong that he didn¡¯t have it in him to try to play hero.

    As Nigel¡¯s footsteps echoed down the stairs, Isaiah started limping over to the sofa. But just as he was about to sit down, an intense feeling took hold of him. This time it wasn¡¯t pain, but a sense of unease, similar to what one might feel when they can¡¯t see anything in the dark but are aware that there¡¯s something there. A heavy presence was in the room with him, clinging stubbornly to an object. In his head, he heard a faint echo of a voice.

    ¡°I miss you,¡± it said. Then again, slightly clearer: ¡°I miss you.¡±

    It seemed to come from one of the drawers in the lavish dresser standing against the wall behind him. Isaiah approached and opened it. Inside was a bottle of ink, some blank stationary and a cache of old photos. He immediately recognized that one of the photographs was the source of the strange energy.

    He flicked through them, searching for the culprit. Sure enough, he found it. The moment his fingers touched its surface, the unease intensified to the point he could swear that someone was standing right behind him. And in his mind, a voice now spoke clear as day.

    ¡°I miss you.¡±

    ¡°¡­the pipes in the kitchen have been fixed, as you asked,¡± the landlord¡¯s voice faded into Isaiah¡¯s consciousness from the hallway.

    ¡°Thank you so much,¡± Nigel replied. Both men walked into the living room to drop off their crates. Isaiah was still standing and observing the photo in his hands, a class picture of two dozen or so teenage boys posing in their uniforms in front of a serious looking building.

    ¡°Oh, looks like I¡¯ve left some of my memorabilia behind!¡± the landlord exclaimed, noticing Isaiah. ¡°I see you have my class photo from high school. See here, I was quite the looker back in the day.¡±

    ¡°So, this is yours?¡± Isaiah asked, his amiable tone replaced by the cold inquisitiveness of an interrogator.

    ¡°Funny you should ask that!¡± the landlord replied jauntily, seemingly unfazed. ¡°I¡¯d actually lost mine, but someone else left this on a desk so I picked it up. Finders-keepers, I guess. May I?¡±

    Nigel raised an eyebrow as Isaiah handed the photo back, and the landlord took it along with the rest of the ones from the drawer.

    ¡°Guess I¡¯ll take these with me then,¡± he said, collecting them into a neat bunch. ¡°So, how do you fellas like it so far?¡±

    ¡°The flat seems wonderful,¡± Nigel said. ¡°The neighborhood could be better,¡± he followed up with the driest voice imaginable.

    "Oh?¡± the landlord turned towards him, putting the photos down on a table and resting his hands on his hips.

    ¡°Yes, we¡¯re already getting some choice reactions from the dinosaurs living next door.¡±

    ¡°Ah, well, sorry about that,¡± the landlord said, rubbing his nose and looking to the side as if he was embarrassed. ¡°Strona is a bit conventional, you see. But it¡¯s also very peaceful. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll find plenty of things to enjoy here.¡±

    While Nigel and the landlord were talking, Isaiah seized the opportunity to swipe the class photo and hide it under his shirt while no one was watching him. He managed it just before the landlord put his right hand over the stack of photos and checked his wristwatch.

    ¡°Oh, look at the time!¡± he gasped. ¡°Will leave you boys to get settled in. If you need anything just call!¡±

    One energetic slam of the door later and he was gone, leaving the couple alone.

    Nigel looked at Isaiah directly with his impossibly clear blue eyes. ¡°Are you alright?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Of course,¡± Isaiah said, reverting to his usual cheerful self. ¡°Why do you ask?¡±

    ¡°You just seemed off for a bit there,¡± Nigel said, smiling, and the two of them started to unpack.

 Chapter 2

    The night crept up on Isaiah and Nigel, what with all the work they put into unwrapping, unboxing, moving, arranging, and re-arranging. Once they were done for the day, they had just enough energy for a warm shower and a cup of tea, then fell into bed heavy as lead.

    That night, Isaiah had a dream. Except it wasn¡¯t really a dream, rather a memory invading his mind.

    He was behind the wheel of a car, driving down a dirt road through the countryside. The memory was so vivid that he could practically feel the leather on his hands as he observed the rolling hills and greyish-blue skies through the windshield. Eventually, the road terminated in an unmarked dead-end. Isaiah stopped the car, pulled out the ignition key, and turned to the passenger seat. A bespectacled man, just barely in his twenties, was sitting there, with neatly trimmed hair and a hint of a goatee. He turned to face Isaiah, looking slightly nervous.

    ¡°Ready?¡± Isaiah asked, and the young man nodded.

    They got out of the car and began to walk towards the horizon. All around them was raw, untouched nature, lush fields of grass and rugged rocky outcrops. A chilly breeze swept across the landscape; Isaiah could even feel it on his skin. He turned around towards the car: the road they¡¯d driven down stretched infinitely into the distance, not a hint of any human settlement anywhere in sight. It was the perfect place for a nature retreat.

    After a leisurely walk, the two of them reached a particularly secluded spot nestled in between two big boulders. Isaiah sat on one of them and encouraged his companion to do the same. The young man took a moment to observe his surroundings, and then sat down. The two of them were now facing each other.

    ¡°So, Doran,¡± Isaiah said, ¡°how are you feeling today?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a good day, I guess,¡± he replied, turning his head to the side. ¡°I haven¡¯t thought about killing myself yet, so that¡¯s a positive.¡±

    ¡°Have you been doing the things we discussed earlier, to enrich your life?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to, yes. I¡¯ve been reading a lot of books. Taking walks in nature. Making an effort to see my family and friends more often. I¡¯ve even started cooking a bit.¡±

    ¡°And how do you feel during these activities?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ alright, I¡¯d say. I still get oppressive thoughts from time to time, but they start feeling more like intrusions, and not something that I¡¯m obsessing about constantly.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s very good to hear,¡± Isaiah said as Doran smiled meekly. ¡°Have you told anyone you know that you¡¯re in therapy?¡±

    ¡°Not yet,¡± he mumbled. ¡°I¡¯m gathering the courage. I¡¯m still scared to bring those two worlds together¡­ the messy one that¡¯s inside my head and the real one around me. If that makes any sense.¡±

    ¡°It does. You¡¯re dealing with some serious and dark thoughts, and you¡¯re worried that people are going to start defining you through those thoughts if you share them. But if your family and friends love you, and from what you¡¯ve told me there¡¯s no reason to doubt that, then they will react with comfort and support. You won¡¯t have to rely just on me to help you when things get rough.¡±

    Doran turned his head again and his gaze drifted off into the distance. A breeze blew from the direction he was staring at and into his face.

    ¡°It¡¯s weird,¡± he said, stifling a laugh, ¡°but when the wind touches my skin¡­ I feel so alive for some reason.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°Would you like to take a walk now? Enjoy the scenery?¡± Isaiah offered. Doran nodded, and they went for a stroll.

    Walking behind Doran, Isaiah soon came across something that caught his attention. It was a rock. He picked it up. It was heavy in his hand yet shaped and sized well enough for his fingers to grip it properly. It was perfect.

    With quiet steps, Isaiah approached his unsuspecting victim from behind.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever truly thanked you for all your¡­¡±

    Doran didn¡¯t get a chance to finish the sentence. With all his strength, Isaiah planted the rock into the back of his head. His victim immediately yowled in pain, the shock of the impact causing him to fall to his knees.

    Isaiah grabbed him by the collar of his coat and forcedly turned him on his back. He was now lying on the grass, looking up at Isaiah with an utterly terrified face.

    A fraction of a second later, Isaiah was kneeling on him, gripping his neck with both hands and pressing tightly on his windpipe. Doran gasped loudly, clearly trying to call for help, but no sound could come out. His hands were desperately flailing around, trying and failing to push Isaiah back or loosen his grip. It was hopeless.

    Isaiah was focused on Doran¡¯s face, not losing sight of it for a moment. It was impossible to describe, torn between the horrifying realization that he was experiencing his last living moments and a crushing sense of betrayal that someone whom he trusted deeply was now doing this to him. It filled Isaiah with a deep joy, a warmth in his chest that started spreading out into the other parts of his body.

    That¡¯s when he woke up. There was no startle or anything like that ¨C he just opened his eyes and returned to the waking world. Outside, it was still pitch dark. Nigel¡¯s deep breathing was the only sound that could be heard.

    Isaiah closed his eyes and tried to comfort himself. He¡¯d had a ritual worked out by now, a set of lines he would repeat in this situation. The dreams were nothing new for him ¨C he was almost getting used to them now.

    As he attempted to go back to sleep, he suddenly heard something else. A voice whispering directly into his mind.

    ¡°I miss you.¡±

    Eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, he could hear it repeated like a broken record. He sat up carefully, so as not to disturb Nigel, and then slowly crept out of bed and into the living room. He slid his hand under the sofa and pulled out the photo ¨C he managed to hide it there when Nigel left him alone in the room during unpacking. As he held it once more and stared at it intently, he could feel the same presence hovering around it, insistently repeating the same three words. His concentration was abruptly broken by a light filling the room from behind him. He turned around to see Nigel standing in the doorway, holding a night lamp.

    ¡°Care to explain to me why you¡¯re sharing a midnight tryst with that photo you thought I didn¡¯t see you nick?¡± Nigel said calmly.

    ¡°This?¡± Isaiah scrambled. ¡°I just¡­ thought it looked nice, that¡¯s all.¡±

    ¡°Isaiah. Darling. Spill it.¡±

    Isaiah sighed deeply, then spoke up.

    ¡°The moment we walked in I could feel a presence here and it led me to the photo¡­¡±

    ¡°Of course! Here we go!¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°How many people do you know that got retired at age 35?¡± Nigel asked. Isaiah just stared at him blankly.

    ¡°There¡¯s men and women out there who would kill to not have to work another day¡­ and yet you can¡¯t seem to let go of your job even when you don¡¯t have to do it anymore!¡± Nigel cried out, his voice caught somewhere between frustration and concern.

    ¡°Nigel,¡± Isaiah said lovingly, trying to douse the flames.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I¡¯m coming off harsh,¡± Nigel pulled back. ¡°But Isaiah¡­ You¡¯ve done so much during your time in service. I¡¯m sure there are officers who haven¡¯t done half as much in their entire careers. And you¡¯ve suffered for it. A lot.¡±

    Tears welled up in Nigel¡¯s eyes and his voice cracked ever so slightly. ¡°Need I remind you how much you suffered?¡±

    Isaiah just stood there in silence, not knowing how to respond.

    ¡°I know you always want to solve every mystery and help as many people as you can,¡± Nigel continued. ¡°That¡¯s part of why I love you. But darling¡­ Don¡¯t you think that you deserve not to think about it anymore?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Isaiah replied.

    ¡°But?¡±

    ¡°How do you know there¡¯s a ¡®but¡¯?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re married, you twat.¡±

    Both of them chuckled.

    ¡°Look¡­¡± Isaiah said, looking into Nigel¡¯s eyes. ¡°Just this one. And then I¡¯ll stop. I promise you. Have I ever broken a promise?¡±

    ¡°Never. Another reason why I love you so much.¡±

    ¡°Then you have my word,¡± Isaiah assured him. ¡°Let this be my last case. This¡­ This is something important, I can feel it.¡±

    Nigel walked up to him, kissed his forehead and took him into a comforting embrace.

    ¡°Time to go back to sleep then,¡± he said. ¡°You need to rest if you¡¯re starting an investigation tomorrow.¡±

 Chapter 3

    One night was all it took for Isaiah and Nigel to start feeling at home in their new flat. Their first morning there began the same way their mornings always do ¨C it was as if they¡¯d never left their old home in the capital. They cuddled for a few minutes after waking up, had coffee in the kitchen and went out for a stroll. As they left Muriel Greenwood street and its residential buildings, the town suddenly opened up before them. Strona was truly a remarkable place, built on a cascading hillside with green mountains rising in the background. Funiculars connected the different levels of the city, constantly going up and down, delivering their precious cargo of people to their intended locations. Trams and cars traversed the streets, rushing past the gorgeous architecture. Each building in Strona seemed to have a story to tell, a history that reached back to far before any of the current citizens were born. Walking down its streets, Isaiah and Nigel couldn¡¯t help but feel like they were sucked into this history, becoming just another small part of a bigger tale that would continue long after they were gone. It was exciting and humbling at the same time.

    On the other hand, they realized that their landlord was right to describe the town as a touch conventional. They never were the type to conceal their emotions in public: it would be abundantly clear to anyone who saw them in the streets that their relationship was a romantic one. And yet, while no one paid much attention to that back where they used to live, in Strona it seemed to genuinely rub some people the wrong way. No one really said or did anything to them during their morning walk, but disapproval occasionally reared its ugly head, be it in an uncomfortably long stare, a hushed gasp or silence that would turn to frantic whispers when they walked by. It wasn¡¯t an ideal situation, but they would have to adapt to it.

    After stopping by a lovely open-air market and making a call in the payphone, they returned home. As Nigel started preparing lunch, Isaiah got down to business. He sat down at the dining room table; in front of him, a notebook and pencil to make notes, and the class photo that was the first lead in his final case. He took it into his hands again, and the same voice repeated the same line from before: ¡°I miss you.¡±

    To you, a whispering photograph might seem unusual. To Isaiah, it was nothing new. He¡¯d encountered similar objects hundreds of times during his career as a spiritual investigator. What he was dealing with was, in technical terms, a lingering spirit ¨C essentially the ghost of a deceased human that decided to stick around in the mortal world for a bit longer by tethering itself to something. Spirits don¡¯t linger unless they have a good reason to do so: nine times out of ten, it¡¯s because the person died with problems unsolved, words unspoken or some other regret or burden pressing down on their heart. Their soul refuses to move on and attaches itself to an object, usually something that has significance or sentimental value to the deceased. It remains like this until it settles its score with the living, after which its bond to the material world is finally broken and it is free to ascend to what people call the Great Beyond.

    Isaiah was able to hear these lingering spirits. It¡¯s not a terribly common gift: by some estimates, only 1 person out of 100 is born with the predisposition for such a talent, and only 1 out of 100 of them will ever actually hone it in such a way to be able to use it deliberately. Isaiah was that one in-ten-thousand. His ability to hear the residual thoughts of these spirits made him of great use in the police force. It goes without saying that people whose lives are taken away from them violently leave plenty of loose ends behinds: they are the ones who most frequently stay lingering, and by listening to them one can often find important clues about their death. Isaiah¡¯s involvement was instrumental in solving many a murder case all over the country, and for this he was considered one of the most valuable members of the capital¡¯s spiritual division.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    The case of the photograph laid out in front of him, however, was not going to be an easy one. To put it simply, lingering spirits tend to be far more talkative than the one clinging to the class picture. They don¡¯t just repeat one line: they share more of their past, sometimes in vivid enough detail that it can be connected to the circumstances of their death. Isaiah had never encountered one that stubbornly stuck to just one sentence. It would indicate a very strong emotional connection with someone still alive, one powerful enough to drown out everything else. Of course, seeing as the photograph was five decades old, the spirit might¡¯ve been holding on in vain, waiting for someone who was long deceased.

    Isaiah jotted this down in his notebook ¨C writing notes always helped him keep track of everything he knew about a particular case. He went on to add some more important observations.

    First of all, the photograph didn¡¯t actually belong to their landlord: he was currently in possession of it, but he found it on a desk where it was left behind by an unknown person. This person was obviously an important piece of the puzzle, but there was no way of knowing their identity for now. The key take-away was that the spirit probably had no connection to their landlord, unless he lied about how he obtained the photo, which Isaiah would have to investigate.

    Secondly, the spirit was most likely either someone in the picture or addressing someone in the picture. The former option necessitated looking into whether any of the people in the photo had died in the meantime, and if so, learning as much as possible about the way they died. The latter option required digging deeper into the men¡¯s connections to others, in order to find out who would miss them and why. These were hardly the only two possible scenarios, but they were the most probable, and it made sense exploring them first.

    Lastly, the voice Isaiah heard in his head belonged to a young male, and the specters of his feelings that survived into the afterlife made it clear that he was missing more than just a passing acquaintance. The strength of the emotion suggested a family member, close friend or romantic partner. People who died in old age couldn¡¯t be the spirit by default ¨C the information pointed to someone whose life was cut short in one way or another, and who cared deeply for someone that outlived them.

    With all his thoughts put to paper, Isaiah was ready for the initial stage of his investigation. He was going to interview his first lead.

    Not long after he collected his thoughts and questions into the notebook, just as the smell of shallots started spreading from the kitchen, there was a knock on the door. Isaiah opened it, and stood face to face with the wide, wrinkled and smiling face of their landlord.

    ¡°Lovely to see you chaps again so soon, we need to make this a daily thing,¡± he said with a laugh, shaking Isaiah¡¯s hand vigorously. ¡°Something smells good!¡±

    ¡°You can stay for lunch if you¡¯d like!¡± Nigel called from the kitchen.

    ¡°¡¯Fraid I can¡¯t do that, the missus has me running a few errands after this, so I can¡¯t stay long. Now, what did you want to talk to me about?¡±

    Isaiah showed him to the dining room and offered him a seat opposite to himself. Sure enough, as the landlord placed his corpulent frame into the chair, he noticed his class photo on the table.

    ¡°Well I¡¯ll be,¡± the landlord said as he laid eyes on his photograph. ¡°I could¡¯ve sworn that I took this with me yesterday.¡±

    ¡°You did, kind of,¡± Isaiah said repentantly, scratching the back of his head. ¡°I took it before you left and hid it away. I¡¯m sorry I did that; I should¡¯ve just asked you for it.¡±

    ¡°Why would you take it?¡± the landlord raised an eyebrow. ¡°Oh gods, you¡¯re not one of those ¡®uns who get a kick out of stealing things, are you? Because I can¡¯t deal with that again!¡±

    ¡°Heavens no! There¡¯s a lingering spirit around it. That¡¯s what caught my attention.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± the landlord perked up, and then took the photo into his hands, gazing into it as Isaiah¡¯s words sank in. ¡°Oh.¡±

    A complete silence took over, as if the room itself was anticipating for the interview to begin.

 Chapter 4

    The landlord stared at the photograph intently, his eyebrows furrowed, his thick fingers feeling its texture. He seemed to be trying to peer into something beyond the physical object he was holding.

    ¡°I don¡¯t feel anything,¡± he said after a brief pause, somewhat anticlimactically.

    ¡°That¡¯s to be expected,¡± Isaiah answered. ¡°As you know, the ability to sense spiritual phenomena is quite rare. As someone who does not possess this ability, the only way you would feel something is if you were the person that the lingering spirit was addressing. If you don¡¯t feel anything, that¡¯s already an important clue for me.¡±

    ¡°Clue?¡± the landlord said inquisitively, hunching forward.

    ¡°I decided to take it on myself to solve this case. To find out who this spirit was, how they died, and to set them free. My last case before going into the Great Beyond of retirement.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think your husband would be all too happy with that,¡± the landlord whispered semi-loudly.

    ¡°I¡¯m not!¡± Nigel bellowed cheerfully from the kitchen. ¡°But I love him!¡±

    The large man laughed loudly, filling the room.

    ¡°Well, I think this is all very interesting!¡± he said excitedly. ¡°Like I¡¯ve suddenly been dragged into the plot of a mystery novel!¡±

    ¡°Yes, well,¡± Isaiah began to steer the conversation onto the desired track. ¡°This is why I called you today. I was hoping you could answer some questions for me, seeing as you¡¯re currently the owner of the photo. It will help me a lot if you cooperate.¡±

    ¡°So, an interrogation?¡± the landlord said with barely concealed glee.

    ¡°It¡¯s more of an interview, since you¡¯re not a suspect.¡±

    ¡°Ah, true true, makes sense,¡± he nodded. ¡°Of course, dear boy, I¡¯ll answer to the best of my ability! Fire away.¡±

    Isaiah opened his notebook, glanced over his notes briefly, and then turned to his interviewee.

    ¡°Mr. Hudge¡­¡± he began somewhat hesitantly.

    ¡°Bubba will do.¡±

    ¡°Alright, Bubba. First of all, can you tell me a bit about the circumstances of the photo? Where and when it was taken, things like that.¡±

    ¡°Ah, of course,¡± Bubba nodded, suddenly taking a more serious tone, like an enthusiastic child trying to play his role perfectly. ¡°My memory¡¯s obviously getting a little spotty these days, but this was taken¡­ I was fifteen, so that would make it exactly fifty years ago. We were standing in front of the entrance to our school, Gresham Barlow Academy.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an all-boys school?¡±

    ¡°That it is. For boys whose daddies have deep pockets if you know what I mean.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Isaiah jotted down a few lines. ¡°Now, let me just confirm this: you found this photo in school?¡±

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s correct,¡± Bubba leaned back, crossing his hands over his chest. ¡°Me and the lads were walking into an empty classroom where we had our next lesson and I just noticed it on one of the desks.¡±

    ¡°You have no idea who left it?¡±

    ¡°None, I¡¯m afraid. It could have been literally anyone.¡±

    ¡°I thought as much, but it didn¡¯t hurt to ask,¡± Isaiah said and sighed. ¡°Alright, now I would like to tell you a few things about this spirit. It¡¯s a young man, aged 15 to 35 if I were to take a guess. He¡¯s repeating ¡®I miss you¡¯, and the lingering emotions strongly suggest that he¡¯s addressing someone he was really close to in life. With that in mind, I would now like to ask you some questions about your classmates.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    Bubba nodded, and Isaiah proceeded.

    ¡°Firstly, and I¡¯m sorry if I¡¯m putting this a little too bluntly, but has anyone in this photo died while they were in the age range that I mentioned?¡±

    ¡°Heh,¡± Bubba hunched forward to look at the photo closely. ¡°No need to apologize. You¡¯ll see yourself when you get to my age: death stops feeling like this huge terror looming over your future and more like a natural part of life. You sort of start embracing it,¡± he said pensively, in stark contrast to his usually ebullient persona.

    ¡°Let¡¯s see,¡± he started scanning the rows of uniformed boys left to right. ¡°Well, the one that comes right to mind is Harlan Douglas. Him, right there,¡± he pointed to a light-haired boy in the first row, with uncharacteristically dark and strong facial hair for someone aged fifteen. ¡°Puberty did a real number on him, eh?¡±

    ¡°Can you tell me about his death?¡± Isaiah pressed.

    ¡°Eh¡­¡± Bubba sighed heavily. ¡°Harlan had a heart of gold, but his parents done and screwed him up for life. They were building him up from the day he was born to be a doctor, and he was constantly buckling under pressure. He seemed to be doing better after graduation, he really did. I went to his wedding you know. Wonderful lass that wife of his, what was her name¡­ Something to do with royalty¡­¡± he stroked his chin.

    ¡°Princess? No, that can¡¯t be it¡­¡± he kept thinking. ¡°Queenie, that¡¯s it. Poor Queenie Douglas. You could see it in her eyes, she loved every inch of him. And he seemed happy, for the first time ever. I thought ¡®well it¡¯s finally starting to look up for the guy.¡¯ Then one day he just killed himself and that was the end of that.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± Isaiah said, his eyes frowning.

    ¡°As was I,¡± Bubba added, his voice once again growing hushed and solemn. ¡°Guess he was still hurting even then. He just got better at hiding it.¡±

    Silence took over for a few minutes. Bubba seemed like he needed some time to rearrange his thoughts, and Isaiah didn¡¯t want to push him. He wrote down everything though. Harlan Douglas seemed like an obvious early candidate to be the lingering spirit.

    ¡°As far as anyone else dying before their time,¡± Bubba continued, ¡°I¡¯ve no recollection. But I do think there¡¯s a few more things that you might need to hear. One of these people went missing.¡±

    Isaiah raised his eyebrows as his landlord¡¯s finger hovered over a tall, skinny lad in the back row, his hair a mess of dark locks.

    ¡°Ezra Rowse. Of the well-known Strona Rowses. The thing is, none of us were particularly close to him. He liked to keep to himself.¡±

    ¡°And you say he went missing?¡±

    ¡°Yes, just didn¡¯t show up in class one day and was never heard from again. It was all over the newspapers when it happened, his dad was a pretty big deal here in Strona.¡±

    ¡°Any idea what might have happened to him?¡±

    ¡°Sorry, m¡¯boy,¡± Bubba just shook his head. ¡°Like I said, I didn¡¯t really know him, and neither did anyone else. I think he had this one friend that he spent all his time with, but that guy wasn¡¯t in our class. I wish I could tell you more.¡±

    ¡°Not at all, what you¡¯ve given me is very useful,¡± Isaiah said as he made more notes. This trail seemed potentially worth following as well ¨C after all, the fact that Ezra Rowse was never found after fifty years implied something darker lurking underneath the surface.

    ¡°Also, there¡¯s him,¡± Bubba said, pointing to a short, meek looking boy with a bowl cut who seemed to have trouble fitting into the single-sized school uniform.

    ¡°Milo Bax. I¡¯ve literally no clue what happened to him. None of us do. Nobody ever saw him after we graduated. He never appeared at any of the anniversary meetings, never got in touch with any of us, nothing. It¡¯s like he disappeared into thin air.¡±

    ¡°Did you have any sort of relationship with him?¡± Isaiah inquired.

    ¡°I was his bodyguard, sort of,¡± Bubba chuckled. ¡°Let¡¯s just say that ol¡¯ Milo was exactly the kind of guy bullies liked to pick on. Me and a few of my other mates stood up for him when he was being pestered by older boys. He was too nice for his own good that kid. Never could bring himself to hate anyone, not even his bullies.¡±

    ¡°Alright, that seems like another name to look into,¡± Isaiah said while nodding. ¡°Anything else?¡±

    ¡°Nothing I¡¯m afraid,¡± Bubba sighed. ¡°The well¡¯s gone dry. If there was something else that might be of use to you, I¡¯ve clearly forgotten it.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve been a great help Bubba,¡± Isaiah smiled and shook his hand. ¡°I have more than enough to get me going.¡±

    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind,¡± he added, ¡°I¡¯d like to keep this photo. If I ever find whomever it is that the spirit is missing, they¡¯ll need to hold the picture in their hands. Once the spirit leaves, I¡¯ll return it to you.¡±

    ¡°Of course!¡± Bubba grinned, returning to his cheerful self. ¡°And do me a favor, keep me in the loop, especially if you find out anything about Milo.¡±

    ¡°You have my word,¡± Isaiah said.

    As Bubba stood up to leave, Nigel popped out of the kitchen holding something wrapped in tinfoil.

    ¡°It¡¯s stuffed baked tomatoes,¡± he said as he handed the package to the landlord. ¡°Thank you for stopping by and say hello to your wife.¡±

    ¡°Huh-hoh,¡± Bubba bellowed. ¡°Might have to visit you two more frequently from now on, eh?¡±

    He thanked Nigel, patted both of them on the shoulder and then bid them farewell.

 Chapter 5

    The night brought Isaiah no peace. Another unwelcome memory wandered into his dreams.

    He found himself in a blind alley on a grim, overcast afternoon. Behind him, a police line made it clear to civilians that they should stay away. To his left and right, his fellow officers from the capital¡¯s spiritual division formed a circle. In the middle of this circle, something was going on. The air crackled with a tense, oppressive energy that seemed to seep into Isaiah¡¯s body through every pore in his skin. It felt like he was actually there, reliving every moment.

    ¡°He¡¯s tethered!¡± one of the officers shouted hoarsely, as if his throat was on fire. Even in the dream, Isaiah could pick out every detail of his face, every inch of which seemed to be sweating bullets. In his hand he held a small metal box which was now shaking like crazy. He threw it onto the cobblestone, where it continued to shudder as if it was a living being caught in some uncontrollable spasm.

    Isaiah and the rest of the team knew that this was the only opportunity they would get. With every fiber of their being, they concentrated on binding the malevolent presence they had surrounded to the metal box. Unfortunately, it was still putting up a fight, struggling and attempting to break loose whenever it sensed an opening.

    Time seemed to warp inside the memory, Isaiah feeling every second like an eternity. After what felt like forever, night fell, and the dream came to the fateful moment when the team of twelve had passed the halfway mark of the sealing procedure, and the spirit¡¯s resistance began to grow weaker.

    In a split second, hindsight flooded into Isaiah¡¯s mind. Maybe it was experience telling him and his teammates that the chance of failure drops to 0.01% once this point is reached. Maybe it was the intense physical toll the whole ordeal took on their bodies. Or maybe their target was just a one-in-a-million freak occurrence. Nevertheless, whatever the cause, at one point when it seemed that the end was in sight, the spirit suddenly broke away completely, causing a shockwave that knocked the whole team to the ground.

    The memory grew eerily quiet, the only sound made by the slithering of the intangible presence that Isaiah could pick up. The crushing weight of realization hung above everyone¡¯s heads: too exhausted to even move, they were potential vessels ripe for the taking.

    ¡°You,¡± Isaiah suddenly heard a voice speaking directly to him. It was sweet and polite and could be easily misconstrued as well-meaning were it not for the unspeakable malice packed into that one simple word.

    ¡°You¡¯re stronger than the others, aren¡¯t you?¡± the voice spoke, as one of the team shouted for backup. ¡°You¡¯ll do.¡±

    Isaiah¡¯s vision went blank, and suddenly he was watching himself from the outside. He could see his own body begin to move against its will, as if it was a marionette controlled by a hidden puppeteer. He started making jerky, wobbly motions, his physical form twisting into deeply unsettling shapes, his muscles tearing, ligaments snapping, bones breaking.

    Then, without a warning, the dream transported him back into his body. He felt as if he was disappearing, his thoughts, memories and beliefs slowly dissolving in a dark, corrosive liquid. He held on desperately to the remaining pieces of himself, refusing to surrender. He knew exactly who he was, what he cared for and what he wanted to do with his life, and he wasn¡¯t about to throw it all away because a spirit wanted to use him for its own vile purposes.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Just as he was gathering all his strength to mount one last defense against his foe, everything suddenly went black.

    That shock finally jolted Isaiah into wakefulness. He literally sat up in his bed, eyes wide open, a cold sweat running down his forehead. Nigel was sitting next to him, his expression silently conveying deep concern.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright, darling,¡± he said gently, taking his husband into his arms. ¡°I¡¯m here.¡±

    Isaiah sank into Nigel¡¯s embrace, shaking like a leaf.

    ¡°It was a bad one,¡± he barely mustered.

    ¡°I know,¡± Nigel replied. ¡°Your squirming woke me up. All I could do¡­¡± he said and then paused, obviously holding back tears.

    ¡°All I could do was watch,¡± he continued, managing to stay collected. ¡°Because I know the doctor said it could get even worse if I try to wake you up.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± Isaiah mumbled.

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Nigel said, kissing his forehead. ¡°It¡¯s not like you can control it.¡±

    After the shock wore off, Isaiah suddenly became aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder blade. It was making him so uncomfortable he had to shift his position.

    ¡°It hurts?¡± Nigel said hurriedly. Isaiah just nodded.

    ¡°Alright,¡± Nigel sighed, and carefully put his husband in a lying position again. ¡°You just stay still, I¡¯ll bring the ointment and make you some tea. Tomorrow you¡¯re going to see the doctor, so it¡¯ll be better.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Isaiah said, and as Nigel left the bedroom, he looked up at the ceiling, staring at it blankly.

    This was his life now. He was sharing his body with an intruder, a foul spirit that could not be fully removed even with all the expertise of the capital¡¯s exorcists. His physical body suffered for it: though the phenomenon is still poorly understood, individuals who manage to recover from possession suffer intense, unpredictable pain in random parts of their body. It¡¯s as if the spirit integrates itself with the brain¡¯s network of nerves and shoots impulses into muscles and organs just to disrupt the daily life of its victim. Worse still, while only a small part of the specter remained in Isaiah¡¯s subconscious, as far as possession is concerned one small part is all it takes. Yes, this tiny spiritual fragment would have a difficult time forcing itself back into Isaiah¡¯s awareness. But if it managed to do so, it would have another shot at taking over the body of its host. To make the situation worse, the probability of it rising to the surface was greatest in situations when Isaiah was highly emotional or stressed, and these are the exact situations where he would be least capable of resisting possession.

    Isaiah cursed that day in the alley ever since. While months of rest and rehabilitation allowed his body to recover, it was clear that he was unable to continue doing his job. The risk was simply too great: anything that would stir his emotions could potentially bring the spirit out, and the outcome would likely be disastrous. The police force discharged him with honors, as if that was any consolation. The event took away the one thing that brought purpose to his life and gave him nothing but grief in return.

    It also forced him to leave his home in the capital. Considering his circumstances, he would need a lifetime of professional help to lead a comfortable life ¨C physical therapy, counselling on demand, periodic check-ups and the like. And it was common knowledge that the best facilities and the most capable experts dealing with spiritual afflictions were located in Strona, the city being something of a sanctuary for people like Isaiah due to its well-developed support network and serene scenery.

    Isaiah and Nigel didn¡¯t want to trade their familiar, friendly environment for a new, at times staunchly conventional one ¨C they had to. For better or worse, 37 Muriel Greenwood Street was now their home.

 Chapter 6

    Two days after relocating to Strona, Isaiah had his first therapy appointment as a citizen of the town. He had visited the local doctors numerous times during his rehabilitation period, but now instead of driving for several hours, all he had to do to see them was to take a tram to St Wilda¡¯s, a medical institution specializing in cases related to spirits. It was a dignified building only a few stations away from his flat, its white and pale blue walls radiating tranquility.

    The day of the appointment didn¡¯t start well. While the ointment helped, the pain in his back did not fully subside, coming and going throughout the early morning and constantly shifting Isaiah between brief bouts of sleep and prolonged periods of blankly gazing at the ceiling. The physical pain felt almost inconsequential compared to the psychological stress brought on by the dream. To put a rotten cherry on top of the garbage pile, the weather was unusually cloudy for spring, exacerbating his bad mood. Nigel¡¯s fluffy strawberry pancakes were the only bright spot in an otherwise unremarkable morning.

    After registering at the main desk of St. Wilda¡¯s, Isaiah made his way up the stairs to the office of doctor Whicket. An unspeakably kind and nurturing woman in her late forties, she was put in charge of his rehabilitation. Every appointment was to start with a check-in to see what problems Isaiah was dealing with, and she would direct him to the appropriate specialists to deal with them separately.

    ¡°Good morning Mr. Hargraves,¡± she said calmly as he entered the room. ¡°Do sit down.¡±

    The experience of being in her office was soothing in itself, stepping through the doorway akin to entering some sort of sanctuary. The walls were covered with bookshelves holding seemingly endless tomes of information. There was little natural light, but lamps bathed the space in a pleasantly dim orange glow. Bowls of chocolates and dried fruits spread their sweet aromas from the large table in the middle of the room. And next to it, the most comfortable couch Isaiah ever had the pleasure of sitting on, reserved for patients. He made himself at home as doctor Whicket brought her notes and planted herself into her armchair.

    ¡°How are you doing today?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Not too well I¡¯m afraid. I¡¯ve got some nasty pain in my left shoulder blade. I¡¯ve also been having bad dreams. Last night was the second one this week.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry to hear that,¡± the doctor said, genuine sympathy in her voice. ¡°Would you like to talk about the dreams?¡±

    ¡°Not a lot to talk about,¡± Isaiah grumbled. ¡°They¡¯re terrible. At least last night it was something from my own life. I really hate it when I dream about his victims.¡±

    ¡°The frequency of the dreams is a bit worrying,¡± Whicket said, cradling her chin with her thumb and index finger. ¡°Have there been any changes in your life these past few days that might be provoking this?¡±

    Isaiah immediately remembered Bubba¡¯s photo. The night after he first laid his hands on it, he dreamt about Doran. The very next day, he relived his worst memory. It was certainly possible that exposure to a lingering spirit might have stirred something inside him.

    ¡°Well, I did just move to a completely new town after spending my whole life in the capital,¡± he said.

    ¡°Empirically, this does not tie in significantly with increased spiritual pains,¡± she replied. ¡°Although our sample size for making such conclusions is admittedly miniscule. Are you sure there isn¡¯t something else?¡±

    The last thing Isaiah wanted was to mention the photo, only to be told that he should stay away from it. But he quickly realized that he was being immature. No matter how invested he was in solving this case, his own well-being had to come first.      If the photograph was getting in the way of that, it had to go. He needed to be content and healthy, both for Nigel and himself.

    ¡°Actually,¡± he started, ¡°I encountered an object that has a lingering spirit attached to it. Maybe that has something to do with it.¡±This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Difficult to say,¡± the doctor sighed. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re tired of me saying this Mr. Hargraves, but I do hope you appreciate what an anomaly you are. A lot of the things you¡¯re dealing with are being recorded for the first time because you¡¯re dealing with them.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an honor,¡± Isaiah said with a weak chuckle.

    ¡°This object, what is it?¡±

    ¡°A photograph. I actually took it upon myself to track down who the lingering spirit is.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t say that I¡¯m too happy to hear that,¡± she frowned. ¡°I understand that your sense of duty and obligation to your work is incredibly strong, and that I can¡¯t expect it to just disappear now that you¡¯ve retired. But I would like to see you take care of yourself more.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my last case,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°I promised it to my husband.¡±

    ¡°That, I¡¯m happy to hear,¡± the doctor smiled. ¡°It means you¡¯ll honor it.¡±

    With that, she jotted down a few more notes and sent Isaiah on his way. On his schedule for the day: a session with his therapist, hydrotherapy for his muscles in general and acupuncture for his shoulder blade specifically, and a check-in with his spiritual counselor to practice mantras to be used in the event of another nightmare. Several hours later, he was done for the day, feeling slightly relieved but knowing that, come next week, he¡¯ll probably have something else that¡¯s going to require attention when he returns to St. Wilda¡¯s. That was just the way his life was now, and he needed to get used to it.

    Upon finishing the appointment, he didn¡¯t go straight home. He had another thing on his to-do list for the day, something related to his investigation.

    Talking to Bubba was all well and fine, but it was only a start. With the information available to him, Isaiah could now dig deeper into the backstories of the people his landlord mentioned, find out if they had surviving relatives or acquaintances in the area and set up more interviews. To do all this, he needed to do what he always did when conducting investigation: look into the town¡¯s public records.

    After descending via the funicular and taking another tram ride, he was now standing in front of Strona¡¯s Archive. It was a somewhat dull, square building located across the city hall on the lowest level of the town. Isaiah had come prepared, notebook and pencil at the ready. Births, deaths, weddings, newspaper articles, phone numbers ¨C all of these could potentially provide useful details.

    The simplicity of the building¡¯s exterior concealed a nearly maze-like structure inside, with dimly lit, carpeted hallways branching out into several directions. The smell of old paper and wood permeated the entire place. Most of what was behind the countless doors was off limits, accessible only under very specific circumstances. Following the labelled arrows on the walls, Isaiah eventually found what he was looking for. A double glass door with a metal sign stating ¡°Public records¡± above it. He ran his fingers through his hair, as if making sure that he was presentable, and then walked in.

    Sitting behind a massive mahogany console, and obviously deeply invested in reading something, was a shriveled looking woman. She wasn¡¯t that old ¨C 50 years tops according to Isaiah¡¯s guess ¨C but she looked like she had spent at least 15 of those years pickling in a jar of vinegar. When Isaiah approached her, she lifted her gaze from the piles of papers she was handling. Behind spectacle lenses the size of small ashtrays, she observed him with her squinty, frowning eyes, her mouth pursed as if she was suckling on something sour.

    ¡°Good day,¡± Isaiah said courteously. ¡°I would like to take a look at the public records.¡±

    ¡°Under what authority?¡± the archiver said curtly.

    ¡°Authority?¡± Isaiah asked, then continued when he realized that he wasn¡¯t going to get a response. ¡°I wasn¡¯t aware that I needed any authorization to view public records.¡±

    ¡°You thought that just anyone can waltz into this place and look at confidential information?¡± she said, her tone becoming snippier.

    ¡°With all due respect, ma¡¯am, I am not asking to view confidential information. I want to look at your public records. Which are, under Line 6, Section 2 of the Information and data collecting act, available to any citizen upon request.¡±

    That seemed to catch her a little off guard, but she parried quickly.

    ¡°So you think you¡¯re familiar with the laws, do you?¡±

    ¡°I should be,¡± he remained calm. ¡°I¡¯ve worked for the capital police for eight years.¡±

    ¡°Well, if you had taken the time to look outside of your backyard,¡± she said with a satisfaction that could not be concealed, ¡°you would know that the municipality of Strona has additional amendments to the Act. Which state that any and all information in the archives is available only to those granted permission.¡±

    ¡°Permission from whom?¡±

    ¡°Does it matter?¡± she hissed. There was more than just your typical public servant sass to her voice at this point.

    ¡°It does,¡± Isaiah pressed on, maintaining his polite tone, ¡°because I need to know who I have to ask in order to be able to enter your archive.¡±

    ¡°Well, if you¡¯re so well acquainted with the laws,¡± she said with a finality, ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll have no problem finding out. Good day to you sir!¡±

    Isaiah just stood in front of her dumbfounded for a second. She returned to her papers, then gave him a piercing look when she noticed he was still there.

    ¡°I said good day!¡±

    That was the end of Isaiah¡¯s first visit to the Archive.

 Chapter 7

    Some people would be discouraged, or even completely put off by the uncooperative archiver in charge of the public records. But Isaiah Hargraves was hardly one to let small obstacles get in his way. The first thing he did after stepping out of the Archive building was to check a nearby public map and locate the police headquarters. Within minutes, he was in the funicular, riding up to the next level of the town, directions scribbled into his notebook. If he was going to ask someone for permission to look at the public records, the police were probably a good place to start.

    When he arrived at the street and number he had jotted down, he had to double check if he was in the right place. Once he confirmed that he was, indeed, standing in front of Strona¡¯s police HQ, his eyes widened with awe.

    The main police building in the capital was a sprawling, newly built structure. Its reflective surfaces and striking glass walls certainly looked modern, but it was all a bit soulless. Imagine then Isaiah¡¯s surprise upon discovering that Strona¡¯s police force got to lounge in a magnificent old edifice, its facades decorated with intricate patterns and gorgeous imagery. An imposing arch towered above the door, a stone eagle¡¯s head proudly protruding from its highest point. Much like a lot of other buildings in Strona, the place breathed history.

    Somewhat warily, Isaiah stepped across the porch and entered a main hall with marble floors and thick pillars supporting a ceiling painted with a breathtaking mural of the nine gods of yore. Behind an intimidating desk that looked more like a barricade sat a gruff looking woman in uniform.

    ¡°Can I help you, sir?¡± she said with a loud, raspy voice while Isaiah was still practically at the entrance.

    ¡°Good day,¡± he greeted her once he reached the desk. ¡°My name is Isaiah Hargraves, and I would like to speak with someone in your spiritual division please.¡±

    ¡°What for?¡± she asked, eyeing him somewhat suspiciously.

    Isaiah sighed and then took a deep breath. ¡°It¡¯s a little complicated, actually. I¡¯m a retired spiritual investigator from the capital, I recently moved here. I¡¯ve taken it upon myself to do some research on a lingering spirit I came across, and to do so I need access to public records. Unfortunately, it¡¯s been denied, so¡­¡±

    ¡°What did you say your name was!?¡± she interrupted him, her face suddenly pale and wide-eyed as if she¡¯d seen a ghost.

    ¡°Isaiah Hargraves, ma¡¯am,¡± he replied, raising an eyebrow.

    The woman just shot up from her chair and quickly picked up the handset of her telephone.

    ¡°Sarratt!¡± she growled into the transmitter. ¡°You have a visitor. No no, you want to see him! I¡¯m bringing him in right now!¡±

    She then stepped out from behind the desk and grabbed Isaiah¡¯s wrist with both of her hardened, lumpy hands.

    ¡°They don¡¯t make much of ¡®em like you these days,¡± she said with an approving smile, vigorously shaking his arm. ¡°Follow me.¡±

    So he did, trying to keep up with her as she stormed past hallways and up staircases, only to reach the spiritual wing on the second floor. She pushed the doors open triumphantly, leading Isaiah into a large room occupied by maybe twenty people working at their desks. Some of them looked up at Isaiah as he walked past them and reacted with the same incredulous shock as the officer at the desk.

    ¡°What the hell is this about, Marrow?¡± a no-nonsense voice barked from behind a large table positioned at the back of the room, facing the desks of all the other officers. The man occupying it was a tall, bespectacled forty-something sporting seemingly permanent bags under his eyes and a three-day stubble.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be worth your time, I promise,¡± officer Marrow shouted as she approached him, looking as smug as someone who¡¯d just discovered something preposterously important, and then stood aside so Isaiah could step forward.

    Uncertain of what he should do or say, Isaiah opened his mouth to introduce himself, but the man at the table just stood up and shot him yet another intense glance.

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re Isaiah Hargraves! The guy who helped catch that bastard Ambrose Annable and then stood your ground when he tried to possess you! You¡¯re only something of a legend around here!¡±

    Isaiah flinched ever so slightly at the mention of his name. He managed to shrug off the unease as the man walked around his desk to give Isaiah a firm handshake.

    ¡°I¡¯m Colin Sarratt, the chief of Strona¡¯s spiritual division. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard this countless times before, but it¡¯s truly an honor to meet you.¡±

    All Isaiah could offer was a confused ¡°thank you?¡± as he returned the gesture. Several of the other officers in the room got up from their desks and started talking, creating a small commotion.

    ¡°Alright, back to work!¡± Sarratt bellowed with an overpowering voice that instantly restored order. ¡°Now then, what brings you all the way here?¡± he said to Isaiah far more calmly.

    ¡°There was something I would like to ask you, if I may.¡±Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Anything,¡± he replied. ¡°Thank you, Marrow.¡±

    It took a few moments for officer Marrow, who was still held rapt by Isaiah¡¯s presence, to recognize she was being addressed. She started awkwardly shifting her eyes from the object of her admiration to chief Sarratt and vice versa.

    ¡°Thank you, Marrow,¡± he repeated, and she just nodded her head and instantly shot out of the room, disappearing into the hallway with near-light speed. Isaiah sat down across chief Sarratt, who silently stared at him with awe.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, noticing that Isaiah was starting to get uncomfortable. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ We all heard so much about the Ambrose Annable case, and the aftermath¡­ I literally cannot believe that you¡¯re sitting across me in the flesh.¡±

    ¡°It was a case like any other,¡± Isaiah said, not sure how to react. ¡°I was doing my job, simple as that.¡±

    ¡°Your humility is admirable, Mr. Hargraves,¡± Sarratt said. ¡°What is it that I can help you with today?¡±

    Isaiah took out Bubba¡¯s school photo and outlined everything, from the presence lingering around it to the details his landlord provided. When the name Milo Bax entered the conversation, the chief seemed to perk up.

    ¡°Did you say Bax!?¡± he said. Isaiah nodded.

    ¡°Bax!¡± Sarratt shouted, leaning slightly to the left in his chair. Isaiah immediately turned around in the same direction, his eyes wide with anticipation.

    A man raised his head in response to the call. He was sitting in the first row of desks, within earshot of Sarratt. He also seemed very unaccustomed to his name being called, looking at the chief with a perplexed face.

    ¡°Do you have anyone named Milo in your family?¡± Sarratt asked.

    The man just shook his head vigorously like a kid caught with their fingers in the cookie jar and went back to work. Isaiah found his reaction slightly suspect, but he just turned around to face the chief again.

    ¡°A lingering spirit indeed,¡± Colin said as he grasped the photo in his hand. After a brief inspection he gave it back to Isaiah, and something unusual happened.

    As Isaiah¡¯s fingers touched the photo, he felt a sensation he had never experienced before. His awareness of the spirit attached to it seemingly became clearer. While he couldn¡¯t see it per se, he could feel it projecting towards somewhere (or something), as if there was a long thread starting from the photo and extending to some distant location. To where, he had no idea: at this point he could only sense the beginning of this strange thread.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Sarratt asked him, and Isaiah snapped back into reality, realizing that he was still holding the photo as if he had just received it.

    ¡°Fine, thank you,¡± he muttered awkwardly, not knowing what to make of what just happened. ¡°Sorry, I just drifted off for a second there¡­¡±

    ¡°All good,¡± Sarratt said sympathetically before taking on a more formal tone. ¡°With all due respect, Mr. Hargraves, I do believe that matters such as this are strictly within our jurisdiction.¡±

    ¡°I understand what you¡¯re saying,¡± Isaiah responded. ¡°But, at the same time, I¡¯m certain that your division has far more pressing work than figuring out the identity of a non-malevolent lingering spirit on a fifty-year-old photograph.¡±

    ¡°And, if I may add,¡± he stressed, ¡°you wouldn¡¯t be handing over this investigation to just anyone. I might not be in the force anymore, but I haven¡¯t lost all my chops.¡±

    ¡°Both of those things are certainly true,¡± Sarratt agreed, his chin resting on his crossed fingers. He was trying to carefully weigh the situation, but the way he saw it, the Strona police had nothing to lose. Worst case scenario, this retired officer wastes some of his own time chasing clues that lead to nowhere. On the other hand, considering his credentials, Isaiah could easily stumble onto something important, perhaps even contribute to an unsolved case. Trust was not an issue ¨C based on word of mouth that spread from the capital, Sarratt knew that Isaiah was reliable and in it for the right reasons. It was essentially a no-brainer decision.

    ¡°You will conduct your investigation relying only on publicly available information?¡± Colin asked as if he was negotiating a deal. Isaiah nodded.

    ¡°And do you promise to involve us if you find something that requires our intervention?¡±

    ¡°You have my word,¡± Isaiah answered.

    A warm smile appeared on Sarratt¡¯s tired face as he shook hands with Isaiah, and then scribbled something on a small piece of paper.

    ¡°This is my private number,¡± he said, handing it over. ¡°If and when you deem that we need to step in, you will call this number and you will tell me directly. I¡¯m putting my trust in your judgement. You¡¯d best not make me regret it,¡± he concluded, and it wasn¡¯t entirely clear if he was trying to encourage or warn. Probably both.

    ¡°Good luck digging up information,¡± Colin said, standing up and preparing to see Isaiah off.

    ¡°Actually, sir, that¡¯s exactly what I wanted to talk about,¡± Isaiah replied. He relayed his experience from the Archive, to which Sarratt reacted with an irritated huff. It seemed he¡¯d heard the story before.

    ¡°Look, between you and me, Melvina, that¡¯s her name¡­ I think she enjoys being a nuisance,¡± he semi-whispered, sitting back down. ¡°She has every line of legislation memorized in that greying head of hers, and she¡¯ll twist it in a way that best suits her. Needless to say, of course anyone can see the public records if they want to. But if she doesn¡¯t want to let you in, she¡¯ll find a way to deny you access.¡±

    ¡°Wonderful,¡± Isaiah replied. ¡°Why me?¡±

    ¡°Eh, who knows¡­¡± Colin responded, and he seemed to cut himself off mid-sentence. For a split second, his lips tightened, and his eyes became somewhat sad. Isaiah knew this face well, for he had seen it many times in people who tried to simultaneously acknowledge and ignore the elephant in the room.

    ¡°Right, it¡¯s because I¡¯m brown,¡± he said, with an air of defeat. It obviously caught Sarratt by surprise, leading him to pause for an instant before grabbing his pen again.

    ¡°Whatever her reasons,¡± he said, gesturing towards one of his officers to come over, ¡°I can help you. Crowe, get me a B-03.¡±

    Officer Crowe nodded, and returned in a few minutes with a form. Sarratt quickly filled it in and signed it, and then handed it to Isaiah.

    ¡°Bax can stamp this for you, you saw where he¡¯s sitting,¡± he said. ¡°Good luck.¡±

    Isaiah thanked him, and then took the document over to the man in the front row.

    ¡°Mr. Bax?¡± Isaiah said as he reached his desk. The guy was staring at his papers, trying desperately to appear so immersed in his work that he didn¡¯t notice anyone approaching.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you¡¯d heard,¡± Isaiah continued, ¡°but I¡¯m conducting an investigation and I¡¯m trying to find people who can provide information about¡­¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing I can tell you,¡± Bax said while still staring at his papers.

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing I can tell you,¡± he repeated, finally looking up, ¡°because I don¡¯t know anything myself. Please, just let me work,¡± he said as he stamped and returned Isaiah¡¯s form. There was definitely something the guy wasn¡¯t letting on, but Isaiah didn¡¯t want to push. He¡¯d gotten what he came here for.

    After having the document stamped and indulging in some chit-chat with a still-starstruck Marrow at the entry desk, Isaiah stepped out onto the streets with a smile.

    He was now authorized, by special permission from the chief of the spiritual division of the Strona police force, to access the city¡¯s public records.

 Chapter 8

    Unfortunately, Isaiah didn¡¯t have a camera with him during his next visit to the Archive, so the memory of the gobsmacked face Melvina made when he returned and handed her the signed authorization he obtained from Colin Sarratt would have to do. She clearly wasn¡¯t expecting it, and she tried to weasel her way out by questioning the authenticity of the document, but she dropped that thought like a hot potato when Isaiah politely suggested to call Sarratt from her phone and have him sort out the situation. It took some effort, but he was now in. Troves of information were now at his fingertips in countless folders, binders, catalogues and microfilms ¨C all he had to do was wade through them to find something useful.

    And yet, the first thing that he wanted to inspect was something entirely unrelated to his case.

    The Archive had, among other things, a full record of ¡°The Courier¡±, Strona¡¯s daily newspaper, available on microfilm. Isaiah scrolled through countless back issues of the publication to reach a very specific date, one he couldn¡¯t forget even if he wanted to.

    And there it was, right on the front page, in grim all-caps lettering. ¡°Capital hero survives possession by monster murderer.¡± Underneath it, side by side and a little too close to each other for comfort, were two photos: one of Isaiah, and the other of an eerily calm Ambrose Annable.

    The article itself could¡¯ve done with improvements to say the least. For one, the journalist claimed that Isaiah ¡°captured¡± Annable, which was stretching the truth. It was a team effort; Isaiah¡¯s abilities were instrumental in bringing the culprit down, but he didn¡¯t ¡°capture¡± him any more or less than any of the other dedicated officers working tirelessly on the case. He also didn¡¯t feel comfortable being hailed as a ¡°hero¡± just for surviving something. In his mind he was simply lucky ¨C that¡¯s all there was to it.

    The article did get something right though: one could scarcely find a better word to describe Ambrose Annable than ¡°monster¡±. He was a counsellor who took advantage of the deep trust his clients placed in him to take them to secluded areas where, he promised, the fresh air and natural landscapes would do wonders for their mental health. There he would subdue and strangle them, taking particular care to be facing his victim, just so he could see their shock and helplessness as someone they relied on for help extinguished the life within them. He was driven purely by a twisted sense of accomplishment, each victim just another number he added to the score he was keeping. Once he was found out, getting a confession out of him was remarkably easy: he recounted his murders with the giddy glee of someone listing personal achievements they were most proud of. For 11 counts of murder, he was sentenced to death and executed swiftly.

    However, the spiritual experts assumed correctly that such a strong drive would not go gentle into the good night after his death. Sure enough, investigators tasked with keeping tabs on him detected a strong malevolent presence soon after his execution. The spirit of Ambrose Annable was skulking around the streets, searching for someone to possess so he could continue his mission. An emergency detainment operation was organized, and this is how Isaiah found himself in that gloomy alley a little over a year ago.

    Isaiah honestly believed that he was incapable of true hatred, but Ambrose Annable made him question that belief. Isaiah had every reason to despise him for taking residence in his body and turning his life upside down. But it went deeper than that. Annable was a man in a unique position to truly make a difference in people¡¯s lives and have a positive impact on the world, but he used this position to do the exact opposite. Isaiah found that unforgivable. Just seeing that man¡¯s photograph nestled so closely to his own unsettled him to his core, because Annable stood against everything Isaiah held dear. To have memories of innocent young lives ruthlessly stamped out before their time forcibly implanted into his dreams was a punishment for Isaiah, one he would have to endure to his dying day.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    Nevertheless, he didn¡¯t come to the Archive to dissect the feelings he harbored towards the parasite in his head. It was time to get to work.

    Over the weeks that followed, Isaiah made several visits to the public records department, patiently searching through anything he felt could be relevant to his investigation. In a way, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but small puzzle pieces would pop up ever so often, making the search worth it. He¡¯d managed to find Harlan Douglas in the wedding registries, confirming that Bubba was correct when he said that his wife¡¯s name was Queenie. A quick search through the phonebooks brought up a Queenie Douglas in Strona, and Isaiah wrote down the phone number. He had also found Harlan¡¯s obituaries in the ¡°The Courier¡±, which helped him uncover the news story reporting on his suicide. The small block of text wasn¡¯t particularly helpful ¨C Isaiah was aware that his best bet was calling Douglas¡¯ widow to see if she would be willing to meet him.

    With Ezra Rowse, he knew to look further back to when Bubba and his class were still teenagers. Eventually, he¡¯d found the newspaper article about the boy gone missing, this time taking up half a page. The very first sentence described Ezra as ¡°son of Elmer Rowse¡±, tipping Isaiah off that his father might¡¯ve been someone important. And he was ¨C Elmer was a war veteran who held an important position in the city council and whose whole family had been actively involved with running Strona for generations. The article seemed to revel in the implication that Ezra had fled his home due to abuse: his father, it appeared, was not a model parent. The phonebook listed a Celia Rowse, and a painstaking trudge through birth records revealed her to be the daughter of Elmer and Davina Rowse ¨C in other words, Ezra¡¯s sister. She was also someone to seek out and ask for an interview.

    The difficult part, then, was finding anything on Milo Bax. Patient digging unearthed his birth record and confirmed he was a student at Gresham Barlow Academy, but true to Bubba¡¯s words he seemed to vanish without a trace after high school. There was no Milo Bax in the phone books, marriage or death records. Isaiah did have a few ideas how this could be possible, but they would be difficult to pursue without more concrete information. Apparently, the last name wasn¡¯t common: the phonebook listed only two Baxes, an Ivor and a Milton. Some cross-referencing with birth records showed that Ivor was Milo¡¯s brother, and Milton was Ivor¡¯s son and Milo¡¯s nephew. Isaiah was reasonably certain that the man who stamped his permission at the police HQ was Milton Bax, which made it all the more frustrating that he wasn¡¯t cooperative. Nevertheless, both numbers were added to the list.

    In between these valuable nuggets of information, however, were excruciatingly long periods spent seeking them out. There were days when Isaiah would go down a particularly deep rabbit hole without finding anything at all ¨C hours spent scrolling down old microfilms of the daily paper or searching through birth records to no avail. The stuff he managed to find filled up maybe three-quarters of a page in his notebook, yet it took around a month to obtain. Some would call it tedious, but Isaiah genuinely enjoyed it. Wading through troves of data to uncover tiny pieces of raw knowledge gave him a genuine sense of accomplishment and gratification. In some alternate reality, he probably would¡¯ve been a first-class scientist.

    Being on the hunt for information meant reorganizing his life around a monotonous schedule. Isaiah¡¯s days during that month were more-or-less the same: waking up in the morning, having breakfast, going to the Archives to get work done and then, depending on the day, going to therapy or taking some time to unwind. Luckily for Isaiah, he had the best ally he could ask for in his husband. Nigel cooked dinner and gave backrubs and assured Isaiah that he was supporting him every step of the way, even on frustrating days when no new info appeared. Nigel was Isaiah¡¯s rock, instrumental in keeping him healthy and content on his journey to solve his last case.

    Those four weeks of information gathering would have been an entirely mundane experience were it not for one thing. At one point, Isaiah realized something rather unusual.

    He was being followed.

 Chapter 9

    Your average person might¡¯ve been completely oblivious to the fact that they were being followed, but Isaiah was perceptive enough to notice the tell-tale signs. The first thing that tipped him off was his intuition, that weird feeling you get when you notice someone behind you who¡¯s keeping their distance far too deliberately, pacing just slowly enough to never overtake you but briskly enough to keep up. Once this feeling repeated several days in a row, Isaiah began to test his suspect by speeding up or slowing down during his walks. Whenever he ran to reach a tram station in time, or decelerated after feigning pain in his legs, he took careful notice of the behavior of the potential stalker. Indeed, the man would always react adequately, so as not to lose or go past him. A few times, Isaiah deliberately strayed from his regular path ¨C he would make sure to ask a stranger for directions, making it seem like he was your regular transplant still unacquainted with the city. After all, there was the possibility that he was simply dealing with someone whose daily route just happened to be nearly identical to his. That the man would always follow Isaiah down these diversions strongly suggested that something more insidious was at play.

    Crucially though, it was easy for Isaiah to recognize the stalker because he was terrible at following. The way he always maintained a nearly constant distance from his subject was too glaring to overlook. He didn¡¯t put much effort into changing his appearance day-to-day. And he was stupidly persistent. After maybe a week of stalking, anyone would conclude that Isaiah had a predictable daily routine ¨C go to the Archive, then to a doctor¡¯s appointment or home. There would¡¯ve been no point in following him after that, and yet the man stuck to it for weeks. If there was an intent to steal or do physical harm, surely he would¡¯ve acted on it as soon as possible. But no, he was just following. More than anything else, it was just annoying.

    One day near the end of his information gathering, Isaiah decided to confront the stalker. While on his regular walk home from the Archive, he made an unexpected detour into a side street, slipping out of view of his pursuer for a moment. He then waited right around the corner for the hapless tracker to make the same turn. It didn¡¯t take long for him to appear. He was clearly expecting to see Isaiah further down the street: he let out an audible gasp of shock when he realized he was suddenly standing face to face with the person he was supposed to hide his presence from.

    ¡°Can I help you?¡± Isaiah said calmly. He was looking at a man not much older than himself wearing a tweed jacket with elbow pads. He obviously wasn¡¯t quick on his feet when caught red-handed, since all his lips could muster was a nervous torrent of meaningless syllables.

    ¡°Let me make this easier on you. I¡¯m almost certain that you¡¯ve been following me for the past few weeks. You can deny it, in which case you¡¯ll have to explain to me why I see you behind me every day without fail. Or you can skip the embarrassment and just tell me why. What¡¯ll it be?¡±

    The man swallowed hard. Now that Isaiah could observe his face closely, he recognized him immediately.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Bax,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°Milton Bax?¡± he pressed on.

    He nodded his head somewhat reluctantly.

    ¡°When I came to the HQ, you made it clear that you wanted no part in whatever I was doing. So why have you been following me all this time then?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°I¡­¡± Milton mumbled. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. But, when you left, and I gave it some thought¡­ I want to find out what happened to Milo¡­ to my uncle.¡±

    ¡°Why did you deny that you were related to him when the chief asked you?¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I guess I just did it instinctively. Because I¡¯ve never actually seen Milo in my life, not even once. So it doesn¡¯t really feel like he¡¯s a part of my family. I told you, I know nothing about him. I think my father knows, but he doesn¡¯t want to tell me. It feels like he¡¯s¡­ ashamed of his brother.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know anything about your uncle, and you wish to remedy that ¨C this, I understand,¡± Isaiah started. ¡°The part where you¡¯re stalking me ¨C that, I don¡¯t understand.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m sorry,¡± he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ I saw you come in that day, and you¡¯re pretty much a hero for everyone in the division. And the way you talked to the chief, so confident¡­ I couldn¡¯t help but overhear your conversation.¡±

    ¡°In my experience, that tends to be a polite way to say you were eavesdropping,¡± Isaiah said.

    He let out yet another defeated ¡°sorry¡±, then continued with a withering voice. ¡°I¡¯ve¡­ I¡¯ve never been like you. Actually, I¡¯m the opposite of you. I¡¯ve been in the force for nearly five years now, but I¡¯ve never accomplished anything worth praising. I¡¯m just¡­ there. Sitting at my desk, filling in forms, waiting for the day to pass so I can go home.¡±

    ¡°But then when you came,¡± he continued, ¡°and told the chief about what you were trying to do, I thought to myself ¡®this could be something big.¡¯ I thought that maybe, if I followed you, I could be a part of it. Not only discover what happened to my uncle¡­ but also achieve something. And then I could finally find out how it feels to be praised for my accomplishment.¡±

    ¡°Sorry to be blunt,¡± Isaiah interrupted him, ¡°but where exactly does accomplishment come in if you¡¯re just shadowing me? Were you planning on absorbing the information I gathered by osmosis?¡±

    Milton just shrugged.

    ¡°I hadn¡¯t thought that part through that well, I guess,¡± he replied, looking down in shame.

    In spite of being stalked by Milton, Isaiah couldn¡¯t help but feel sorry for him. Here was someone who felt so miserable and trapped in his everyday life that he tried to cling, however clumsily, to even the slightest opportunity to feel like he was making a difference. To top it off, he had a personal connection to the case. Isaiah had to empathize. It was always his knee-jerk reaction, for better or worse.

    ¡°Milton. You¡¯re going about this the wrong way,¡± Isaiah said gently. ¡°The only way you can ever feel like you¡¯ve truly achieved something is when you actually put in time and effort to arrive to your goal. There¡¯s no shortcut to it, I¡¯m afraid.¡±

    ¡°I guess,¡± Milton muttered.

    ¡°And if you wanted to be a part of this investigation, all you had to do was ask. It¡¯s not too late to do that now you know,¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Milton sparked up.

    ¡°You can help me with this,¡± Isaiah replied. ¡°We can work on the case together. Whatever we discover about your uncle, and whatever the end result is, we can share the credit. How does that sound?¡±

    Milton stared vacantly at him for a few moments, as if he needed to process what was just said. Then his lips curved into a barely-there smile and he nodded his head.

    And so it was that Isaiah¡¯s stalker unexpectedly turned into his partner for the case.

 Chapter 10

    On that rainy day in late spring, Isaiah woke up to the sound of droplets pounding against the windowpane. He was alone in bed ¨C Nigel had woken up earlier to make breakfast, as per usual. With a yawn and a stretch, he nestled into his blankets and assumed fetal position for a few more minutes, enjoying his first leisurely morning in a while. Now that he was done with the Archive for the time being, he could afford to sleep in a bit.

    He also had Milton as an aide. The two exchanged numbers and agreed to inform each other whenever they made progress on the investigation. Now, Milton was working in the police, so technically he could access all kinds of information that couldn¡¯t be found in the public records ¨C however, Isaiah explicitly forbade him from doing so. He intended to honor his promise to chief Sarratt: confidential info was off limits, even if it was being provided by someone else.

    But Milton had something that Isaiah didn¡¯t: a direct familial connection to one of the boys in the photo. This put him in a far better position to dig out knowledge on Milo Bax, whether by cooperating with his father or going behind his back. So while Isaiah was to contact the surviving family of all three boys he singled out from the photo, Milton was tasked with trying to find something on his uncle specifically. Harlan Douglas was dead and Ezra Rowse was missing, but Milo¡¯s status was entirely up in the air. Putting Milton in charge of gathering info about him was the best course of action. Plus, it also gave him something to do, a way to contribute to the case.

    As he passed by the hallway and entered the dining room, Isaiah could hear the sound of plates and cutlery from the kitchen ¨C breakfast preparations were obviously well underway. On the dining room table, his notebook and pencil lay next to Bubba¡¯s school photo. With slight hesitation, Isaiah picked it up again.

    There it was, that same feeling he experienced sitting at Colin Sarratt¡¯s desk. Only this time, he could swear that the spectral thread stretching from the photograph felt more tangible. He could follow it slightly further into the distance than last time. The spirit, it seemed, was like a spider. With all of its spindly legs, it clasped tightly onto the photo, its presence concentrated on it. But from its abdomen, a long string of cobweb connected it to something else, something far away. And Isaiah had a hunch as to what it might be.

    His deep thought was interrupted by a head peeking through the wall.

    ¡°Good morning!¡± Nigel exclaimed, staring at Isaiah from the kitchen, jolting him back into the real world.

    ¡°I told you not to do that!¡± Isaiah shouted back.

    One of the first things that the couple had noticed when they moved into their new apartment was that, for some unknown reason, there was a small square opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. It quickly became Nigel¡¯s favorite thing about the apartment. If you bent down slightly, you could see into the dining room from the kitchen, and odds are nobody would notice because they¡¯d have no reason to expect a hole in the wall in such a random place. The first time Isaiah saw his husband¡¯s sheepishly smiling, wide-eyed face staring at him through the opening, he let out a less-than-manly yelp that all the neighbors could probably hear. Since then, Nigel would occasionally repeat the prank, much to Isaiah¡¯s chagrin.

    ¡°Here you go!¡± Nigel said cheerily, extending his hand into the dining room to pass Isaiah a mug of hot tea.

    ¡°I married a five-year-old,¡± Isaiah just muttered to himself as he grabbed the mug, took his notebook and sat next to the phone.

    The first person he wanted to call was Ivor Bax. He figured there was no harm in trying to reach out to the man himself, even though Milton would surely be talking to him.

    After several rings, someone picked up the call.

    ¡°Good morning, is this Ivor Bax?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°Yes,¡± a voice answered brusquely.

    ¡°My name is Isaiah Hargraves. I am currently investigating a lingering spirit possessing a school photo from Gresham Barlow Academy. My apologies if this is an inconvenience for you, but I was wondering if I could speak to you about your brother, Milo Bax¡­¡±

    ¡°I have no brother,¡± the voice on the other side said coldly, and the call disconnected before Isaiah could say anything else.

    It was not exactly an encouraging start. Hopefully Ivor would be less curt when Milton asked him about Milo, though it seemed like too much to ask for considering the way he reacted to the call.

    Fortunately, the remaining two conversations proved far more pleasant and fruitful. Celia Rowse and Queenie Douglas all patiently listened to what Isaiah had to say and agreed to cooperate. He would be visiting Queenie later that day, and Celia tomorrow morning. It took a while to get there, but the wheels of the case were finally beginning to turn.

    After having breakfast and spending some quality time with Nigel, Isaiah left the apartment and hitched a ride on the funicular leading to the highest level of the city. There, tucked into a charming small street and nestled between old trees, was the building Queenie Douglas lived in. As he walked up the stairs, Isaiah tried to work out what to say in his head. Getting back into the habit of interviewing made him feel excited and nervous all at once.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Third floor, flat 8. He knocked on the heavy wooden door, which was soon opened by a graceful woman in her sixties. Her long, greyish hair framed a face wrinkled both from smiling and stress.

    ¡°Queenie Douglas?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°Come in dear,¡± she smiled warmly.

    Her apartment was the definition of homely, with pastel orange walls, wooden furniture and well-taken-care-of potted plants everywhere. Isaiah immediately noticed countless photos with her husband ¨C hanging on the walls, in small picture frames on shelves, stacked on tables next to a photo album. Cozy as it was, the whole place seemed to be stuck in the past.

    They sat across each other in the dining room. As she seemed unsure of how to begin the conversation, he spoke first.

    ¡°Thank you for having me here today¡­¡± Isaiah hesitated, unsure of how to address his host.

    ¡°Queenie is fine, dear,¡± she said as she poured him a glass of lemonade.

    ¡°Alright, Queenie. I really appreciate the fact that you¡¯ve agreed to help me. This must be difficult for you.¡±

    She faced away and turned to the window, the sunlight imparting a bright amber hue to her brown eyes.

    ¡°My husband¡­ Harlan¡­ was the only man that I ever loved, Mr. Hargraves. And how I loved him. Every moment of my life was filled with a deep joy simply because I was spending it with him. It would take me an eternity to tell you every reason why he made me feel the way he did.¡±

    ¡°At the same time,¡± she continued with a nearly palpable sorrow, ¡°I felt that he just wasn¡¯t made for this world. He was too smart not to notice all the hopelessness and injustice around him, and too empathetic to not let it get to him. Sometimes just existing seemed to be a huge weight that he couldn¡¯t bear.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°There¡¯s a memory that I will carry with me as long as I live,¡± Queenie said. ¡°The two of us were sitting by a lake at sunset. It was such a breathtaking, beautiful scene, the colors in the sky were truly something else. We both just stared at it silently, my eyes literally ate it up. And out of nowhere, still looking at that incredible image, he just said: ¡®Too often, life feels like a disease that I caught the day I was born.¡¯¡±

    ¡°And he didn¡¯t have to say anything else,¡± her voice cracked. ¡°I just knew. Everything the world had to give, everything I had to give¡­ It was not enough to keep him tethered to this life.¡±

    She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, subduing the wave of emotions that flooded into her. When she turned around to face Isaiah, she seemed calm. It was clear to him that she was used to it. Suppressing her sadness to keep herself sane must have been second nature to her.

    ¡°I understand that you may have something connected to my husband?¡± she asked.

    Isaiah nodded and took the photo from his suitcase. He ignored the filament extending from it into the unknown, only acknowledging to himself that he could now follow it even more into the distance. He then placed the photo on the table in front of him. Queenie¡¯s eyes widened ever so slightly when she laid eyes on a young Harlan.

    ¡°Heh,¡± she let out a brief chuckle. ¡°This was before I knew him. So, this photo is possessed?¡±

    ¡°The most accurate way of putting it is to say that there¡¯s a spirit lingering around it. The photo is a physical anchor of sorts that the spirit is using to stay connected to the material world,¡± Isaiah explained.

    ¡°And this happens when there¡¯s unfinished business, so to speak?¡±

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s the most common reason. If someone leaves this world with a big regret, or something important left unsaid, or just a strong connection to something or someone, chances are their spirit will linger.¡±

    ¡°You¡­ you said it might be my husband?¡± Queenie asked hopefully.

    ¡°It¡¯s a possibility. The spirit is desperately missing someone. With the circumstances of your husband¡¯s death, it¡¯s not unreasonable to assume that it could be him.¡±

    Queenie took another deep breath.

    ¡°What happens if it¡¯s him?¡± she asked. ¡°Will I be able to talk to him?¡±

    ¡°Unfortunately, no,¡± Isaiah replied. ¡°You see, certain people are able to actually experience spirits with their senses. This is why they are often trained to be spiritual investigators. For example, I can hear them. There are people who can smell them, or even see them, although they are truly rare.¡±

    ¡°But,¡± he continued, ¡°99% of the population don¡¯t have this ability. Instead, they have a non-specific reaction to the spirit¡¯s presence. Which is to say, you just feel it, but not with any specific sense. If it¡¯s a loving spirit, you feel something akin to a warmth spreading from your heart all over your body, an all-consuming contentment. If it¡¯s a spirit with a grudge¡­ well, there¡¯s no need to get into that now.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Isaiah said once he noticed Queenie gazing at him somewhat blankly. ¡°I can get carried away when I talk about these technical things.¡±

    ¡°Think nothing of it dear,¡± she responded. ¡°I just never had a chance to hear anything about it before. It¡¯s all a bit too alien to me, that¡¯s all.¡±

    ¡°So, suppose it is Harlan,¡± she said softly. ¡°What happens?¡±

    ¡°His desire of being reunited with you is fulfilled, and his spirit is free to go into the Great Beyond.¡±

    ¡°Are spirits happy there?¡± she asked shakily.

    ¡°The way I see it, they have to be,¡± Isaiah mused. ¡°Think of all the people who die every day. Yet only a small fragment of them ever stays as lingering spirits. Whatever¡¯s on the other side, it¡¯s obviously good enough that most of us never look back.¡±

    Queenie smiled. ¡°That¡¯s oddly comforting,¡± she said, staring pensively at the floor.

    Isaiah slid the photo towards her. After some hesitation, she took it into her hands. The room became eerily silent.

    ¡°Do you feel anything?¡± Isaiah asked gently.

    ¡°No,¡± she replied, and the disappointment in her voice could be hid from no one.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s not him,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡±.

    All the barriers Queenie had built up inside herself seemed to crumble in that instant, as heavy tears started rolling from her eyes. How Isaiah had wished that he could have told her that it was in fact her husband, that he¡¯s telling her that he loves her and that he will always remember her, just to give her some piece of mind. But what would be the point of that? It would make him no different from countless con-artists feigning the ability to speak to the dead, providing hollow comfort to grieving people.

    ¡°I truly am sorry,¡± he said empathically.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright dear,¡± Queenie wiped her tears. ¡°It¡¯s good to know that he already crossed over, that he never looked back as you said. It¡¯s just¡­ It would¡¯ve felt good to know that he was still here because he missed me, that¡¯s all.¡±

    She slid the photo back towards Isaiah.

    ¡°I suppose this means that you need to continue with your investigation,¡± she said.

    ¡°It does,¡± he said politely and got up from his chair. His instinct was correctly telling him that Queenie wanted to be left alone.

    ¡°Good luck,¡± she said. Isaiah thanked her and walked to the door.

    As he closed it behind him, his eyes caught one last glance of Queenie standing in the kitchen, looking out her window, motionless as a statue.

    It was all too easy to imagine her staying like that forever.

 Chapter 11

    Isaiah felt detached, somewhat saddened even on the funicular ride back home from Queenie¡¯s place. Part of it obviously had to do with her story, which was desolate on its own. But it was also what he said to her once she felt nothing after taking the photo in her own hands. ¡°Then it¡¯s not him.¡± In all fairness, he had no right to make such a bold claim. The spirit lingering around the photo may have still been Harlan Douglas ¨C it just wasn¡¯t his wife that he was missing. And yet, Isaiah thought it exceedingly ruthless to share this fact with Queenie. She had just found out that the man she treasured all her life had no desire to reconnect with her after death; telling her that he may have stayed around for someone else would¡¯ve been an arrow to the heart.

    And yet, as the cabin slowly descended past colorful houses in Strona¡¯s old town, that idea began to seem unlikely to Isaiah. By all accounts, Harlan was a loner, an old soul that was too deep in his own troubled world to really forge deep connections with others. At this point, Isaiah felt confident to exclude him as the possible lingering spirit. If he wasn¡¯t missing his wife, the person that he was closest to during his short life, then he probably wasn¡¯t missing anybody else. From what Queenie shared, death was probably liberation for Harlan.

    ¡°Welcome back, darling,¡± Nigel greeted Isaiah the moment he heard the door unlock. ¡°Lunch is ready!¡±

    Isaiah just walked up to the kitchen entrance and stood there quietly. Nigel turned to face his husband, and immediately read his downcast eyes.

    ¡°It didn¡¯t go well?¡± he said tenderly.

    Isaiah didn¡¯t even have to say a word, for Nigel was already at his side, holding his hands. He then felt Isaiah¡¯s arms squeeze tightly around him in the tightest embrace he¡¯d ever felt.

    ¡°I just want you to know that I love you and I can¡¯t imagine this world without you,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°You know that, right?¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± Nigel smiled, and the two of them stood embraced like that for a while, their kitchen turning into a tiny shelter from the reality of the world around them.

    After lunch, Isaiah didn¡¯t really feel like doing anything much for the remainder of the day. A sudden nagging pain appeared in his shoulders, demanding rest. He also needed to recharge for his next interview tomorrow. And he wanted to just be with Nigel and let the hours melt away, which Nigel was all too happy to oblige.

    When the next day came, as clear and sunny as the one before it was gloomy and wet, Isaiah felt prepared for what he had in store. Celia Rowse lived on the same level as he did, and not too far from Muriel Atwood street at that, so he decided to walk there. The wet cobblestone glistened in the sunlight, the gorgeous architecture of Strona reflecting itself in the many puddles. The city looked stunning even when it was soaked.

    Celia¡¯s neighborhood was not quite as charming as Queenie¡¯s. Narrow old houses, some of them with slightly decaying facades, were packed tightly next to each other, within earshot of one of the busier tram lines. There was no greenery to distract from the dull, muted colors. It was the first time Strona had reminded him of the often faceless, sterile conditions in the capital.

    As it turns out, Celia lived in the only house that seemed to stubbornly resist the passage of time. There were no outward signs of damage ¨C its coat of teal paint looked like it could¡¯ve been laid down yesterday. The windows were clean, the shingles on the roof were tidily stacked, and flowers hung from the balcony. The tidiness and attention to aesthetics were reflected in the woman who opened the door: she was wearing a silk house dress with some gorgeous embroidery on the neckline and sleeves. Her jewelry was tasteful, her hair done up in a perfect bun. The wrinkles on her face did their best to show her age, but beneath them one could easily see that she was strikingly beautiful. In her youth she must have been the talk of the town.

    After Celia and Isaiah exchanged pleasantries, she welcomed him into her home. They walked past the staircase into a small living room, where a sofa stood across a glorious old rocking chair. Celia gracefully slid into it, sighing with an obvious relief as she began to sway back and forth.

    ¡°Thank goodness for this chair,¡± she said. ¡°Walking¡¯s not really doing it for me these days I¡¯m afraid. Please, sit down.¡±

    Isaiah settled himself on the sofa, and then explained to Celia why he was there.

    ¡°To tell you the truth, Mr. Hargraves,¡± she said with a bluntness that could easily be mistaken as dismissive, ¡°I¡¯m not really sure why I agreed to talk to you today. Digging up some of the most traumatic events from my past won¡¯t exactly bring me comfort.¡±

    ¡°I guess,¡± she continued, with the faintest tinge of hope, ¡°that I just wanted to believe something good would come out of this. I¡¯ve heard of you, Mr. Hargraves. Don¡¯t think that your story hadn¡¯t made it to our newspapers and radio. That¡¯s really why we¡¯re sitting here now. If anyone else had asked me to do this, I would¡¯ve politely declined. But there¡¯s something about you that makes me think you could genuinely make a difference.¡±

    ¡°Thank you for saying that,¡± Isaiah said, stopping himself before saying anything else. His experience in the Archive made it clear that reports of his involvement in the Ambrose Annable case were slightly embellished, but arguing about the semantics of old newspaper articles would surely make Celia quickly reconsider her decision to accept the interview.

    The conversation then turned to Ezra and the circumstances of his disappearance.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think a day went by that I haven¡¯t missed him,¡± Celia said somberly. ¡°Fifty years of missing someone. You cannot imagine what that must be like.¡±

    ¡°I truly can¡¯t,¡± Isaiah said, just the thought of it making him slightly uneasy.

    ¡°My brother is the most amazing person I know. He¡¯s always polite and respectful, and always willing to see the good in others. He loves to read, and he¡¯s obsessed with poetry. I still have them, notebooks full of poems he wrote. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever mustered the strength to read them though.¡±

    ¡°Can you tell me something about the rest of your family?¡± Isaiah asked, and Celia¡¯s eyes shifted straight to him, as if she knew why he would be asking that question.

    ¡°I have another brother, Clay. Don¡¯t bother seeking him out, he¡¯s a personal advisor to the president of the city council. There¡¯s no way you¡¯d be able to make an appointment, and that¡¯s probably for the best. My husband passed away a few years ago, so now it¡¯s just me and my son Frank. He¡¯s currently an apprentice to my brother. It¡¯s the Rowse tradition to have all the men involved in politics,¡± she scoffed.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    ¡°But let¡¯s get to the real reason why you asked me about my family, Mr. Hargraves,¡± she said with a mixture of contempt and sorrow.

    ¡°There¡¯s really no way of sugarcoating it, so allow me to be blunt,¡± she continued. ¡°Our father was a contemptible human being and a terrible parent.¡±

    ¡°I realize that it¡¯s probably not a conversation topic you enjoy coming back to,¡± Isaiah said tactfully, ¡°but could you tell me a little more about that?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I could talk to you about it all day,¡± Celia said bitterly. ¡°How anger seemed to be the only emotion he wasn¡¯t shy about showing to his family. How we all felt we were secondary players in his life, irrelevant compared to his wretched gun collection. How terrified I was of having so many deadly weapons in our house and how little he seemed to care. How he beat us, all of us, for every perceived wrongdoing¡­¡±

    She choked on her words, and Isaiah could tell she was on the verge of tears. He walked over to her rocking chair and knelt next to her, and then clasped her hand. His instinct was telling him that it was the right thing to do, just as it had told him that Queenie Douglas needed to be left alone.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Celia said with a frail voice, still holding back the tears.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have to continue, Mrs. Rowse,¡± Isaiah said gently. ¡°If you feel like it¡¯s too much for you¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± she replied, somewhat more spryly. ¡°I want you to hear this. I want you to know what a horrible person my father was. Because I¡¯ve been trying to tell everyone I¡¯ve known for as long as I can remember, and yet you¡¯re the first person who wants to listen.¡±

    ¡°I can understand that,¡± Isaiah said reassuringly. And he could ¨C here was a woman who just wanted her story to be heard.

    ¡°Anything you want to say, feel free to say it,¡± he added, and she smiled at him.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to make this about me, Mr. Hargraves. For all the hardship I had to endure growing up, I made it out the other end relatively intact. There¡¯s still a hole inside me that will probably never heal entirely, but at least it¡¯s not the chasm it once was. I filled it with love,¡± she concluded, hopefully. Her eyes moved to a framed photograph hanging on the wall: her, her husband and her son, all looking content.

    ¡°Ezra is the real victim. I want you to know that I blame our father for his running away.¡±

    ¡°If you would feel comfortable talking about that,¡± Isaiah proceeded with caution, ¡°I would like to hear what you would have to say. And please understand that you can absolutely say ¡®no¡¯, alright?¡±

    ¡°My goodness, Mr. Hargraves,¡± Celia couldn¡¯t help but chuckle. ¡°Aren¡¯t you just the sweetest thing? And so good-looking too. I bet you¡¯ve made some lucky lady incredibly happy.¡±

    ¡°A gentleman, actually,¡± Isaiah said blushing. ¡°And I¡¯m the lucky one.¡±

    She put her other hand over his and patted it gently, another smile flitting across her face.

    "I don¡¯t understand why, but my father was always particularly strict with Ezra,¡± she began her story. ¡°Perhaps it was because he was the eldest son and father had high hopes in him being his successor. But Ezra didn¡¯t seem interested in that, and the only way my father knew how to respond to that was with rage. He was violent to all of us, but Ezra seemed to get the brunt of it. I remember all of our arms and backs being covered in bruises. And the worst part of it is, I grew up thinking it was normal. That all families were like that. When I started dating my husband I was shocked that he never beat me,¡± she said with a nervous chortle, realizing the absurdity.

    ¡°One day, though, things got really bad. Father was livid at Ezra. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d ever seen him that angry before or since. To this day, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night when the memory of that face sneaks into my dreams.¡±

    ¡°Do you know what brought that on?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t a clue. Father wouldn¡¯t tell us and Ezra kept it to himself. The thing about my brother is that he¡¯s incredibly kind and loving, but also very private. I always had the feeling that he never opened up about the true extent of his feelings. There was a whole world locked inside him that he never shared with anyone¡±.

    Isaiah nodded. Celia¡¯s words echoed those of Bubba, who said that none of the boys in the class ever really got to know Ezra.

    ¡°The morning after that day, during breakfast,¡± she said grimly, ¡°father told Ezra that he would kill him if he set foot into the house again. I don¡¯t know if he meant it only as a threat, but the way he was looking at Ezra made it clear that he was capable of doing it.¡±

    ¡°Ezra left for school that morning,¡± Celia said with a heavy heart, ¡°and never came back. It was the last time I saw him.¡±

    ¡°I checked the newspapers from that time,¡± Isaiah spoke up again. ¡°The police were searching for him day and night.¡±

    ¡°They were. He¡¯s a Rowse after all,¡± Celia hissed with disdain. ¡°They even told us that someone had seen him before he¡¯d gone missing, a friend of his from school. But in spite of all the effort, Ezra didn¡¯t turn up, and the story just slowly slipped away from the news. The case is still open, but it¡¯s a formality. I feel like I¡¯m the only one who still believes he¡¯s alive.¡±

    ¡°This friend of your brother¡¯s,¡± Isaiah said inquisitively. ¡°Can you tell me more about them?¡±

    ¡°Only that he exists,¡± Celia replied. ¡°Ezra did talk to me about a boy at school that he spent a lot of time with, and it sounded like they were really close. I remember being so happy when I¡¯d heard that because he¡¯d never really had friends before. But I never even learned the name of this boy. That¡¯s Ezra and his tight lips again.¡±

    Isaiah took a moment to make a mental note of all the information he¡¯d heard, and then thanked Celia for her time.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been incredibly helpful Mrs. Rowse,¡± he said as he reached for his suitcase. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, there¡¯s another thing that I would like to ask of you.¡±

    He pulled out Bubba¡¯s school photo and explained everything to Celia. He wanted her to touch it: if the lingering spirit was Ezra, and she was the one he was missing, then that would be that.

    Celia hesitated. She understood full well what it would mean if she did feel something upon touching the photo. It would be a tacit acknowledgment of something she refused to accept as fact, even though all evidence pointed to it.

    She took the photo, and suddenly there was silence.

    Isaiah looked into her eyes, a permanent image of Ezra¡¯s smiling face reflected in them.

    ¡°Do you feel anything similar to what I described?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°I do not,¡± Celia replied. ¡°Nor should I, because that spirit is not my brother. Ezra is still alive.¡±

    Isaiah just gave her an encouraging nod. In a way, it was hard not to admire her relentless optimism. But on the other hand, it was just as hard to ignore the stone-cold facts. If someone went missing fifty years ago and was never heard from again, odds are it¡¯s because there¡¯s no one to hear from.

    But there was no point in saying this to Celia. You could throw all the rational facts in her face and she would still dismiss them, because hope is not a rational thing. And hope was all she had ¨C Isaiah didn¡¯t dare cut that rope.

    ¡°It was a pleasure to meet you,¡± Isaiah said as he stood by the open door, ready to leave.

    "Likewise, Mr. Hargraves,¡± she replied cordially. ¡°If I ever see you again, I hope the occasion will be something far more cheerful.¡±

    ¡°I hope so too,¡± he said, and they parted ways.

 Chapter 12

    It was not an easy couple of days for Isaiah.

    While both women he had talked to were nothing but obliging, hearing their stories was emotionally exhausting. One of them was trapped in a cage of her own memories, left behind as the man she loved escaped the very world they had built their lives in. The other suffered at the hands of an abusive parent and cared for her brother so deeply that she was still holding on tight to the notion that he¡¯s out there somewhere. For someone as compassionate as Isaiah, it was difficult to take these stories as simple facts divorced from their emotional weight. The fates of Queenie Douglas and Celia Rowse were pressing on his heart like a heavy stone. That what he was feeling was only a fraction of the pain they were going through made him feel even worse.

    Add to it, he felt like he wasn¡¯t making much progress. The identity of the lingering spirit was still frustratingly hazy. It could still be Ezra ¨C with how reserved Celia made him out to be, it was easy to imagine that there could be somebody else he was missing. It could definitely be Milo Bax, assuming he was deceased: everything about him was still very much a mystery. Or it could be a completely different person, connected to the photograph in an entirely unexpected way.

    This were the thoughts stewing in Isaiah¡¯s head as he made his way up the stairs of his building, eager to return home. Nigel had left to the farmer¡¯s market not long after Isaiah had gone out. Knowing his meticulousness in picking fresh produce, he was probably not back yet.

    As he reached the third floor, Isaiah noticed his neighbor. The old man who scoffed with disapproval when he and Nigel moved in was standing in front of his door, both his hands holding bags full of groceries. He was attempting to unlock the door while still holding the bags, a feat that would¡¯ve been challenging even for someone with hands far less shaky. The outcome was predictable: he missed the keyhole, the key slipped, and in an attempt to get a hold of it while not dropping the bags he dropped everything and let out an annoyed huff. Oranges, jars, bottles, everything started rolling away from the hapless grump. Admitting defeat, he bent down slowly to start picking things up.

    ¡°Let me help you,¡± Isaiah said, approaching him. The neighbor¡¯s head turned ever so slowly, until Isaiah had one particularly mean eye peering at him.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want your help,¡± the man said coldly.

    ¡°I¡¯m aware of that,¡± Isaiah responded, ¡°but won¡¯t it be much easier for you if I help you?¡±

    ¡°I said I don¡¯t want your help,¡± the neighbor repeated, slight irritation giving way to a more menacing tone.

    ¡°Sir¡­¡± Isaiah began as if he was trying to negotiate, ¡°I know you don¡¯t really think highly of me or my husband, but please don¡¯t be this way. I¡¯m not trying to start up conversation, I¡¯m not expecting us to become friendly. I just want to do something that will make your life better today.¡±

    He reached to pick up one of the bags off the floor, but the man snatched it in a fury. He was now looking directly at Isaiah with unconcealed animosity.

    ¡°Leave me alone you¡­ you¡­¡±

    That last you was packed with so much vitriol and loathing that he didn¡¯t even have to say anything after it. He slammed the door, leaving Isaiah standing in the hall. Keeping him company were all the groceries the man didn¡¯t bother picking up. He would obviously rather leave them to waste than spend another moment in Isaiah¡¯s presence.

    Isaiah¡¯s throat tightened as if there was a physical clump of emotions forming inside it. The thoughts inside his head began to swirl into a nauseating whorl. Somewhere in that vortex, a most disturbing idea was spinning around with all the other feelings of helplessness and sorrow.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Kill him,¡± a voice whispered seductively.

    Isaiah¡¯s heart stopped in his chest and a cold sweat poured out of every pore in his body.

    ¡°Kill him,¡± the voice repeated, this time louder and clearer. ¡°He deserves it.¡±

    Realization spread across Isaiah¡¯s horrified face. The parasite inside him was attempting to seize a chance and take over his body.

    He instantly crouched down and covered his ears with his hands, as if the voice was coming from outside him. He began to do what his therapist advised him to in the event of another attempted possession.

    ¡°My name is Isaiah Hargraves,¡± he said out loud. ¡°I live at Muriel Greenwood 37, third floor, flat 19. I¡¯m 35 years old, I¡¯m married to Nigel Hargraves, my parents are Lydia and Thomas Hargraves.¡±

    He repeated the same sequence of sentences like a mantra, trying to keep himself anchored to who he was. But the spirit had obviously caught him in a very vulnerable moment, which made it more difficult to resist.

    ¡°My name is¡­¡± he began to speak, only to audibly gasp with horror as the voice inside his head spoke with the clarity of someone who was standing beside him.

    ¡°¡­Ambrose Annable,¡± it finished the sentence.

    Tears started sliding down Isaiah¡¯s face, his body shaking. He started over, trying to speak more loudly and ignore the murderous spirit.

    At that moment, in a truly fortuitous turn of events, Nigel walked up the stairs.

    ¡°Hey darling, what¡¯s up?¡± he said as he noticed Isaiah crouching down, surrounded by fruits and containers. It took him a split second to recognize what was happening, drop his bags and rush to Isaiah¡¯s side.

    ¡°My name is Isaiah Hargraves¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes it is!¡± Nigel said tearfully. ¡°And you are my husband. We were married on the beach behind your parents¡¯ house. You wore that purple tuxedo because they didn¡¯t have anything else your size and it was short notice, and you looked so cute even though you didn¡¯t want to wear it! Remember?¡±

    The image cut through the chaos in Isaiah¡¯s head, him in his purple tuxedo and Nigel in his trademark checkered waistcoat, standing against a backdrop of the calmest sea you could ever imagine with the sun slowly approaching the horizon. Just recalling the memory conjured feelings of safety, tranquility and contentment. Isaiah focused on this scene with all his might, still repeating his sentences as Nigel held him tightly in his arms. Soon the voice of Ambrose Annable began to fade, and Isaiah found himself present in the moment. He felt the pounding of his heart, the breeze circulating up the staircase, the warmth of Nigel¡¯s body. He was back in control, out of the woods. For now.

    ¡°I remember,¡± he said to Nigel as he looked deeply into his eyes.

    ¡°Good to have you back,¡± Nigel smiled, wiping away the tears.

    They stayed like that for a little while, crouching in front of their neighbor¡¯s door in a tight embrace. When their emotions settled, they picked up their bags and went back to their apartment. Isaiah insisted on at least huddling the old man¡¯s dropped groceries into a neat pile, but after hearing what happened Nigel felt that he did not deserve the luxury.

    ¡°He can come out and pick them up on his own time,¡± he scoffed as he started putting away the greens he bought at the farmer¡¯s market. ¡°That wrinkly sac of bile should consider himself lucky I wasn¡¯t there.¡±

    The phone rang, and Isaiah answered. The voice on the other end of the line hesitated before stuttering a meek ¡°hello.¡±

    ¡°Hello, Milton,¡± Isaiah replied wearily. ¡°This isn¡¯t really a good time, could you please call a bit later?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve¡­ I¡¯ve been trying to reach you all morning,¡± Milton said with an apologetic tone. ¡°I have information about my uncle.¡±

    Isaiah¡¯s ears perked up. ¡°When are you available to talk about it? I could use a few hours of rest but after that I¡¯m ready when you are.¡±

    ¡°Um, I was wondering if I could come to your place,¡± Milton mumbled. ¡°We could go over each other¡¯s notes and figure out what to do next.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll go through them before we meet,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°I¡¯ll have all the info in my head.¡±

    ¡°Ah, well, er¡­¡± Milton stumbled. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s alright too. It¡¯s just that I¡¯d really like to see all the information you have in writing. Makes it easier for me to remember it like that¡­¡±

    ¡°You can bring paper and a pencil,¡± Isaiah said helpfully, ¡°and write it down as I¡¯m talking.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ true,¡± Milton agreed reluctantly. After that, they decided on a time and place to meet, and the call ended.

    Isaiah couldn¡¯t help but feel suspicious after the conversation. He couldn¡¯t put his finger on it, but something felt off.

    The purpose of his meeting with Milton would be to discover what exactly.

 Chapter 13

    As always, Isaiah arrived at the meet-up spot early. He was sitting in a lovely caf¨¦ snuggled deep inside one of the labyrinthine narrow streets spreading from Serenity square, the main public forum of Strona. Through the window he could see people going about their everyday lives, many of them carrying bags with a stylized uppercase M ¨C this, as Isaiah learned, being the logo of Mills¡¯, Strona¡¯s own chain of large department stores, the largest of which was situated near the square itself. He went there with Nigel once, and they were left gobsmacked by the sheer variety of merchandise available. There were exotic fruits and vegetables neither of them could name, a luxury that came at a predictably exorbitant price.

    Isaiah¡¯s caramel tea was already starting to cool when Milton walked into the caf¨¦, looking as high-strung and bashful as when he¡¯d last seen him. He scanned the interior, then noticed Isaiah¡¯s raised hand and dawdled up to the table.

    ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late,¡± he said quietly as he sat down.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± Isaiah shrugged it off. ¡°What¡¯ll you have?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t have to get anything,¡± Milton replied, as if he thought that ordering something would be an inconvenience.

    ¡°Nonsense, it¡¯s my treat,¡± Isaiah smiled.

    After Milton was finally convinced to have a lemon and ginger tea, the two of them got down to business.

    ¡°You said you had something important to tell me about Milo Bax?¡± Isaiah began.

    ¡°Yes¡­¡± Milton said in a hushed voice. ¡°It took me a while, but my father finally agreed to talk to me about him.¡±

    ¡°How did you manage that?¡± Isaiah was curious. ¡°My phone call with him lasted all of two seconds.¡±

    ¡°That sounds like him,¡± Milton said, slightly unnerved. ¡°My father is a¡­ difficult man. But even he could understand that I was coming from an honest place. Milo is my closest relative outside of my parents. I wanted to know his story.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Isaiah answered. ¡°So, what happened with Milo after graduation?¡±

    ¡°Unfortunately, he, er¡­ fell into some very bad company,¡± Milton said. ¡°He started using, and then eventually selling opiates on the black market. My father remembered him frequenting a disgusting tavern. He went in there to take him home one day. When he saw the kind of clientele they had, and how chummy they were with his brother¡­ well, he just put two and two together.¡±

    ¡°This tavern, where is it?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°I, er¡­ I actually went there,¡± Milton said shyly. ¡°I feel like I¡¯ll need to be scrubbed with a brush for weeks just to get the sleaziness out of me, but it was worth it. The guy who owns it doubles as a dealer under the counter. He knew Milo and his crowd from way back in the days. They brought good business.¡±

    ¡°Just how old is this man?¡±

    ¡°I would say¡­ mid-seventies?¡± Milton guessed. ¡°He very much looks the part. If he weren¡¯t selling drugs in a sketchy bar, I could easily imagine him as a pirate or something.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s been at this for more than half a century now and he hasn¡¯t been busted yet?¡± Isaiah asked incredulously.

    ¡°Well,¡± Milton turned around nervously, ¡°he did mention that the police often turn a blind eye because he makes it worth their while. If you know what I mean. That¡¯s why he was comfortable talking to me about it. ¡®Doesn¡¯t matter if you tell anyone what you heard¡¯, he said. ¡®I have friends in high places.¡¯¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± Isaiah nodded. ¡°And how exactly did he know that the person you were asking about was the same person that helped his buisiness all those years ago?¡±

    ¡°I actually showed him a photo of Milo,¡± Milton said. ¡°I¡¯d found it in the yearbooks of Gresham Barlow Academy ¨C they¡¯re available in the library, so there was no need to involve the Archive. I checked out the yearbook and brought it with me.¡±

    ¡°That was clever of you,¡± Isaiah grinned, and Milton just turned to the side and blushed. He was clearly not used to receiving compliments.

    ¡°Anyway, he remembered Milo, or ¡®Baxter¡¯ as they called him then,¡± Milton continued. ¡°His group frequented the bar, so he often had contact with them. He was the one who told me what happened to Milo.¡±

    ¡°And?¡± Isaiah said, nearly on the edge of his chair.

    ¡°He died,¡± Milton said awkwardly. ¡°He just didn¡¯t appear one day, and when the owner talked to the rest of the group, he found out that Milo took some pretty bad stuff and overdosed. There was no saving him.¡±

    ¡°He died?¡±, Isaiah repeated wide-eyed. ¡°That¡­ doesn¡¯t make sense. A lot of it doesn¡¯t make sense, actually.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Milton asked, sipping from a shaky teacup.

    ¡°One of the first things I checked in the Archive were death records. There is no record of a deceased person named Milo Bax. I checked thoroughly. Three times.¡±

    ¡°Well, he did overdose on drugs¡­¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s irrelevant. He didn¡¯t just disappear when he took the drug. He was only out of high school at the time ¨C surely his family would notice he was gone. They would inform the police, who would inform the doctors, who would determine the death and its cause. It would be very difficult for a young adult¡¯s death by overdose to escape the records.¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡°The thing is,¡± Milton said wearily. ¡°My grandparents¡­ and my father¡­ they gave up on Milo at that point. They essentially disowned him. My father said that his parents knew that he was dead the moment he didn¡¯t return home one that day.¡±

    ¡°And they never filed a missing person report?¡± Isaiah said with disbelief. Milton just shook his head.

    ¡°That¡¯s very hard to believe, Milton,¡± Isaiah recoiled with disgust. ¡°Nobody¡¯s that cold.¡±

    Milton just stared into space silently.

    ¡°The information you have sounds very suspect,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°There was nothing to point to where Milo is now. No death record, no missing person report, no story in the news. That¡¯s what made his case so difficult. For you to give me such a clear, conclusive explanation¡­ It doesn¡¯t add up.¡±

    ¡°Secondly,¡± Isaiah added, ¡°I spoke to someone who knew Milo personally during his Academy days. The Milo from that story doesn¡¯t sound like the type of person who would get involved with opiates and illegal activities. The profiles don¡¯t match up.¡±

    Milton lowered his head, looking like a child that had just been chastised.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t tell me that,¡± he mumbled.

    ¡°Pardon?¡± Isaiah asked, raising an eyebrow.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t tell me you talked to someone who knew Milo,¡± Milton said more clearly. ¡°And that you had an idea of his personality.¡±

    ¡°I fail to see why this would be relevant,¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°Well, if I had seen your notes beforehand, I might¡¯ve done things differently. It would¡¯ve changed the type of questions I¡¯d be asking¡­¡±

    ¡°But it wouldn¡¯t have changed the answers you got, Milton,¡± Isaiah interrupted him, still unflustered but slightly apprehensive. ¡°That bar owner would have told you what he knew about Milo no matter what you read in my notes. I¡¯m not sure I really understand what you¡¯re going for or why my notes are important here.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right¡­ I suppose,¡± Milton said, lowering his head again.

    Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Isaiah leaned back into his chair, resting his chin on his crossed fingers. Something definitely wasn¡¯t adding up in Milton¡¯s story.

    ¡°I¡¯d like¡­¡± Milton spoke up before Isaiah could say anything. ¡°I¡¯d like to see the photo with the lingering spirit.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± Isaiah asked plainly.

    ¡°I can sense spirits too,¡± he said bashfully. ¡°If I touch the photo, perhaps I could give you a different kind of insight. Everyone senses spirits differently, after all. Maybe I would pick up on something you didn¡¯t.¡±

    Isaiah furrowed his brow.

    Milton had a point there. If you gave two people a slice of the same strawberry cake, or played them a recording of the same song, their experiences would significantly differ. In much the same way, an individual¡¯s impression of a spirit was just that ¨C individual. Different people would get different vibes from the same phenomenon, and it would make sense to allow another spiritualist to give their take on the photo.

    On the other hand, the conversation was starting to rub Isaiah the wrong way. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure if Milton had said that because he thought it would help solving the case, or if he said it just because it was the right thing to say in order to pursue some ulterior motive.

    ¡°We could definitely meet again and I could bring the photo with me,¡± Isaiah agreed.

    ¡°Can we do it now? I could come with you to your place and you could show it to me right away.¡±

    ¡°Are you in some kind of hurry?¡± Isaiah asked calmly, and Milton suddenly did the last thing Isaiah expected him to.

    He banged his fists against the table, causing some of the patrons to turn around and gawk at the scene. It was such an unusual sight, this retiring, quiet young man suddenly doing something so brash and attention-grabbing.

    ¡°You don¡¯t understand at all,¡± Milton squeezed through his teeth. ¡°This¡­ This is all I have. My only chance to make something of myself. So¡­ please excuse me if my heart and soul is in it completely.¡±

    ¡°Milton,¡± Isaiah said while looking straight into his eyes. ¡°You cannot allow your sense of value to hinge on something external like professional achievement. You have your own value because you¡¯re you. You¡¯re deserving of love and attention on your own. That¡¯s not going to change even if you spend the rest of your life doing absolutely nothing.¡±

    Milton just stared back at him utterly confused, as if cogs that had been left to rust a long time ago finally began to turn inside his head.

    ¡°But if this means so much to you,¡± Isaiah added, ¡°I¡¯ll take you to my place and you can see the photo right away. I just need to make a phone call before we go and reschedule my doctor¡¯s appointment.¡±

    ¡°Th¡­ Thank you!¡± Milton exclaimed, his eyes lighting up in appreciation. Isaiah went to the counter to pay their tab and use the phone, and then the two of them left the caf¨¦ and got on the tram. It was a short and quiet trip to Isaiah¡¯s neighborhood, and soon enough they were standing in front of Muriel Greenwood 37.

    The climb up the stairs was oddly tense, as both men kept quiet. The silence was finally broken when Isaiah unlocked the door to his apartment.

    ¡°Come right in,¡± he welcomed his guest, and Milton stepped into the hallway, his eyes wandering around the unfamiliar space.

    ¡°You can go to the dining room, it¡¯s right down the hall,¡± Isaiah said as he slid open the kitchen door to his right. ¡°I¡¯ll be with you in a minute.¡±

    <hr>

    Milton walked down the hall slowly, his shoes clacking against the hardwood floor. When he made it to the dining room, his eyes shifted immediately to an object on the big table next to him.

    It was a leather notebook with a pencil next to it. Isaiah¡¯s notes.

    With the deliberate action of a predator seizing its prey, he grabbed the notebook and opened it up. He nearly choked as he read the words written on the page.

    Just what do you think you¡¯re doing?

    Milton just stood there, frozen in place, not comprehending what was going on. He started looking around the room, his skin tingling with the feeling of being watched. Suddenly, his gaze landed on something, and he nearly choked for a second time.

    He was staring at a square opening in the dining room wall, the purpose of which was utterly unclear. Staring right back at him through the hole were two pairs of eyes.

    It took Milton a few moments to snap out of his shock, drop the notebook and scramble back into the hallway, towards the exit. But the kitchen suddenly slid open to his left and Isaiah and Nigel burst out in front of him, blocking his way.

    They walked towards him, forcing him back into the dining room. Sweat dripping down his face, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, Milton had found himself way out of his league.

    He was now facing two men, both a full head taller than him. One of them was Isaiah, whose usually amiable fa?ade was replaced by a quiet intensity. The other was a slightly burlier guy with jet black hair and beard, attempting to project menace in a polka dot apron and with a frying pan in hand.

    ¡°What¡­ What is this???¡± Milton cowered.

    ¡°A trap, Milton,¡± Isaiah said calmly. ¡°You set yourself up for it, frankly. Put the goddamn pan down, Nigel,¡± he then added, noticing that Milton¡¯s eyes were fixated on the deadly weapon.

    ¡°How did you¡­¡± Milton whimpered.

    ¡°With all due respect, Milton,¡± Isaiah stopped him, ¡°I¡¯m going to be asking the questions now.¡±

 Chapter 14

    As he stood in the Hargraves¡¯ dining room, his only escape route now cut off, all Milton could think about was how the man standing before him might as well be a completely different person from the guy who was smiling and supportive in the caf¨¦ less than an hour ago. How wonderful would it be if that Isaiah was still in front of him, instead of the cold and calculated presence he had to deal with now.

    ¡°It¡¯s unfortunate,¡± Isaiah sighed. ¡°You¡¯re no better at lying than you were at stalking me. I could have bought the story about you lacking a sense of personal achievement. It was convincing. In fact, it may well be true, but it¡¯s not the reason why you¡¯re doing this, is it?¡±

    Milton just took a small step back, as if retreating.

    ¡°That story you made up about Milo had so many holes I stopped keeping track. It¡¯s the kind of thing you cobble together when you really want to make someone seem bad and divert attention away from them. And your insistence on seeing my notes was too obvious. Because you wanted to see everything I knew about Milo, to make sure I didn¡¯t find out whatever it is I¡¯m not supposed to find out. How am I doing so far?¡± Isaiah asked.

    Milton grabbed his head, his composure obviously bursting at the seams. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to do this!¡± he yowled desperately.

    ¡°And I believe you, Milton,¡± Isaiah said compassionately. ¡°Because you have such a criminally low feeling of self-worth that you would probably go along with just about anything. You can only act when someone else gives you something to act upon.¡±

    ¡°So, I¡¯m guessing, you knew the truth about Milo all along. When I came to HQ and you heard me talking to your boss, you were worried that my prying would bring it to light. You told your father, and he ordered you to keep an eye on me. He even gave you a nice, fabricated story you could tell me, just to convince me to drop the investigation. Too bad it was easy to see through.¡±

    Nigel put the pan down when Milton started to cry. The guy couldn¡¯t even do that with dignity: it was an ugly cry, his red, swollen face completely disfigured by helplessness and bathed in tears and mucus while he sniveled like a child. It was a sorry sight, seeing a grown man reduced to such a state, even if he had been trying to pull tricks on Isaiah.

    Now that he was completely exposed, Milton was expecting for Isaiah to really sink his teeth in. He was taken by surprise when Isaiah approached him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and began to speak with a far gentler tone.

    ¡°I¡¯m giving you a chance to turn this into something good,¡± he said. ¡°If you tell me what you know, the thing that you¡¯re trying to hide, you¡¯ll genuinely help me with this case.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re just trying to convince me to tell you what you want to hear,¡± Milton replied in between sobs and sniffles.

    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Isaiah replied. ¡°I¡¯m giving you a choice, and you can decide what you want to do. If you say ¡®no¡¯, you¡¯ll be free to leave. I can¡¯t say that we¡¯ll be inviting you over for tea and cookies anytime soon, but there won¡¯t be any consequences for you if you walk out. I¡¯m not going to hurt you, I won¡¯t talk to your boss, I won¡¯t plot out some convoluted revenge ¨C nothing like that.¡±

    Milton looked into his face, utterly confounded by what he¡¯d just heard.

    ¡°I can just¡­ say no¡­ and leave?¡± he repeated, trying to get his head around it.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Isaiah confirmed. ¡°If you want to go, we won¡¯t stop you.¡±

    ¡°How can you be so nice!?!¡± Milton said semi-frustrated as he began to bawl again.

    ¡°I ask myself the same thing maybe three times a day,¡± Nigel said with a chuckle.

    It took a while, but Milton finally managed to calm down. Isaiah stepped away from him and stood to his side; Nigel came to join him. The hallway was now clear, the apartment door in plain sight. Milton looked at it in disbelief, then turned towards the two men. Isaiah just nodded with a barely visible smile.

    ¡°You decide,¡± he said.

    A tempest was raging in Milton¡¯s mind. As sad as it was, this was one of the few situations when he was truly given full control over his actions, and he simply didn¡¯t know what to do with it. It seemed like a win-win situation at first, being able to walk away without having divulged what he knew ¨C but then he would have to explain how and why he failed to that man and be berated and insulted for it for the millionth time. In fact, this would happen regardless of what he chose to do; it was an inevitability.

    Milton¡¯s eyes once again turned to Isaiah¡¯s calm face.

    If he was going to get chewed out either way, wouldn¡¯t it make more sense to do something that at least felt right to him?

    He took a deep breath and spoke up with the faintest voice imaginable.

    ¡°You¡¯re right. My father put me up to this. He doesn¡¯t want anyone to find out about the family¡¯s shame. About what happened to his brother.¡±

    ¡°Just what did Milo do for your father to feel so embarrassed by him?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°My uncle didn¡¯t really do anything,¡± Milton replied. ¡°He just had a different idea about how he should live his life, and my father could never accept that. He saw it as a disgrace to the family name.¡±

    Isaiah suddenly had a moment of realization. He recalled that all too brief phone call with Ivor Bax from not long ago, where the man bitterly uttered a single sentence: ¡°I have no brother.¡±

    ¡°Milo isn¡¯t Milo anymore, is he?¡± Isaiah said. ¡°He changed his name. And probably his last name too if he got married. That¡¯s why I couldn¡¯t find anything about him. And that¡¯s probably why none of his classmates knew what happened to him. They had no idea who to look for.¡±

    Milton just nodded.

    ¡°Can you tell me the name by which he goes these days?¡± Isaiah asked.

    Milton seemed unsure for a moment, but then swallowed hard and let out a long sigh.

    ¡°Drew Nicholls,¡± he said with relief, as if the weight of a thousand stones was finally lifted from his shoulders.

    <hr>

    After that emotionally charged afternoon when Milton revealed his secret, getting in touch with the person formerly known as Milo Bax was simple. Drew Nicholls was easy to track down in the phone book, and one incredibly pleasant call later Isaiah had arranged to meet her in her own home. It was in one of the quietest parts of Strona, a suburb really. The townsfolk called it Alsmel, a name derived from an old word for ¡°green¡±. And it was apt: the houses, all adorably rustic and with gorgeous gardens, were nestled in a lush valley, with the steep hills overlooking the city rising in the distance. A taxi would only take you so far, unable to go down the cobblestone paths; Isaiah had to make the last part of the trip on foot.

    He was not alone. Walking a few steps behind him was a visibly nervous Milton. Much to Isaiah¡¯s surprise, he expressed the desire to tag along and visit his aunt, to which she agreed. It was not an easy thing for him to decide to do. Following the tear-filled confrontation at the Hargraves household, Isaiah had a long talk with Milton and found out a lot of details about his past. As it turns out, he had never actually seen Drew in his life. He was kept away from her by his father, who poisoned his mind with the notion that she was an embarrassment that needed to be swept under the rug and kept there. That Ivor Bax would be less humiliated by a drug-peddling sibling that died from an overdose than one who was alive and well but living a different life than the one expected of them told Isaiah everything he needed to know about the man.

    For Milton, this meeting was a big deal. It meant reconnecting with a part of his family that he never knew, but also renouncing everything his father stood for and getting on his bad side. Isaiah was proud of him in a way ¨C it was a difficult choice to make but Milton made it anyway, despite the consequences.

    ¡°This should be it,¡± Isaiah said, stopping in front of a tall wooden fence covered with ivy. On the door was an engraved number 15, and below it a small window that teased a breathtakingly beautiful garden full of spring flowers.

    After exchanging a quick glance with Milton, Isaiah rang the bell.

 Chapter 15

    The metallic ping of the bell was still faintly echoing when Isaiah and Milton heard a door open on the other side of the fence. ¡°Coming!¡± a cheerful voice called out, and the sound of footsteps approached.

    With a turn of a key, the gate opened, and the two men were greeted by a stout woman in a floral pattern dress. Long waves of greying chestnut hair flowed from underneath her sunhat. Her glasses made her eyes look bigger, magnifying the smile lines collected over the years.

    ¡°Mrs. Nichols, I presume,¡± Isaiah greeted her.

    ¡°That would be me,¡± she replied. ¡°And you must be the Mr. Hargraves I spoke to on the phone. A pleasure,¡± she said, shaking his hand. Isaiah then stepped to the side, and Drew was now facing her nephew.

    Milton couldn¡¯t utter a single word. He found it hard to even look at Drew, crippled by the shame that his father was incapable of feeling.

    ¡°Milton,¡± she said affectionately. ¡°So that¡¯s you. For all this time I knew nothing about you except your name.¡±

    His mouth opened but no articulated sound came out, just attempts at words that ended up as gibberish. Fortunately, words weren¡¯t necessary. Drew just came up to him and gave him a hug so tight he let out a small gasp.

    ¡°I¡¯m so happy to finally meet you,¡± she whispered. Suddenly, Milton¡¯s hesitation and anxiety receded, as he felt care and acceptance flood into his heart. His arms lifted, and he reciprocated the hug.

    ¡°Me too,¡± he responded, his soul brimming with joy of knowing that someone¡¯s love for him didn¡¯t hinge on ifs or whens. He didn¡¯t have to do anything for Drew to treat him kindly other than just be himself. It was an entirely new feeling for him.

    It looked like they both needed that hug, since they stayed embraced for a few minutes. Once they separated, Drew showed her guests into her home. The living room was entirely made of wood and stone, with simple furniture that seemed to be hand-carved and a monolithic rock fireplace that Isaiah could easily imagine himself and Nigel sitting in front of in winter, enjoying a cup of hot cocoa. A tall, lithe man with a neatly trimmed grey beard walked into the room, taking off a very muddy glove.

    ¡°This is my husband, Ian,¡± Drew said as Ian came over to greet the guests. Milton was again uncomfortable as he was being introduced, but Ian gave him a firm, familial handshake.

    ¡°Welcome,¡± he said softly. ¡°I hope you fellas like cranberry tea.¡±

    Soon enough they were all seated around the round marble coffee table, sipping exquisite home brewed tea out of old china cups.

    ¡°You have a wonderful home,¡± Isaiah remarked.

    ¡°That¡¯s all Ian,¡± Drew laughed. ¡°He¡¯s an amazing handyman and an even better gardener. I just cook and move my bric-a-brac around now that I¡¯m retired.¡±

    ¡°What did you do for a living if I may ask?¡±

    ¡°Believe it or not, I was a butcher,¡± she answered. ¡°Always had a strong set of arms and a knack for dealing with flesh and bones. It¡¯s not very glamorous but it paid the bills.¡±

    Isaiah¡¯s mind briefly lingered on the image of sweet old Drew Nichols hacking away at tenderloins like a champ. Then he decided to get to business.

    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯d like to get to the reason why we came to visit you. As I told you on the phone, you were quite the headscratcher in a case that I was investigating.¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take that as a compliment,¡± she said wryly.

    ¡°Now that I¡¯ve managed to get in touch with you, I would really like to hear your story. And I¡¯m sure Milton would too.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s that much to tell, oddly enough,¡± Drew started. ¡°Ever since I can remember, I¡¯ve felt that the body I was given at birth didn¡¯t reflect who I was in here,¡± she said, placing her hand on her heart.

    ¡°After I finished high school, I started doing things to change that body, to make it more my own. My family didn¡¯t like it, but for me there was no other choice. I had to be a woman. I changed my name, I began to wear dresses and make up, I started looking into medical treatments that could help me. Along the way I met the wonderful man sitting here with us and became his wife, and the rest is just¡­ life, I guess. And here I am now. The law might not recognize me as such, and I¡¯m still waiting for science to be able to remove the one barrier standing in my way, but as far as I¡¯m concerned, I¡¯m the woman I¡¯ve always wanted to be,¡± Drew concluded with a chuckle.

    ¡°Now, I¡¯ve talked to a friend of yours from high school,¡± Isaiah continued, ¡°and I¡¯ve obviously done research of my own. And, if you don¡¯t mind me saying so, you basically became invisible at some point. Nobody knew anything about you.¡±

    ¡°I suppose I¡¯m mostly to blame for that,¡± she sighed. ¡°You see, Mr. Hargraves, when you¡¯re living a life that you feel was imposed on you, you try to break away from it in any way possible. Which is all fine and well if you want to leave a job that doesn¡¯t suit you, or a city that you despise. But my life was imposed by nature, and there was no getting around that. I couldn¡¯t just escape from my body.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°When I started living as a woman, perhaps to compensate for that fact, I began to physically distance myself from my old life. You said that I was nearly invisible ¨C that¡¯s exactly what I wanted to be. I never told anyone about what was going on in my life because I wanted to break away from everything that was part of my past. And looking back on it, I realize that was a very short-sighted, immature thing to do. There were people that I would have loved to keep in touch with, but they had no way of finding me because I burned my bridges.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re being a little too hard on yourself there,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°Completely upending your life and rebuilding it from scratch is a difficult thing to do. You can¡¯t expect every choice you make during that process to be good in the long run. You just take things as they come and solve them in the moment, and the best you can do is hope that you¡¯ll come out of it in one piece. And I¡¯d say, seeing what I see around me, that you¡¯ve done quite well, regrets and all.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s such a wonderful thing to say,¡± Drew replied, clearly touched. Ian placed his hand over hers and smiled.

    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Hargraves,¡± she continued, ¡°but there was more to it than just cutting off ties. I suppose I was also scared how those people would react if they found out the truth? Would they shun me? Would they walk away? Would they hate me? I don¡¯t think I could deal with exposing myself to someone completely, only to have them leave or turn hostile when I¡¯m at my most vulnerable. So that¡¯s why I never really tried doing that.¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± Isaiah countered, ¡°I know for a fact that there is at least one person from your Academy years that has been thinking about you and would love to know what you¡¯re up to these days. And if you¡¯d like, I can help you get in touch.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡± Drew said, shrugging her shoulders. ¡°As I¡¯ve gotten older, I¡¯ve realized that it¡¯s always best to leave doors open. You never know who might show up one day,¡± she smiled, glancing at Milton.

    ¡°I¡¯ve obviously heard a few things about your family from your nephew,¡± Isaiah continued. ¡°But I was wondering if I could get your perspective on that?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s that much to tell about that, either. My parents wanted nothing to do with me after I started my transition. I left and my brother stayed with them. I can¡¯t imagine it was healthy for him living in that environment for so long. Their hatred polluted his mind, and at some point I think he started to view me as some kind of personal failure, a mistake that had to be hidden to maintain his reputation. I¡¯ve tried reaching out several times but he never accepted the olive branch.¡±

    ¡°You¡­ reached out?¡± Milton suddenly spoke, utterly aghast.

    ¡°I did, my dear,¡± Drew said softly. ¡°I called when you were born, but he just hung up. I gathered all the courage I had to just show up at his door and knock when you were about three, but he just shut it in my face. I¡­ still have it. The gift I brought for you that day. Hold on for a second.¡±

    She got up and disappeared into another room for a moment. When she came back, she was carrying a stuffed toy, a hedgehog with a red bow tied around its neck. She handed it to Milton, who took it into his shaking hands.

    ¡°I never thought that I would be able to actually give it to you,¡± Drew said and her voice cracked, tears now rolling down her cheeks. Ian came to her side and comforted her.

    ¡°How¡­ How did you know I was born?¡± Milton muttered.

    ¡°As it happens,¡± his aunt said, wiping away the tears, ¡°your mother had a good head on her shoulders. She didn¡¯t feel right about keeping me out of the family, so she managed to find my number and contacted me. I heard from her sporadically ¨C I¡¯m sure she was doing it in secret, because your father would have gone mental if he¡¯d found out.¡±

    ¡°My mother¡­¡± Milton echoed. ¡°The only things I know about you¡­ are the ones she told me,¡± he said, as if uncovering a buried memory.

    ¡°And the only things I know about you are the ones she told me,¡± Drew replied. ¡°She was my only connection to what was left of my family. But after that time I came to visit, your father must have caught on. I never heard from her again, and whenever I tried to call he just hung up after hearing my voice.¡±

    Milton looked into the round, shiny eyes of the toy hedgehog, his pained visage reflected in them like they were tiny mirrors. His hands clutched the toy. It was still as soft as it must have been more than three decades ago.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said in a wounded whisper. ¡°I let my father warp me¡­ Just like his parents warped him. I tried so hard to keep you a secret¡­ Like you were something to be ashamed of. I did everything in my power to convince Isaiah that you were dead¡­ I told him such horrible lies about you¡­¡±

    His head sank towards his chest, and his sobs filled the room.

    ¡°I can never forgive myself,¡± he managed to muster through the tears.

    After a brief pause, Drew walked up to Milton¡¯s chair. It obviously took some effort on her part, but she managed to kneel next to him, and her fingers gently brushed through his hair.

    ¡°I forgive you, my dear,¡± she said gently. ¡°You weren¡¯t acting out of malice ¨C you were just trying to please a parent. Heaven knows I tried the same with mine just so I could feel their acceptance. As it turns out, I didn¡¯t need it. I could live my life the way I wanted to, even if they didn¡¯t agree.¡±

    Milton looked at her, his eyes red from the crying, his lower lip quivering.

    ¡°I¡¯m perfectly ready to let you into my life if you agree to let me into yours. I want to be your aunt¡­ But you have to want to be my nephew as well.¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± he said without thinking. ¡°I really do.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Drew nodded. ¡°Now let¡¯s both stand up so I can give you another hug, my knees are killing me.¡±

    That line managed to force one of those hideous chuckles out of Milton, the kind you let slip when you¡¯ve cried so hard that you welcome any moment of levity and grab onto it like it¡¯s the funniest thing ever. He got out of his chair and helped his aunt so they could properly embrace. Isaiah and Ian didn¡¯t dare say a word, fully aware that they were just spectators in the story unfolding before them.

    Once everyone went back to their seats and the dust had settled, Isaiah spoke up again.

    ¡°Thank you very much for seeing us today. I think we all got something good out of this experience.¡±

    ¡°I agree wholeheartedly,¡± Drew said.

    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, I would just like to do something as a formality,¡± Isaiah said, pulling out Bubba¡¯s photo out of his briefcase and handing it to Drew. ¡°Would you please just hold this?¡±

    She took the photo and observed it, letting out an amused chortle when she caught eye of the person she once was. She then gave Isaiah a quizzical look.

    ¡°You don¡¯t feel anything, do you?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Am I supposed to?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he smiled and took back the photo. ¡°This is not part of your story.¡±

    Everyone stood up to say goodbye, and Drew approached Milton again.

    ¡°I hope to see you again soon, my dear,¡± she said.

    ¡°You will. I promise.¡±

    ¡°And remember what I said. My door is open,¡± she reminded him. ¡°If your father should ever change his mind, all he has to do is call.¡±

    With that, Isaiah and Milton left the peaceful green of Alsmel, accompanied by a plush hedgehog that took thirty years to make it into the hands of the boy it was meant for.

 Chapter 16

    It was a morning like any of the others that preceded it. The intermingling chirps of birds could be heard from the streets as the sun announced another fine spring day. People were walking the streets, their murmurs reaching up to the third floor of Muriel Greenwood 37. The smell of apple and cinnamon tea wafted from the kitchen.

    And yet, for Isaiah, the morning brought with it a strange sense of finality.

    The visit to Alsmel had removed the biggest enigma that was looming over the case of Bubba¡¯s photo ¨C far from vanishing off the face of the earth, Drew Nicholls was leading a harmonious, fulfilled life. The fate of Harlan Douglas was never a matter of contention. With all the evidence at hand, the investigation seemed to have reached its end.

    With what he knew, Isaiah was willing to bet everything he had that the lingering spirit was Ezra Rowse. And, if this was true, the case of the missing boy could finally reach its conclusion. But reaching this conclusion required more than just a strong hunch. Isaiah needed confirmation.

    More than just that, he felt that there was still an important piece missing. Confirming that Ezra was indeed the spirit would be enough to file away his case for good, but it wouldn¡¯t really solve it. Nobody would know what actually happened after that fateful day when he never returned home, whether his death was an accident or if something more nefarious was going on. And here, Isaiah still felt like there was a story to be uncovered.

    There was also the matter of the strange spectral thread emanating from the photo.

    Milton couldn¡¯t sense it no matter how hard he tried. What¡¯s more, in all his years as a spiritual investigator, Isaiah had never heard of anything of the sort. A few weeks after visiting Drew Nichols, he went to St Wilda¡¯s to talk to doctor Whicket, hoping that she could shed some light on the subject.

    The problem was, Isaiah was a freak occurrence. The vast majority of people who are possessed don¡¯t live to tell the tale. Most of the times, they suffer a quick death, the shock of a spirit entering their body so great that the brain simply shuts down. Those that manage to endure it are handed over to exorcists who attempt to purge the uninvited guest, but this just whittles down the survivors to a small handful: some people die during the exorcism itself, the strain proving too much for their body, some are put out of their misery because the spirit cannot be removed and takes over the body, replacing its actual owner. Finally, those that do survive this ordeal often end up in a vegetative state, chained to a hospital bed for the remainder of their lives. There have been only a few cases such as Isaiah¡¯s registered in the entirety of history, and none of them were still living.

    Because of this, doctor Whicket really had no experience to refer to ¨C the best explanation she could muster was that the fragments of a spirit in Isaiah¡¯s body somehow enhanced his innate abilities, allowing him to sense phenomena that are beyond the reach of other spiritualists. It wasn¡¯t much but it would have to do.

    As he sat at the table, his tea slowly cooling in front of him, Isaiah held Bubba¡¯s photo for the umpteenth time, staring at it intently. The thread that was connecting it to something else was now so clear in his mind that he could see it when he closed his eyes. This had happened so gradually over the weeks that passed that it took him by surprise; Whicket assumed that the ability developed step-by-step, due to exposure to the lingering spirit.

    Whatever the case, Isaiah could now follow this thread as long as he was holding the photo. In his mind¡¯s eye, he could imagine travelling along it, zooming past places that he had never seen before in his life, as if he was separated from his body and flying above the ground. And then, when the trip ended, he would arrive to the goal, the very thing that the spirit was connected to. He could see it as if it was right there in front of him.

    When he saw what it was, he understood that it was time to fulfil his promise to chief Sarratt.

    All it took was one phone call. Within an hour, an expedition was prepared. Isaiah had suggested, and Sarratt had agreed, to physically follow the thread all the way to the endpoint. If the thing he saw during his astral journey was indeed at the end of the thread, the spiritual division would be very interested in recovering it.

    Once all preparations were complete, a large police car took off from HQ, carrying five people in it. Driving the car was officer Marrow, she who first greeted Isaiah during his initial visit to the headquarters. She was obviously pleased to bits that she got to be a part of this, whistling as she navigated the streets of Strona. Next to her, officer Garrett from the spiritual division sat in the passenger seat, a woman with a hardened look about her that suggested she¡¯d seen many things during her years of service. The rest of the group sat in the back. Officer Motley, a young spiritual expert and exorcist personally recommended by Sarratt, Isaiah and his husband Nigel. Nigel insisted to be taken along, arguing that his help would be necessary if Isaiah needed to be brought back following a possession attempt. While it was a security risk, the chief agreed, but only if Marrow kept an eye on him at all times.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Nigel had been feeling stressed all morning. He was none too pleased with the idea of Isaiah following a spiritual breadcrumb trail to some place he¡¯d never actually seen. The whole set-up worried him. He was afraid that concentrating on the unseen thread would cause mental strain and make it all too easy for you-know-who to try and invade. And the element of the unknown regarding Isaiah¡¯s ability to sense this thread was also making him anxious. As the car worked its way up towards the highest level of Strona, Nigel¡¯s right hand was holding his husband¡¯s left, and his own left hand was tightly clutched to the point his fingers were turning white.

    The drive itself was almost completely silent, as everyone seemed to have their own reasons to keep quiet. Isaiah was keeping concentrated on the trail, instructing Marrow which directions to take. Nigel was in his own world of discomfort. Garrett and Motley seemed on edge, staring into the distance through the windows. Marrow¡¯s only attempt to strike a conversation ¨C an awkward ¡°Soooo, read any good books lately?¡± ¨C was completely ignored.

    The car sneaked slowly up a relatively steep climb, eventually reaching the top part of the city. Isaiah¡¯s directions soon lead the group to a sprawling park that essentially blended into the hills.

    ¡°What is this place?¡± Isaiah asked, awed by the densely packed green canopies of trees casting their shade on the winding paths below. There was nothing quite like that in the capital.

    ¡°Upper Park,¡± Marrow replied, relieved that someone finally said something that wasn¡¯t ¡°left¡± or ¡°turn here¡±. ¡°Where to from now, chief?¡±

    ¡°Actually¡­ we need to go up,¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°There¡¯s no more up from here,¡± Marrow grumbled.

    ¡°No, up the hills. There should be a path¡­¡±

    ¡°There are hiking paths that start from the outskirts of the park,¡± Garrett spoke for the first time since they left the HQ. ¡°Though they¡¯ve been abandoned for a very long time now.¡±

    ¡°Abandoned?¡± Nigel piped up. It was more of a nervous bark than a question.

    ¡°Yes, the city stopped maintaining them way back in the day. I know about them because my grandmother used them. She told me how there were even neat little resting areas up in the woods for hikers.¡±

    ¡°So what happened?¡± Nigel pressed on.

    ¡°Nothing really happened,¡± Garrett answered. ¡°People just stopped using them after the city started developing Alsmel. Less steep, nicer scenery, more beautiful views¡­ most people who hike switched there in a heartbeat.¡±

    ¡°We need to go up the old paths?¡± Motley said as if he¡¯d just woken up and needed to catch up on what was being said.

    ¡°Yup,¡± Marrow grunted as she parked the vehicle. ¡°Which means we¡¯re taking the rest of the trip on foot.¡±

    They got out of the car and took two heavy equipment bags out of the trunk. Garrett took one and Marrow took the other, slinging them over their shoulders with apparent ease. After entering the park, reaching the abandoned hiking paths was easy. In spite of never having been there, Isaiah flawlessly navigated the walking routes: his awareness of the thread was now so heightened that he could practically visualize it as a glowing, winding line marking the way. As the group reached the edge of the park, they left behind the chattering crowds, glorious stone fountains and shrieking aviaries. Soon they had entered an area that was obviously not frequented by people. The sounds of conversations and cars were reduced to faint echoes, drowned out by the songs of birds. The leafy branches of the trees formed a thick upper story that let in very little light. Snaking between the trees was an undulating dirt trail that led towards higher ground. It was not the kind of place you¡¯d like to end up in the middle of the night.

    ¡°This is the path,¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°Alright, this is where we start climbing then,¡± Garrett said calmly. ¡°I propose that we move in formation. Hargraves, you should go in front and lead the way. Motley, you and I will be directly behind him. Mr. Hargraves will go after us, and Marrow, you¡¯ll protect the rear.¡±

    ¡°You said Hargraves twice,¡± Marrow interrupted.

    ¡°I did,¡± Garrett said matter-of-factly. ¡°Hargraves is essentially a part of the force for this operation, so I¡¯m addressing him as I would any other colleague. His husband is a civilian, so I¡¯m addressing him as I would any other citizen. I thought it was quite clear.¡±

    ¡°Oh, absolutely. I mean, when you say it like that, totally,¡± Marrow stumbled.

    ¡°Can¡¯t I be closer to Isaiah?¡± Nigel pleaded.

    ¡°Mr. Hargraves,¡± Garrett said. ¡°Please be aware that your safety as a civilian is a top priority in this situation. I wouldn¡¯t feel comfortable having you at the edges of the group. It¡¯s the most vulnerable position. I¡¯m not expecting anyone or anything to attack us here, but it¡¯s always best to err on the side of caution.¡±

    Isaiah came up to Nigel, flashed him a winning smile, and then embraced him tightly.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me,¡± he said comfortingly. ¡°I¡¯ll be just a few steps away from you.¡±

    ¡°I just have a horrible feeling about this,¡± Nigel¡¯s voice faltered. ¡°It¡¯s just that you¡¯re still so vulnerable after that mess with the neighbor¡­ And if anything happened to you I¡¯d¡­¡±

    He choked on his words, and Isaiah felt warm tears sliding down Nigel¡¯s cheeks and falling onto his collar.

    ¡°It¡¯s ok,¡± Isaiah whispered softly. ¡°Nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad can happen to me when you¡¯re around. You¡¯re my rock. You know that, right?¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh,¡± Nigel said, blubbering.

    ¡°No need to cry then,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°It¡¯ll be ok.¡±

    When he felt that Nigel had calmed down, Isaiah slowly released him from the hug. Nigel wiped his tears, squeezed his husband¡¯s hand tightly, and then took in a deep breath.

    ¡°All set to go?¡± Garrett asked. Everyone nodded.

    ¡°Very well. After you,¡± she said to Isaiah.

    Bubba¡¯s photo in his hands, he began to lead the group uphill.

 Chapter 17

    Walking up the twisty dirt trail, Isaiah could easily see why it was abandoned. It¡¯s not that it was difficult to tread ¨C quite the opposite. It must have been walked upon by countless generations: the ground was barren, any trace of life trampled into dust by thousands of footsteps. There were no pesky vines or branches in the way, just a clear, albeit serpentine road. Heck, there were streets in Strona that were trickier to navigate.

    What made it seem inadequate, unwelcoming even, was the gloom. The trees let through only the tiniest flecks of sunlight that danced on the forest floor as the breeze played with the branches. Other than that, it was as dim as a poorly lit pantry. It wasn¡¯t exactly the most picturesque place to take a hike.

    ¡°Why did people even walk here?¡± Isaiah asked as he led the group forward. ¡°Is it a local thing?¡±

    ¡°Not really,¡± Garrett answered. ¡°It¡¯s just that the city used to take care of this place. Chopping off branches to keep the path lit, trimming the bushes. But when they gave up on it, nature just took everything back.¡±

    ¡°How much longer?¡± Marrow huffed. ¡°Not that I¡¯m tired or anything,¡± she added haphazardly.

    ¡°Well, we¡¯re getting closer,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°The path goes on up for a while more, and then we should reach a clearing. After that, it¡¯s not much further.¡±

    True to his words, the trees around them began to thin as they put more distance behind them, and soon enough a light appeared in the distance, clearly marking the end of the forest canopy. It took several hundred more steps along the zig-zagging path, but eventually a clearing burst open before them. They had reached a plateau of sorts, a more-or-less flat grassy plane that stood at the base of a much larger hill. An impressive view of progressively taller mountains spread out into the distance.

    ¡°Well shoot, it wasn¡¯t that fun getting here but the payoff is worth it,¡± Marrow said, hunched forward with her arms resting on bended knee as she took in the sights.

    Isaiah looked towards the hill that rose from the plateau. At its base, it was dotted with lonely pine trees that gained more and more company as the elevation increased, soon transitioning into a true forest.

    ¡°That¡¯s where we need to go,¡± he said, pointing towards the pines. ¡°Up the hill, into the woods.¡±

    Everyone turned to face their goal. The trees looked like huge green spikes growing out of the ground, stretching way up to the peak of the hill. No-one seemed particularly thrilled about having to go into a forest that was bound to be even darker than the one they just left, but no-one said anything about it either. They took a short break, and then proceeded towards their destination. Soon enough they were slowly working their way between pine trees, the light of day they were basking in only moments ago feeling like a long lost memory.

    Then it happened.

    Without any warning, Isaiah suddenly felt like a huge, incredibly muscular hand grabbed him by the soul and try to pull him out of his own body. It was such a shock that he immediately stopped in his tracks and dropped the photo. His vision began to blur as his own thoughts faded into silence, replaced by a menacing cackle inside his head.

    ¡°Hello again,¡± the treacly voice of Ambrose Annable spoke into his mind, as clearly as if he was a real person standing right next to him. Isaiah felt his own consciousness reduced to a tiny dot, threatened to be consumed by the malevolent spirit inside him. He couldn¡¯t feel his arms or legs ¨C it was like they no longer belonged to him. His senses were numbed, the disorder around him registering only as muted images and sounds.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°It¡¯s not all bad being a spirit,¡± Annable spoke. ¡°It opened a window into a world I had never even known existed. That lingering presence you feel around the photo? I can see it, feel it. And do you know what? It¡¯s not actually holding onto the photo. It¡¯s holding onto its body. It managed to slither away from it and find an object to attach to, but it had to keep itself tethered to what¡¯s left of its physical form, even if it was just with a thin thread. Because if it lets go of the body, there will be nothing else to hold it here. It¡¯ll float away.¡±

    Isaiah wanted to scream out, to punch the air, to do anything, but it was no use. None of his impulses could escape his mind and find their way to his muscles. He was trapped, his stubborn refusal to give up the only thing keeping him from being fully consumed.

    ¡°When I noticed this thread,¡± Annable continued, ¡°I thought: ¡®Well, trying to take over this body by force is all well and fine, but what if I used a different approach?¡¯¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s why I made you aware of the thread. I can do that, you know. Being here, inside your head, I realized that I can funnel some of my own consciousness into you. Make you experience what I was experiencing. It¡¯s like I¡¯m inside your nervous system. Isn¡¯t that wonderful?¡±

    ¡°And you, you were like a fish that took the bait,¡± Annable snickered. ¡°Ever since that moment you noticed the spiritual thread connected to that photo I¡¯ve been reeling you in, bit by bit. The more you focused on it, the more you were letting me into your conscious thoughts. I was slowly planting my roots deep inside your head, and you didn¡¯t notice it because you thought it was some new ability you were developing.¡±

    ¡°Turns out I was going about this the wrong way,¡± he crowed. ¡°I was trying to take control while you were at your weakest when all I needed to do was make you believe you were in control. You don¡¯t resist what you think you control.¡±

    Isaiah felt like the entirety of his being was compacted into a tiny glass orb that was under such intense pressure from the outside that it was only a matter of time until it was shattered and swallowed up by Ambrose Annable. It was a truly terrifying feeling.

    At that moment, it seemed like it was all over. There was no getting out of this. Annable had won, and Isaiah was about to forfeit his body to him.

    Then, suddenly, the suffocating heaviness pressing down on Isaiah seemed to cease. Lightness, all-embracing lightness, an abstract feeling so joyful and magnificent that it seemed to transcend any human emotion. He felt like a liquid, flowing freely into every part of the container that was his body. His senses returned to him, his limbs were once again his own. He was still fighting with Annable over the space in his head, but now it seemed like a fair fight.

    When his vision cleared, he saw a familiar face looking at him. It was Nigel, all teary-eyed and frantically shouting. Isaiah couldn¡¯t hear him until sound faded back into his ears.

    ¡°¡­recommend this!¡± Garrett¡¯s alarmed voice came from the sidelines. ¡°It¡¯s very dangerous!¡±

    ¡°Can you hear me?¡± Nigel shouted, his hands pressed against Isaiah¡¯s cheeks. ¡°Listen to me! You are not a murderer! You¡¯re Isaiah Hargraves! The kindest, most understanding, most righteous person I have ever met!¡±

    ¡°How do you put up with this every day?¡± Annable hissed. ¡°He needs to shut up.¡±

    Isaiah struggled to keep control of his arms, but in spite of this they lunged forward. His fingers were now tightly clasped around Nigel¡¯s throat.

    ¡°Pull them apart!¡± Marrow screamed.

    ¡°If we move we¡¯ll break formation and lose him again!¡± Garrett barked.

    ¡°Shoot him!¡± Motley shouted. ¡°He¡¯s gone, we can still save the husband!¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Nigel clenched through his teeth, his big arms grabbing Isaiah¡¯s hands and managing to pry them away from his neck just enough to let air sneak in.

    ¡°Isaiah,¡± he continued, staring straight into his eyes. ¡°I know you can hear me. And I know you¡¯re not a murderer.¡±

    Annable tightened Isaiah¡¯s grasp, reducing Nigel¡¯s voice to a hoarse whisper.

    ¡°You couldn¡¯t hurt a fly. Literally. Do you remember¡­ our first date?¡± Nigel mustered as his husband¡¯s arms were strangling him.

    Once those words made it through to Isaiah, time seemed to stop. He could practically see himself inside his head, observing the scene before him through his eyes as if they were windows. Then, like someone had turned off the lights and flipped the switch on a projector, a scene started to play on a screen in his mind. A memory.

 Chapter 18

    It was a rainy day, even though the weather forecast in the paper said it wouldn¡¯t be. Standing under the awning of a small bar, sheltered from the downpour, Isaiah observed the people walking by. He was expecting a robust looking guy with jet black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The two of them had met at a gig of a popular local singer and struck up a conversation after the show. Over a few drinks, they¡¯d decided that there was enough in common for them to arrange an actual date.

    Soon enough, he picked him out of the crowd, rushing through the mass of people and soaking wet from the rain. A few minutes later he was standing in front of Isaiah, huffing and panting. His hair and clothes were clinging to his body.

    ¡°I take it the rain surprised you too?¡± Isaiah grinned.

    ¡°What do you mean ¡®too¡¯?¡± Nigel groaned, trying to catch his breath. ¡°If you got caught in the rain you¡¯re certainly not showing it. How do you manage to look so perfect even when wet?¡±

    ¡°Must be a talent,¡± Isaiah laughed. ¡°Shall we go in?¡±

    The two of them went into the bar, and the dullness of the wet, gray streets was replaced by a world of warm, autumnal hues and the laughter of people who were oblivious to the world outside. The smell of cinnamon, cloves and herbs permeated the air. It was the perfect place to be during a downpour, a sanctuary of calm in a busy city.

    Once they found a table and placed their orders, Isaiah observed Nigel slumping into his chair, visibly relieved. He rustled his hair with his fingers, trying to dry it off and mostly failing.

    ¡°Sorry for looking like a flood just threw me out to shore,¡± he said slightly awkwardly.

    ¡°No need to apologize, you can¡¯t really keep appearance in weather like this,¡± Isaiah responded. ¡°And besides, you still look as handsome as you did at the gig.¡±

    ¡°If you say so,¡± Nigel grinned. ¡°So, you¡¯re a policeman if I remember well?¡±

    ¡°Spiritual investigator,¡± Isaiah corrected him. ¡°I use my ability to sense spirits to solve crimes, basically. And you cook, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m an apprentice at a restaurant for now,¡± Nigel replied. ¡°Dreaming of having my own business one day.¡±

    ¡°Well, I hope I get to try your cooking,¡± Isaiah smiled.

    ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± Nigel smiled back.

    As the waiter brought their drinks to the table, both of them picked up on a familiar buzzing sound. A fly came over, no doubt attracted by the fruit decorating Isaiah¡¯s glass. Every time Isaiah took a sip, the fly would buzz around his head. And yet he didn¡¯t bat an eye at it, tolerating its presence.

    ¡°How are you staying completely calm with that fly buzzing about in front of your nose!?¡± Nigel asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s not that big a deal,¡± Isaiah said. ¡°It goes about its business; I go about mine.¡±

    Nigel let out a loud laugh.

    ¡°Literally everyone I know would¡¯ve swatted that thing the moment it came near their drink,¡± he said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t really feel comfortable doing that,¡± Isaiah responded, somewhat bashfully.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Well the way I see it, that fly¡¯s death doesn¡¯t really mean anything to me. But its life means everything to it. It¡¯s literally all it has.¡±

    ¡°And,¡± he continued, ¡°I guess that I just find it incredibly cruel to kill something just because it¡¯s being a mild inconvenience to you. It would be akin to someone shooting you for walking too close to them on the street. I don¡¯t know¡­ if there was some being that would see humans the way we see flies, I would hope that it would be kind enough to let us go about our daily lives. And not squish us just because our existence was bothering it.¡±

    Nigel¡¯s deep blue eyes stared into Isaiah¡¯s quizzically, his mouth slightly ajar.

    ¡°Sorry, I just went on a ramble there,¡± Isaiah chuckled nervously. ¡°You probably think I¡¯m weird now, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Nigel said, smiling. ¡°What I¡¯m thinking is that that was one of the kindest, most considerate things I¡¯ve ever heard anyone say. And that the world would be a much better place if more people were as empathetic as you.¡±

    An intense, all-consuming warmth suddenly surged from the depths of Isaiah¡¯s body, flowing into every corner of his mind. Emotions flooded in: gratitude, admiration, confidence, tenderness, joy. The scene playing in his head froze on an image of Nigel¡¯s visage from that first date, on his warm smile, his beautiful blue eyes, his still wet hair casually falling over his forehead. The picture felt like an epitome of tranquility. Just remembering it made Isaiah feel like nothing bad could ever happen to him.

    Just as unexpectedly as everything else that happened prior to that moment, Isaiah suddenly felt like his consciousness expanded to every part of his body. The sensation was oddly satisfying, like what a hand feels when it slips snuggly into a well-worn glove, fitting inside it perfectly ¨C not a smidgen too tight or too loose. Ambrose Annable¡¯s voice could no longer be heard. Isaiah¡¯s body was once again his own: his eyes, his ears, his legs, his arms.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    And those arms were still tightly clasping Nigel¡¯s throat.

    The moment the awareness hit him, Isaiah let go with an audible gasp, stepping back.

    ¡°Stop!¡± Garrett said, pointing a gun at him as Nigel dropped to the ground. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°Who am I?¡± Isaiah stammered, until he finally understood the significance of the question. ¡°Isaiah! Isaiah Hargraves!¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s in the clear,¡± Motley said with disbelief. ¡°The spirit is back to residuals.¡±

    As Garrett let out a relieved sigh, Isaiah rushed towards Nigel. Marrow was already at his side, supporting his head with her hand.

    Just the sight was enough to bring tears to Isaiah¡¯s eyes. There was his husband, painfully wheezing and struggling to breathe in precious air, ugly red strangulation marks on his neck. And even in that sorry state, he still flashed his signature smile at Isaiah when he saw him approach.

    ¡°Good to have you back,¡± Nigel whispered. ¡°Again,¡± he added.

    Isaiah fell to his knees and laid his head on Nigel¡¯s stomach, crying like a child.

    ¡°I did this to you,¡± he bawled.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t,¡± Nigel said gently, placing his hand on his husband¡¯s head. ¡°It was just someone borrowing your body. You¡¯d never be able to do something like that. Because you¡¯re you.¡±

    Isaiah laughed awkwardly through his sobs. Nigel managed to sit up, and the two of them shared the tightest embrace of their lives.

    <hr>

    It took a while for the situation to settle. Nigel was recovering from nearly being strangled, Isaiah was still in shambles after the possession attempt, and the officers needed a breather after handling an emergency situation. After what could¡¯ve been anything between a couple of minutes and an hour, Garrett finally spoke.

    ¡°What the hell happened there, Hargraves? You just suddenly lost it, out of the blue. We thought you were done for.¡±

    Isaiah proceeded to tell the group how the spirit of Ambrose Annable managed to trick him and seep its roots deep into his consciousness. Everyone was listening to him with bated breath until he finished the story.

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ remarkable,¡± Garrett said somewhat anticlimactically. ¡°I think this is the first record of something like this happening. The capital¡¯s going to want to hear about it.¡±

    ¡°Unbelievable,¡± Marrow grunted. ¡°Just when I think this man can¡¯t get any more amazing¡­ he just goes and does it.¡± A thick tear of pure awe slid down her face.

    ¡°What was going on while I was out?¡± Isaiah asked.

    ¡°We knew something was wrong when you just stopped in your tracks,¡± Garrett said grimly. ¡°You were unresponsive to our calls, and your body began to twitch. We immediately set up a Code 3 formation.¡±

    Isaiah was more than familiar with the term: a Code 3 is what you do when a spirit is threatening to take over a body, to help its owner regain control.

    ¡°I helped!¡± Marrow raised her hand with the enthusiasm of a schoolgirl who knows the answer to a question. Seeing a woman who seemed capable of wrestling a bear behaving in that fashion was comical to say the least.

    ¡°Yes, we included Marrow in the formation even though she¡¯s not really a spiritualist. You can¡¯t be picky in an emergency.¡±

    ¡°You brought me back from the edge?¡± Isaiah said.

    ¡°If you want to thank anyone, thank Motley,¡± Garrett answered. ¡°If it wasn¡¯t for him, there was no way we would¡¯ve broken through to you. You were nearly gone, but he managed to find what was left of you and pull it out.¡±

    ¡°Thank you¡­¡± Isaiah said, looking at officer Motley.

    ¡°You¡¯re more than welcome,¡± Motley said. ¡°Hope there¡¯ll be a beer or something in it for me.¡±

    ¡°After that, you became present again, but the spirit was still struggling¡­ And that¡¯s when you started strangling Nigel,¡± Garrett recalled. Isaiah hung his head in shame.

    ¡°Thank goodness for Nigel though,¡± Motley piped in again. ¡°Whatever he said obviously did the trick.¡±

    ¡°Yes it did,¡± Isaiah said, looking at his husband with pride. The two of them cuddled close to each other.

    ¡°So, hate to interrupt this moment,¡± Marrow said, ¡°but what now?¡±

    ¡°After what you¡¯ve told us, I must insist that you do not hold that photograph anymore,¡± Garrett said sternly. ¡°Hand it to me.¡±

    Nigel picked up the photo from the ground where it had fallen when Isaiah had lost control of his body and gave it to officer Garrett. She looked at it briefly and put it away.

    ¡°I can sense the presence, but that¡¯s it. It seems that I need an actual spirit inside me to pick up on the thread.¡±

    ¡°So how do we find the body now?¡± Motley asked, sounding quite disappointed.

    ¡°Actually¡­¡± Isaiah interrupted. ¡°When I was holding the photo before, I could follow the thread without actually moving. I could see where it leads inside my head¡­¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Garrett nodded. ¡°That¡¯s how you knew what was at the end of the thread. You could see it just by tracking it with your mind¡¯s eye.¡±

    ¡°So?¡± Marrow and Motley said in unison.

    ¡°So,¡± Garrett said, ¡°if he followed the thread all the way to the end, then he already knows where it leads. And if he remembers the general direction and landmarks, maybe he can lead us to the goal without holding the photo.¡±

    ¡°Can you do that?¡± Motley said, grinning with anticipation.

    ¡°I think I can,¡± Isaiah replied.

    Even though Nigel still hadn¡¯t recovered completely, he didn¡¯t want to hear about Isaiah going deeper into the woods without him. The entire group set out into the trees. Isaiah concentrating hard on the direction he remembered from his astral excursion with Nigel by his side. He tried to navigate using trees, rocks and other landmarks, but this being a pine forest, it was difficult to find something that stood out. Marrow, Garrett and Motley were nearby, walking around in the same general direction, covering more ground and increasing their chances of finding what they were looking for.

    As it turns out, they didn¡¯t have to put that much effort into it: what they were looking for couldn¡¯t be missed. The pine trees soon gave way to a large clearing covered with mossy tree stumps. Once upon a time, it was probably a resting area, back in the day when the hiking trail was still used by people. Remains of wooden tables and benches were still recognizable, but rotten beyond belief.

    There was only one thing that hadn¡¯t completely rotted away, and that was the well. Any trace of a mechanism used to lower and raise a bucket was long gone, but the familiar circular brick wall lining the hole in the ground was still there, albeit having seen better days.

    ¡°Is this it?¡± Garrett asked cautiously. Isaiah nodded, and the group approached.

    When they reached the well and peered into its depths, all they could see was complete darkness. There was no way of telling how deep it was, or whether there was something down there.

    Motley and Garrett just looked at each other and shared a moment of silent understanding. They opened their backpacks and pulled out the lighting equipment they had prepared in advance. Motley tied a long, heavy rope to a large domed lamp with two rings of lightbulbs. He flicked the switch and it lit up as bright as the noon sun.

    ¡°It should do,¡± Garrett said, and then turned to Marrow. ¡°We¡¯ll need your help.¡±

    ¡°Say no more,¡± Marrow said, pulling back her sleeves. She grabbed the rope along with Garrett and Motley, and they started lowering the lamp ever so slowly down the well. Isaiah and Nigel looked down as the light illuminated the crumbling bricks that lined the pit. The hole went on far deeper than anyone expected it to. Just as the officers started worrying that they were going to run out of rope, something finally caught the light at the bottom of the well.

    It was far away beneath the ground, but it was unmistakable. From the depths of the well, a human skull was staring up at Isaiah and Nigel, its toothy grin recognizable even from the surface.

 Chapter 19

    After the group took note of the skeleton at the bottom of the well, everything happened fast. Motley quickly opened the second equipment bag and assembled a make-shift police radio. He called into headquarters to confirm that the expedition was successful and that they needed backup. Within two hours, the entirety of the spiritual division had made their way to the forest clearing, bringing with them more equipment.

    Chief Sarratt came forward and asked officer Garrett to fill him in on what had happened. Her story obviously took him on a journey, his face shifting from mild interest to complete shock to gleeful disbelief.

    ¡°Lord almighty,¡± he said gruffly, shaking his head and resting his hands on his hips. ¡°This is going to be one for the history books. There¡¯s so much to unpack here,¡± he exclaimed, his arms now beginning to gesticulate wildly. ¡°To think that we now have new information about the nature of lingering spirits and the phenomena of possession¡­ Imagine the impact this will have on our knowledge!¡±

    He turned to Isaiah, his face showing a deliberately restrained pride.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you had to go through what you did for us to find out all of these things,¡± he said. ¡°Whoever is in that well, that¡¯s a case solved. Thank you for your help. I promise we will make it worth your while.¡±

    Isaiah smiled and shook the chief¡¯s hand, and from then on preparations started for the retrieval of the remains from the well. As Nigel received medical attention, Isaiah sat next to him and observed as the officers prepared a rig to lower a long, three-pronged rope down the well. The ends of the ropes had buckles, suggesting that they were going to be attached to something ¨C or someone.

    ¡°All set chief!¡± an officer shouted.

    ¡°Alright,¡± Sarratt bellowed. ¡°Bax, you¡¯re good to go.¡±

    Isaiah¡¯s eyes widened as he saw Milton Bax step out of the ranks. He was virtually unrecognizable from the person Isaiah had last seen only weeks ago. With a helmet on his head, tough leather boots and a vest with metal rings ready to be attached to the buckles of the rope, he seemed stately, impressive even. He confidently approached the well, and as his colleagues hooked him up to the rig, he turned to Isaiah and waved at him with a barely visible smile. Moments later, he descended into the well, his head soon disappearing from sight.

    <hr>

    Safely anchored to the outside world by the rope tied to his back, Milton slowly progressed downwards. The diameter of the hole was small enough that he could prop himself against the walls of the well with both his hands and feet. The rubber soles of his boots and rough surface of his gloves gave him traction against the bricks. The lamp still rested at the bottom of the hole, shedding light on his target. Bit by bit, he reached his goal. Arms and legs spread against the wall like a spider¡¯s, he was now looking at a complete human skeleton, bleached and weathered from the years. It was a surreal, lonely moment. The surface world seemed like a distant memory: deep underground, with only a light source to keep the darkness at bay, Milton felt eerily calm. The bones, gleaming white in the light, were at once harrowing and bizarrely beautiful. Staring at them, he could marvel at their form, so perfectly honed by nature to fulfill their purpose. But the more he stared, the more uneasy he felt. It was like looking into his own future, when all that would remain of him would be the very same bones he was observing.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    After that brief moment of existential horror, his mind focused on the task at hand. While all traces of the person whom the bones belonged to had long been wiped clean by the elements, there was something that survived. Among the tatters of what was once a leather bag, there were dilapidated notebooks and a steel pocket watch on a chain. All of it had to be brough up to the light of day.

    Milton pulled firmly on his rope, and faint echoes from above informed him that the other officers took note. Soon enough, a large metal bucket was lowered on a separate rope. Patiently, Milton placed bones one by one into the container, and pulled the rope once it was full of cargo. After the bucket had made several rounds up and down the well, there was nothing left to put inside it. His work was done. He made the trip back up the same way he climbed down, helped along this time by his allies pulling on the rope from the surface. He emerged from the well to a round of hearty applause.

    <hr>

    The bones were already strewn on a black mat and the forensics experts were arranging them into their actual positions when Milton¡¯s feet finally landed on solid ground again. As he took off his gear, Isaiah approached him.

    ¡°Look at you!¡± he said as he shook his hand. ¡°That was impressive! And, if you don¡¯t mind me saying, slightly unexpected!¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take that as a compliment,¡± Milton said with a smile. ¡°I¡¯ve actually always been good at climbing up and down things, so when the chief asked for volunteers to go down the well, I raised my hand.¡±

    ¡°That makes it even more impressive,¡± Isaiah grinned.

    ¡°I¡¯ve¡­ been trying to get out of my comfort zone,¡± Milton said contemplatively. ¡°Pushing myself to do things that I wouldn¡¯t normally do. Because it¡¯s the only way I can really test my limits. And who knows, maybe one day it will lead to some achievement I¡¯ll be proud of.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d say what you just did is plenty to be proud of,¡± Isaiah reassured him.

    ¡°Thank you, Isaiah,¡± Milton said, and it was clear he was grateful for more than just the compliment. ¡°What you said that day when I was at your place¡­ It changed my life, I think.¡±

    ¡°I just gave you a choice, Milton,¡± Isaiah smiled. ¡°You¡¯re the one who made the decision. Everything you did ¨C reconnecting with your aunt, going against your father¡¯s wishes, going down that well ¨C it was all you. You¡¯re reaping the fruits of your efforts. Savor them. You deserve to.¡±

    They exchanged a quick pat on the back. In spite of the strange circumstances under which they met, both of them now viewed the other as a friend.

    Turning their attention to the bones lying not far from them, they could hear the experts talking amongst themselves, discussing a fracture that was clearly the result of a bullet impact. One of them examined the other objects that were brought up along with the bones. He got a hold of the pocket watch, turned it around in his hand, and then excitedly called chief Sarratt over. When the chief laid eyes on the watch, he immediately looked at Isaiah.

    ¡°Hargraves!¡± he shouted, gesturing towards him. ¡°You should see this too.¡±

    Isaiah ran over and knelt down to look at the watch. In spite of being in the well for who knows how long, it was still in remarkably good condition. There was no rust to tarnish its exquisite detailing: a complex floral pattern decorated its front. On the back, under a similarly eye-catching design, four simple words were engraved along its bottom edge, following the curve of the circle.

    Property of Ezra Rowse.

 Chapter 20

    My name is Archibald Mills.

    Ever since I can remember, I have been in love with art. My earliest masterpiece was a crude drawing of the family dog done in charcoal on the kitchen wall. Since then, whenever I had a moment to spare, I was drawing. It was a childhood dream of mine to one day create something that could be exhibited in an art gallery for everyone to see. It would serve as evidence of my existence, an ¡°I was here¡± in the form of a picture. I would be immortalized through my work.

    I never managed to fulfill this dream, for I was a Mills. My family had obtained immense wealth and respect in Strona as merchants, establishing a store that imported and sold goods from all around the country and beyond. The big Mills¡¯ department store, situated at a plum spot right near Serenity Square, has been running for over a century, employing several generations. It was only natural that I, as my father¡¯s only son, would one day inherit part of the family business. Spending my time on something as useless as art was out of the question ¨C I simply had to be a lawyer, or an economist, or a manager. Therefore, I was dissuaded from going to art school when I was fifteen, though I did not have much say in the matter. Instead, I ended up where all good boys whose fathers want them to make something of themselves end up: Gresham Barlow Academy, essentially a school for the privileged. It was not a particularly good fit for me as you can imagine. My interest in arts and my proclivity towards openly voicing my opinions certainly didn¡¯t put me in favor of my stodgy greying teachers, nor the majority of my pampered peers.

    On the other hand, one good thing did come out of my Academy years: it was there that I met Ezra Rowse.

    I first noticed Ezra at the library, which I frequented because it had several books with reproductions of famous paintings that I turned to whenever I wanted to escape the mundanity around me. He was always there, sticking out thanks to his lanky frame and unruly curly hair, his serious face permanently planted in books. There was a studious, calm air about him that instantly set him apart from most of the other students, who spent their time in class shamelessly flattering the teachers but turned into obnoxious loudmouths whenever they thought nobody was watching. With Ezra, you got the feeling that he wanted to be there, that he really wanted to learn and be a respectable person. In other words, he seemed genuine, and that¡¯s what drew me to him.

    Once we bonded over spending so much time at the library, we became fast friends. It helped that we had somewhat intersecting interests, as both of us were more the artsy type: I had my drawings and he had poetry, which he read and memorized at an astounding rate. He also wrote poems of his own, and a ritual that we quickly established was showing each other our work during our breaks. One time I finally gathered the courage to do a portrait of Ezra ¨C I never really did portraits ¨C and show it to him. I remember it to this day, his astonished expression after I nervously handed him the paper. He looked as if he had just laid eyes on the greatest piece of art ever created.

    ¡°Archie¡­¡± he started, and I was expecting him to thank me. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°You mean what¡¯s a good-for-nothing hopeless case like me doing in a fancy place like this?¡± I responded.

    ¡°You know I didn¡¯t mean it that way!¡± Ezra said.

    ¡°I do, Ezra,¡± I replied, grinning. ¡°I was just making a bad joke.¡±

    ¡°As usual,¡± he added dryly. ¡°It¡¯s just that your work is so passionate, so full of detail. I can tell you enjoyed drawing each and every line. Why isn¡¯t someone like you, who is so obviously meant to be a great artist, in a school that would nurture that talent?¡±

    ¡°Well I told you already, more or less,¡± I said and then sighed. ¡°You just can¡¯t have the fruit of Spencer Mills¡¯ loins scribble drawings for pocket change like some filthy commoner. Just the thought is laughable. He has to be a lawyer or some other big mucky-muck.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry it¡¯s like that,¡± Ezra replied with genuine concern in his voice. ¡°If it helps, I think my father loves his guns more than me.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s very concerning,¡± I said. ¡°But yes, it helps.¡±

    Neither of us liked to talk much about our situation at home. My father didn¡¯t seem to care about anything I thought or said and his was a reserved, stern military veteran who was involved in politics and spent most of his time tending to his weapon collection. If anything, our problematic relationships with the men who raised us provided more common ground to build our friendship on.

    It wasn¡¯t long, though, before I recognized that a friendship wasn¡¯t exactly what I was interested in building with Ezra. As the months passed and I got to know him better, I suddenly found myself overcome with a strange emotion. It was as if I had some sort of wound in my chest, constantly throbbing with a sweet pain that was sometimes enough to bring me to tears. Every moment spent with Ezra, every word he said and every smile on his face seemed to agitate this wound, making me feel both intensely vulnerable and deeply content at the same time.

    Once I fully wrapped my head around this emotion, I realized that I was in love.

    It felt liberating in a way. Everything about my upbringing and environment told me that I should direct all my romantic impulses towards girls my age. I went along with it not knowing better and spent the biggest part of my childhood confused. When was this going to start feeling the way people told me it would? Or maybe that was all there was to it and it¡¯s just vastly overrated? What were these strange thoughts that would surface ever so often, dragging me in the opposite direction of everything I was taught? Falling in love with Ezra answered all those questions in one fell swoop. Once I managed to sort out my feelings, it dawned on me that I had never been in love before ¨C because nothing before ever quite felt like what I was feeling then.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Of course, with this realization came an insatiable urge to spend every waking moment with Ezra. I just wanted to touch him, hug him, kiss him ¨C anything to physically express what I was feeling. Us being students at an uptight school in a somewhat conservative town, this posed as a problem. But regardless of what anyone might say or think, I found myself being more touchy-feely with him, perhaps subconsciously. I would often hug him when meeting outside for lunch, let my head fall on his shoulder when we were laughing, things like that. He never recoiled or said anything about it, and during the all too brief glances he would sometimes send my way I could sometimes detect a sort of bespoke understanding between us. As if he was feeling the same way I was.

    On an otherwise unremarkable spring day, I decided to gather my courage and go all in.

    After finishing school, I found Ezra standing by the gate, waiting for me so we could walk home together as we always did. There he was, hair gently swaying in the breeze, jacket stubbornly buttoned up despite the warm weather. He insisted that it made him look regal and who was I to argue with that.

    ¡°I have something for you,¡± he said as I walked up. He handed me a photograph of his class, him towering over most of his classmates in the back with a gentle smile.

    ¡°Thank you!¡± I exclaimed a bit too excitedly. Just the fact that Ezra gave me something of his own as a gift was making me giddier than it probably should¡¯ve.

    ¡°It¡¯s just a little memento for you,¡± he said. ¡°To remind you of the ¡®good old times¡¯ someday.¡±

    ¡°Well, you know what would be an even better memento? A photo with just the two of us somewhere,¡± I replied.

    ¡°There¡¯s time for that too,¡± Ezra said, and I could notice he was blushing. I suddenly snapped back into the moment and remembered what I was planning to ask him, and my hands started trembling.

    ¡°Ezra,¡± I began shakily. ¡°If you have time, would you like to come to my house?¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± he said, surprised but visibly excited by the proposal. ¡°I suppose I could, but I have to be back home before lunch.¡± He glanced at the clock face on the school tower. ¡°If we take a tram, I can stay at your place for a bit and then make it home in time.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s perfect,¡± I smiled, and soon enough we were on the B line, making our way to my part of town. Mercifully, we were able to be seated during the ride, and I could fold my jacket over my hands to conceal the fact that they were covered with sweat.

    I¡¯d never really invited anyone to my house because I never really had any true friends. For the greater part of my life, I was only exposed to the offspring of my father¡¯s business acquaintances. Most of them weren¡¯t my cup of tea, and the ones that were tended to not be my father¡¯s cup of tea. More often than not, I was feeling lonely. Thank goodness for my drawings.

    The tram ride seemingly ended in the blink of an eye, and we were now standing in front of my parents¡¯ house. Even I would have to admit it was a beautiful three-story building, old but well-kept and gorgeously decorated on the outside. Ezra was visibly impressed.

    I opened the heavy wooden door and immediately led Ezra up the stairs to the attic, which essentially served as my room. As he walked in, he let out a sigh of awe. There wasn¡¯t that much to my room, but it was a spacious loft with huge roof windows that let in a lot of natural light, leaving the white walls, sheets and curtains looking like they were gleaming, a pristine sight tarnished by my clothes littered all over the place. Ezra¡¯s attention was immediately drawn to an ornate gramophone resting on a bedside table, a tower of records stacked next to it.

    ¡°Archie!¡± he exclaimed, barely containing his wonder. ¡°This is amazing! All these records!¡±

    ¡°My dad bought all of them,¡± I said flatly. ¡°The gramophone too. I don¡¯t even listen to music though. Not that he asked me before spending the money.¡±

    At that point I picked up a record, but I held it in such a way that it immediately slipped out of its sleeve. I fumbled to pick it up, but both the record and the sleeve ended up on the floor, leaving me exasperated.

    ¡°That wasn¡¯t clumsy at all,¡± Ezra said with a chuckle.

    ¡°Oh, quiet you,¡± I snapped back as I picked up the record.

    ¡°You are a bit clumsy, aren¡¯t you?¡± he continued. ¡°I¡¯ve seen the same thing happen to you with books at the library.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just that I always try to catch the damn thing!¡± I defended myself. ¡°There are so many times when it would just be better to let it fall down and then pick it up, but I bend over backwards to prevent that from happening and it just makes it worse.¡±

    A smile beamed across Ezra¡¯s face, and took the record from my hands.

    ¡°Actually,¡± he said ¡°this is quite a good record.¡± He put it on, and out of the horn burst out a flurry of noises that sounded like they were made on factory machines, all set to a rhythm paced like a chugging locomotive. My brilliant mind thought it made sense to do a little dance to it. I can¡¯t fathom how awkwardly it looked, but Ezra was just staring at me with the widest grin I¡¯d ever seen.

    ¡°You¡¯re so¡­¡± he began, only to make a slight pause. He never finished the sentence because the door of my room opened, and my father walked in.

    ¡°Ah, there you boys are,¡± he said cheerfully. ¡°Mother told me you had a visitor.¡± Ezra immediately introduced himself in his typical polite manner.

    ¡°Ezra, a pleasure. Archie hardly ever has friends over. Well, never actually. Must be something wrong with him, eh?¡±

    I immediately scowled, but Ezra just stood there, slightly bemused.

    ¡°There¡¯s¡­ nothing wrong with him, sir,¡± he said, shrugging his shoulders.

    ¡°Ah, alright then,¡± father replied in a hurry, clearly caught off guard. ¡°You boys have fun.¡±

    He left and I let out a deep sigh, partially in response to what my father had said, partially to compose myself for what I wanted to do next.

    ¡°Now,¡± I turned to Ezra and smiled. ¡°Let me show you my room.¡±

    With a puzzled expression, he slowly looked around, only to offer a mildly concerned ¡°Aren¡¯t we in it?¡±

    I led him to a nook barricaded by wooden boards that I gathered from old furniture. We crawled inside into a small but cozy space with pillows to sit on. It was my own personal corner. Sketch paper and pencils were lying around everywhere, books were stacked on make-shift shelves, and drawings I was most proud of were nailed to the walls. The whole place was bathed in a warm glow thanks to a petroleum lamp. We sat across one another, and it felt to me like we were in our own tiny world, completely cut off from everything that was outside its borders.

    ¡°This is where I keep all the things that really matter to me,¡± I started, and then hesitated for a moment before finding the courage to continue. ¡°And that includes you now.¡±

    ¡°That sounds like you¡¯re going to keep me hostage in here,¡± Ezra said jokingly.

    ¡°I might,¡± I replied, and then we both started laughing. When the laughter subsided, suddenly I found myself gazing into his eyes silently. He was doing the same. I needed to seize the moment.

    ¡°May I kiss you?¡± I half-whispered.

    Ezra just nodded, we both leaned in, and our lips met. My heart started beating like mad, and an intense heat spread from the core of my body all the way to my fingertips.

    It was the happiest I¡¯d felt in my entire life.

 Chapter 21

    For a month or so after I confessed my feelings to Ezra, everything was as perfect as it could be. Pretty much all of my life up to that point, there was always this feeling of background unhappiness underscoring each moment, and it was so unusual to have it replaced with a background joy that seeped into every crack of my existence. We were together whenever we could find the time, but it never seemed to wear thin. Our conversations kept unfolding and our connection and admiration for each other only grew deeper, as if we had scratched away the surface attraction that bonded us and discovered a vast ocean underneath, begging to be explored. I was truly content, for the first and last time in my life.

    Then, on that fateful day, I came to school and instantly noticed something was off. Ezra met me at the gate as he always does, but he seemed distant, as if he no longer belonged to the world around him. When I looked into his eyes, all I could see was a profound sadness.

    I immediately asked him what was wrong, but he couldn¡¯t ¨C or wouldn¡¯t ¨C say. His broken voice begged me to follow him as far away from Academy grounds as possible, somewhere we could be alone. I was well aware that I would get in trouble with my parents when the headmaster informed them I had missed an entire day of classes. But I also recognized that this was something serious. Ezra¡¯s well-being was far more important to me than staying on my teachers¡¯ good side.

    We took a tram to Strona¡¯s city hall, and from there rode the funicular up to the highest level of the city. At that point, the only way up the hills was by treading an abandoned hiking path. We walked for what seemed like ages, the sounds of people and vehicles fading from a distant echo into complete silence. Neither of us said a word until we reached an isolated spot at the foot of a sharp incline that led all the way to the highest mountain peaks overlooking the city. A few lonely pine trees dotted the clearing, separated from the evergreen forest covering the slope. The view was spectacular; had a hideous tension not permeated the air, the whole experience would have been quite soothing.

    ¡°Ezra,¡± I said quietly, facing him. ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill myself,¡± he said with a calmness that made the words all the more terrifying.

    A shiver ran down my spine. I stared at him blankly for what felt like forever until he spoke up again.

    ¡°I¡¯m telling you because I want you to know what happened to me. I couldn¡¯t bear the thought of you waking up tomorrow with me gone and wondering what went wrong.¡±

    ¡°Wait, why!?¡± I cried, tears welling up in my eyes.

    ¡°I don¡¯t really know how, but my father found out about you. Not about you explicitly, just that I¡¯m with a boy.¡± He began to unbutton the jacket of his school uniform patiently, top to bottom like good boys do. When he took it off, I could only gaze in shock at the countless bruises covering his arms, ugly blotches of various hues of purple and yellow against his pale skin. He then pulled back the collar of his white shirt, and another bruise appeared on his chest, this one a dark shade of crimson.

    ¡°This is from last night,¡± he said, his voice beginning to break. ¡°The beatings are nothing new. It¡¯s how he always punishes me. But I had never seen him as angry as he was yesterday. Before I left for school this morning, he said that he would kill me if I set foot into the house again. So, I¡¯m already dead, essentially.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about!?¡± I shouted, my voice cracking. ¡°How are you even going to¡­¡±

    As if he knew what I was going to ask, Ezra pulled something out of his bag before I could finish my sentence. It was an antique revolver. Had I seen it on any other occasion, I would¡¯ve been stunned by the beauty of its hand carved wooden grip panel. Then and there, it just filled me with dread.

    ¡°This was that twisted man¡¯s idea of a gift for my fifteenth birthday. I never thought I¡¯d make use of it.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I whimpered, wishing with every fiber of my being that I was about to wake up from a nightmare.

    ¡°The time I spent with you was the best part of my life Archie,¡± Ezra said gently, a tear running down his cheek. ¡°I love you. I truly do.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± I screamed.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t do it in front of you. You¡¯ll leave and then I¡¯ll¡­ take care of it.¡±

    ¡°No!!! You¡¯re not doing this!¡± I howled, my throat burning. ¡°I know you feel like there¡¯s no other way out of this¡­ But I won¡¯t let you do it! We can escape!¡±

    ¡°Escape where, Archie?¡±

    ¡°Anywhere! I¡¯ll take you anywhere! I¡¯ll get a job, we¡¯ll rent a place and we¡¯ll start building a life together! You can stay at my house until we figure out the details! Please! Anything¡­¡± I begged, my face red underneath thick streams of tears. ¡°Anything but this.¡±

    Hope flickered across Ezra¡¯s face as he began to sob.

    ¡°You would do that for me?¡±

    ¡°I would do anything for you,¡± I said with all the strength I could muster at that point. ¡°Because I love you too! And I can¡¯t imagine a world without you.¡±

    Ezra¡¯s head and shoulders slumped, his whole body now trembling in sync with his sobs. I recognized an opening and knew I had to make use of it.

    ¡°Will you please give me the gun?¡± I said in the calmest, most comforting voice I could manage in a situation like that.

    For a few horrifying moments, he just stood motionless before me, still staring down at the ground. Finally, he stretched the arm holding the gun towards me. He faced me again, a barely visible smile on his lips. I rushed forward, cusped his hand and carefully took the revolver.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    We stood like that, hand in hand and incredulously staring at each other, for a small eternity. And then, suddenly, we both started laughing through the tears. It seemed like the only reasonable thing to do in such an absurd situation ¨C nothing else would¡¯ve done it justice.

    When we managed to calm down, I took a step back and attempted to unload the gun. But as I reached for the cylinder with my sweaty, shaking fingers, I fumbled, and the revolver slipped out of my hand. My anxiety suddenly took control of me, and my hands began to fiddle around frantically, desperate to get a solid grip on the gun. The next thing I knew, one of my fingers clumsily snagged the trigger, and a loud shot pierced the silence.

    Time froze for me. My heart sank like a brick in a lake. I could feel every muscle in my face contort my features into something that I would never want to see in a mirror.

    I somehow brought myself to divert my eyes from the revolver to Ezra. He was standing in front of me, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar, the white fabric on his chest stained a deep red. I stared, hopelessly expecting for the image before me to change. He just slumped to his knees, the expression of shock on his face unchanged, and then fell to the ground motionless.

    Every horrifying realization of what I had just done sank in at once. My skin suddenly felt like some vile prison I desperately wanted to break out of. I started slipping in and out of awareness, the world around me becoming a blur. In a moment of clarity, my mind focused on the one thing that could release me from this situation.

    I still had a gun in my hand.

    I placed the muzzle of the revolver against my temple. For a moment I hesitated, but then I convinced myself to pull the trigger.

    Nothing happened.

    One more try. Still nothing.

    I removed the cylinder, which took me somewhere in the neighborhood of forever due to my mental state, only to find that it was empty. There was only one bullet. Of course there was. One bullet was all it would take ¨C why bring more? It was such an Ezra thing to do. Bring only what was sufficient and nothing else.

    I dropped to my knees and threw the gun as far away from me as possible, angry at it for letting me down. ¡°What now?¡± I asked myself. ¡°You could jump,¡± a voice in my head offered grimly. ¡°There¡¯s good elevation here. You¡¯d be just a smudge on the ground in no time. Or you could drown. Slit your wrists. Jump in front of a tram. The possibilities are limitless.¡±

    But with every option presented to me, I could feel another, weak voice cut through the darkness and meekly repeat ¡°I don¡¯t want to die.¡± Whatever part of me that voice was coming from, it had a stubborn enough self-preservation instinct to hold on to life even while my whole body wanted to just stop existing. I cursed myself. Ezra was dead and I was still alive ¨C and that¡¯s how it would stay because I was too weak to do deliberately what I had just done by accident.

    I don¡¯t know how long I remained in this state; time becomes a secondary concern when you¡¯re stuck in your head. But I do remember that, once I seemingly became numb to the pain, the extended implications of what I just did began to surface from the depths of my mind. I was a murderer. The body will be found, the police will investigate, and in the end I¡¯ll probably go to jail for a long time.

    ¡°Good,¡± my dark inner voice popped up yet again. ¡°You deserve to rot away in a cell for the rest of your life for what you did. You should turn yourself in and speed up the process.¡±

    And again, the same scared little voice from before somehow slipped through the cracks. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go to jail.¡± I hated that voice. I hated it because it was selfish, looking out only for itself. It was scared of death, scared of punishment, scared of everything. And again I knew I would listen to it, because I couldn¡¯t bring myself to do what needed to be done. I was filled by an endless self-loathing, disgusted by myself down to the very last atom.

    The body had to be hidden, that much I knew. My muscles seemed to act on their own, running on pure instinct. I threw the gun over the edge of the plateau, into the wilderness, and then began dragging Ezra up the slope, into the forest. As I pulled him by his arms, his face seemed to look at me in horror, still frozen in that moment of realization that I had shot him. I¡¯d wanted to turn him on his stomach but what was left of my decency forbade it. I didn¡¯t want his face to be dragged in the dirt, soiled and bruised by the rocks and twigs.

    ¡°Besides, it¡¯s better this way,¡± I thought to myself. ¡°You don¡¯t deserve to make this situation any easier on you. Look at his face every step of the way. This is what you have done.¡±

    Once I had slipped into the forest, I became aware of the fact that I don¡¯t really have a plan. What was I going to do? I couldn¡¯t just leave Ezra on the ground. I couldn¡¯t bury him either ¨C it would take ages without tools and coming back later to do the job was far too risky. I began to pant deeply, exhausted both physically and mentally. There was no way out of the mess I was in.

    Just then, I noticed something in the distance. My eyes attempted to focus on the image and, once I was certain it wasn¡¯t some sort of mirage born out of my insanity, I carried on forward, still dragging the body of the man I loved with me.

    I eventually arrived at the rest area. It was probably made with hikers in mind but had obviously not been used by anyone in an awfully long time. The wooden benches and table were rotted from moisture. Blankets of moss had covered their surfaces and ferns were growing all around them ¨C nature had already reclaimed them. But my eyes immediately shifted to something else, something that could be of use in my current situation.

    There was a well here. All the wooden parts had crumbled to the passage of time, left in shards around the well itself. The windlass and bucket were nowhere to be seen, the bricks covered with lichens. I threw a nearby rock inside: it disappeared into the darkness and landed with a dull thud. There was no water inside, and it was deep enough for the bottom to be invisible.

    ¡°Might as well do it now,¡± the voice in my head spoke. ¡°It¡¯s as good a place as any to relieve your filthy conscience.¡±

    Getting the body into the well was a more challenging task than I could¡¯ve expected. First, I had to sit Ezra against the wall. Then I used every ounce of strength I had to lift and position him across the edge of the well. His legs were limply hanging towards the ground while his upper body and head dangled above the hole. I was gripping him on both sides, preparing to push him into the well, and this gave me an all too close view of his head from a bottom angle, his eyes now peering into the sky with the expression of frozen horror still etched onto his face. It¡¯s an image that will remain burned in my head until I die.

    I didn¡¯t want to let go. I didn¡¯t want to push him into that cold, lonely abyss. But my cowardice had forced me into believing I had to. And I did, ugly tears running down my cheeks as his mangled form disappeared into the darkness, hitting the bottom with a sound that would end up taking a permanent place in my nightmares.

    I sat down on the ground, my back leaning against the cold bricks, and the hours just melted away. I alternated between crying my eyes out and staring blankly into the distance. I wanted the world to stop just so I could try to regain my senses, but time went on mercilessly. Birds were chirping in the trees, and the sun moved slowly across the sky. I had to face the brutal fact that, despite feeling like an utterly broken shell of a human being, I had to rejoin everyday life.

    So I stood up and walked away, not daring to look back. With a broken branch I swept across the debris of the forest floor to cover up the trace of a body being dragged. I descended from the plateau, slowly walking down the path leading back to the city.

    The only thing I knew for sure was that nothing would ever be the same again.

 Chapter 22

    The descending trail from the hills above the city eventually led me to the outskirts of Upper Park, and soon enough I was walking down its cobblestone paths, surrounded by people. I tried my best to keep calm, but I still felt like everyone was looking directly at me. Whenever I happened to meet the eye of a passer-by, my heart skipped a beat. ¡°They know. They know what you did,¡± my inner voice would say.

    Somehow, I made my way to Strickland Avenue, where I could catch the funicular leading to the lower levels of the town. I glanced at the clock tower of a small church. It was already past school hours. My forehead was immediately drenched in cold sweat.

    As the funicular descended, I attempted to piece together some kind of explanation for my absence. My parents would wonder why I hadn¡¯t returned home in time, and Ezra¡¯s would as well. There would be questions to answer.

    I didn¡¯t get much thinking done. The only thing on my mind was the fact that I would never hear Ezra¡¯s voice again. Tears started rolling down my face ¨C I turned away from the other passengers to hide it, pretending I was intensely focused on something out the window.

    The funicular trip and tram ride went by in a haze, and suddenly I was walking up to my house. Here too I felt like everyone was looking at me, but this time it wasn¡¯t just my imagination. People were definitely staring at me, and I could¡¯ve sworn I heard whispers as I passed them by.

    At my house, a police car. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

    Four pairs of eyes immediately fixated themselves on my face. My father, my mother and two police officers.

    ¡°Archie!¡± mother shouted as she ran up to me and put her hands on my shoulders. ¡°Thank goodness! We were worried sick!¡±

    ¡°Where were you!?¡± father exclaimed, sounding more annoyed than concerned. ¡°You should¡¯ve been home hours ago, the headmaster said you missed the whole day of school!¡±

    ¡°If I may, sir,¡± one of the police officers said calmly. ¡°I understand that emotions are running high at this time, but we have some questions for your son.¡±

    Father just nodded and mother stood aside as the officers stepped towards me.

    ¡°Archie, I¡¯m officer Kain,¡± she introduced herself. ¡°This is officer Cobbett. We would appreciate it if you could answer some questions for us.¡±

    I nodded, trying to mop all my anxiety and fear under the rug.

    ¡°Your parents called us after they were informed that you hadn¡¯t showed up in class today. However, some of your fellow students reported seeing you in front of the Academy building this morning. Is this true?¡±

    I swallowed hard.

    ¡°Answer the police officer, Archie,¡± father said sternly. I just nodded my head.

    ¡°Were you alone?¡± officer Kain continued.

    ¡°No,¡± I said, barely audible. If other kids saw me, then they must have seen Ezra with me too ¨C there was no point in lying.

    ¡°Who were you with?¡±

    ¡°Ezra Rowse.¡±

    ¡°Good grief, you finally have a friend and they¡¯re putting you up to nonsense like this?¡± father snapped, but Cobbett just gestured towards him to keep quiet.

    ¡°Listen to me very carefully, Archie. I need you to tell me exactly what happened when the two of you left the Academy gate this morning.¡±

    Her face was unreadable, terrifying in how expressionless in was. I don¡¯t know how I managed not to faint.

    ¡°We took a tram,¡± I started, forcing myself to look her in the eyes. ¡°To city hall. Then we took a funicular to the highest level of the city. And then¡­ I lost him.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean you lost him? Can you be more specific?¡±

    ¡°He ran off. I tried to run after him but he went through Maggie¡¯s farmers market and there was no way to pick him out of the crowd. I spent ages looking for him¡­ I looked everywhere on the upper level, but I couldn¡¯t find him.¡±

    ¡°Was there anything unusual in Ezra¡¯s behavior prior to this?¡±Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ¡°Yes,¡± I said solemnly. ¡°I think¡­ I think he¡¯s been having some serious trouble at home. He just wanted to escape from it.¡±

    Kain and Cobbett exchanged a quick glance and a barely noticeable nod. Then they both faced me directly.

    ¡°Thank you for your answers, Archie,¡± officer Kain said gently. ¡°You¡¯ve been very helpful. If you see Ezra or hear anything from him, please give us a call.¡±

    They left, and I broke down crying in front of my parents.

    Ezra obviously never returned home and was pronounced missing. I was completely off the hook ¨C from what newspapers were reporting and people were whispering on the streets, it was a case of a troubled youth running away from a potentially abusive father. We did get a few more visits from the police, asking me if I knew places Ezra frequented or considered safe, but the case stalled without any convincing evidence. The search didn¡¯t cease, but soon enough the news cycle moved on to other topics of the day, and the missing of Ezra Rowse receded from the public eye.

    As the situation unfolded, I disappeared in my guilt. I withdrew myself from the world completely. The day after I murdered Ezra, I left the class photo he gave me on a random table in a random classroom. I couldn¡¯t bear to hold it or look at it; just the thought of his smiling, innocent face was enough to make my skin crawl from the disgust I felt for myself.

    That was also the last time I ever stepped foot into the Academy. I shut myself off in my nook, resisting all attempts to be forced out of it. I stopped eating and lost a lot of weight, and soon after I fell seriously ill. The chagrin of my parents soon turned to genuine worry, as they started to spend hours outside of my safe space trying to comfort me, pleading for me to come out with their voices cracking. Soon enough I got so weak that doctors had to forcibly pull me out and take me to the hospital. My body got better, but my mind never recovered. I talked to so many doctors that I lost count, but nothing ever helped me heal and move on.

    In the end, I left school and found a job doing physical labor, crushing any remaining hopes my parents had for me. From then on, I would live my life as nothing but a spectator, going day to day without any attempt to do anything else other than simply surviving. I never drew anything after that day, not a single sketch. It¡¯s not that I stopped because I was punishing myself ¨C I just didn¡¯t feel like doing it anymore. All of the things that brought me pleasure were meaningless without Ezra. The day that I murdered him, something in my head was completely rearranged so that I could never feel true joy anymore.

    In that state of mind, time became a secondary concern: days blended into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. It took me nearly two decades to gather the strength to go visit the well once more. I could only bring myself to stay for a few moments, and I had horrifying dreams of Ezra¡¯s mangled decomposing body the days after, so I never tried it again since.

    The only thing that changed through the years was the amount of deep-seeded bitterness that I accumulated within me. Every single happy couple I saw would cause my wounds to re-open. I knew that it was pointless and wrong to hold resentment towards them, but sometimes it felt like they were hurting me simply by existing. In them I saw everything that I never had a chance to become, a better version of oneself that surfaces through the simple act of caring for someone else. It was easier to funnel that pain into anger and throw it at any stable, functioning relationship I encountered than to dwell on it and let it eat away at what was left of me. It¡¯s why I give dirty looks to young lovers when I pass them by on my way home from buying groceries. It¡¯s why I spit at wedding carriages. And it¡¯s why I¡¯m rude to the sweet young man who recently moved in next to me with his husband, even when he tries to help me. He hurts me more than perhaps anyone else because he achieved what I never could ¨C building a happy home with the man he loves.

    And here I am, fifty years later. A shriveled, grey husk of my former self, ending one mundane day after the other wishing that I don¡¯t wake up the next morning. Then, regrettably, I do, and have to go through the routine one more time. Buy groceries, return home, read the newspaper, lie down for a rest, have lunch, and wait silently for the night to fall.

    It was like this until one particular day, when my routine was interrupted in a way I never would¡¯ve expected. As I sat down and unfolded the daily paper, I froze in shock. Spread across the front page was a photograph of Ezra, with the headline ¡°Body of missing boy found after five decades.¡±

    My body jolted forward as my eyes ran past the lines of text, quickly absorbing them. It was that same young man living next door ¨C he made the discovery. I knew his name because I¡¯d heard him repeat it outside my door after I rejected his offer to help me. Apparently he¡¯s a retired spirit detective ¨C who would¡¯ve known? Evidence made it clear that Ezra¡¯s death wasn¡¯t voluntary, and it was to be investigated as a murder.

    The paper just slid out of my fingers and fell to the floor. I sat in my armchair completely still, hunched forward, my eyes fixated on the kitchen wall. My mind began to race. I¡¯d told the police that Ezra ran away because he had problems with his father. They surely got testimonials from his family as well, and they must¡¯ve known about the abuse, the argument, the death threat. The fact that Ezra¡¯s father was a cold and intense man with a gun collection probably didn¡¯t help his case. Altogether, it would all seem to point towards him being the culprit.

    Clearly, I had no sympathy for Ezra¡¯s father ¨C he could¡¯ve been put in prison for the rest of his life for the way he treated his son, and I wouldn¡¯t bat an eye. But fifty years had passed and he was no longer alive, so he couldn¡¯t be tried for murder. Nevertheless, his surviving children still had tight connections to Strona¡¯s government. If his good name was to be soiled they would be the ones taking the hit. They would lose their good standing, their influence, their income. It would put them in a hard spot to say the least.

    But most importantly, Ezra loved his sister and brother, he told me as much. They were the only reason he would return home after school. If I truly loved him, there was no way I could let them suffer the consequences of something they had no involvement with.

    I let out a heavy sigh and slowly get out of my chair. I know what has to be done.

    I waddle out of my apartment and walk up to the door next to me.

    One more deep sigh, and I knock.

 Chapter 23

    There was a knock at the door.

    Nigel and I weren¡¯t expecting anyone: we were both sitting in the living room reading while vegetables were slowly stewing in the kitchen. We shared a quick silent glance, and then I got up to see who it was.

    I looked through the keyhole and saw the last person I expected to be standing in front of the door. It was our next-door neighbor, the grumpy old man who never missed the opportunity to give us the evil eye if he saw us in the hallway. A slight shiver went down my spine. I remembered that day when my not-at-all-pleasant experience with him led to a moment of weakness that nearly ended with me being possessed.

    Nevertheless, I opened the door. Perhaps he wanted to apologize. Or he just needed help with something. Whatever the case, he deserved to at least be given a chance to say what he wanted to.

    We stood there, just looking at each other silently for a few seconds. In his eyes I could see an unfathomable sadness that caught me off guard. It seemed impossible to hide. How was I only noticing it now?

    ¡°Your name is Isaiah Hargraves, isn¡¯t it?¡± he said.

    ¡°It is¡­¡± I replied, slightly confused by the question.

    He nodded his head and took a deep breath. ¡°I have to talk to you,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s important.¡±

    ¡°Please come in,¡± I invited him, standing aside so he could enter. He made his way into the apartment, one small footstep at a time, as Nigel came out from the living room to see what was going on.

    ¡°What the heck!?¡± he snarled the moment he laid eyes on the man. ¡°What is he doing here!?!¡±

    ¡°Nigel, please,¡± I tried to calm the situation. ¡°Mister¡­ On second thought, I don¡¯t even know your name.¡±

    ¡°Mills,¡± he said. ¡°Archibald Mills.¡±

    ¡°Mr. Mills says that he needs to talk to me. And it sounds like it¡¯s something I should hear.¡±

    My lips pursed and my eyebrows arched up. Nigel instantly recognized it as the face I always make when I feel like I have to do something that I know he wouldn¡¯t understand. Sure enough, his ire instantly died down.

    ¡°Alright then,¡± he said, stepping towards the kitchen. ¡°If you say so, then I believe you. Would you like some tea, Mr. Mills?¡± he asked with just a hint of venom.

    ¡°No, thank you,¡± Archibald sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t deserve anything from you.¡±

    Both of us were taken aback by what he said. Not just the words, but how he said them. Profound self-loathing oozed from every syllable. It became clear to me that he wasn¡¯t kidding: he had to talk to me. Something had brought him to the dark place he was in and the only thing that could help him out of it was to bare his soul.

    He made it to the living room, and I pushed an armchair towards him so he wouldn¡¯t have to make the effort of reaching it. As he lowered his old bones into it with a heavy sigh, I sat across him.

    ¡°Whenever you¡¯re ready to say what you need to, I¡¯m ready to hear it,¡± I said to him.

    ¡°I actually thought this would be easy,¡± he said with a hushed, raspy voice. ¡°That I could just walk in here and spill everything out. But just now it dawned on me that I never actually told anyone what I want to tell you. It¡¯s just been fermenting in my head for decades now. And it¡¯s not easy to open the jar and let it out.¡±

    ¡°Take your time,¡± I tried to encourage him. Soon enough Nigel emerged back from the kitchen, holding two cups of mint tea. He gave one to me and placed the other next to our guest.

    ¡°I knew Ezra,¡± Archibald said after a long pause, and I immediately leaned forward. After that unassuming beginning, the floodgates seemed to open. He told us everything: how he fell in love with Ezra Rowse while they were both at the Academy, how happy he was to be with him and how that happiness was cut short when he accidentally shot him. Nigel and I listened to the story in rapt silence all the way to the end.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a lot to take in,¡± I said. Truthfully, I had no idea what to think. The tale had left me emotionally overwhelmed and drained at the same time. But more than anything, I felt sad. Sad for the tragic way Ezra¡¯s life ended just when a glimmer of hope had appeared on the horizon, and sad for the way it turned Archibald into an empty shell of a human being. Nigel instantly appeared at my side, pulling me next to him. He¡¯d been with me long enough to notice when my feelings got a little too intense for my own good.

    ¡°I had to tell you,¡± the old man muttered. ¡°I¡¯d already done one unforgivable thing¡­ I couldn¡¯t bear doing another,¡± he said, and his voice began to shake.

    ¡°Mr. Mills,¡± I said after my sorrow subsided. ¡°I don¡¯t think that word is appropriate in your case. ¡®Unforgivable.¡¯ Every sane person who listened to your story would conclude that what happened that day was a mishap. A tragic mishap, but a mishap none the less. You didn¡¯t want to harm or kill, you weren¡¯t handling a weapon irresponsibly, your judgement wasn¡¯t faulty¡­ You were just trying to do the right thing. People make slip-ups all the time. You just had the misfortune of making one at the worst possible moment.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing you can say that can change the fact that Ezra might still be here if I hadn¡¯t pulled that trigger,¡± Archibald said coldly. ¡°I killed the only person I truly loved and then didn¡¯t have the courage to own up to it. I am scum. I¡¯m not worthy of the air I breathe. If I wasn¡¯t such a coward¡­ I¡¯d just end it all,¡± he stammered, beginning to weep.

    As always, I couldn¡¯t help but feel some sort of compassion for him. His own guilt gave birth to a voice inside his head that kept telling him that he was no longer worthy of happiness and love. This voice had beaten him down into submission and convinced him that what it was saying was true. It was hitting maybe a little too close to home. I knew a thing or two about what it was like to have a voice inside your head trying to sway you to its side and convince you you¡¯re something you¡¯re not.

    ¡°Archibald¡­¡± I began to speak, trying to follow my own train of thought as it unraveled in my head, ¡°I know it¡¯s probably the hardest thing you¡¯ll ever have to do in your life, but you have to forgive yourself. Because literally nothing good is coming from you still standing in one place and denying yourself the right to live your life. Not for you, not for anyone else.¡±

    He just stared at me with his huge, watery eyes.

    ¡°At the same time,¡± I continued, ?perhaps the best way for you to actually restart your life and continue where you left off would be to finally take responsibility for your actions. I guess what I¡¯m saying is¡­ there¡¯s always a gap between doing something and admitting you did it. And what you¡¯ve done is taken that gap and stretched it into a huge limbo. You¡¯ve been drifting through time and space, constantly delaying what you know is the logical next step since you were fifteen. Until you take that step, you¡¯ll remain in this state, constantly giving your guilt even more ammunition.¡±

    Something changed in him when I said that. He wiped his tears and looked at me with a quiet determination, as if I¡¯d somehow reminded him what he came here for in the first place.

    ¡°That¡¯s what I told myself, actually,¡± he said. ¡°I want to come clean. I can¡¯t let someone else¡¯s name be tarnished because of something I did.¡±

    ¡°Do you know what that was just now?¡± I asked him. He just shook his head, curious as to what I was getting at.

    ¡°That was you taking your life back,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯re finally doing something that isn¡¯t simply vegetating in this aimless state you¡¯ve been in for so long. So what if it took you 50 years? Better late than never.¡±

    ¡°Better late than never, eh?¡± he said with a tired smile. ¡°I guess that¡¯s it then. I need to turn myself in.¡±

    ¡°What happens if he does that?¡± Nigel asked, turning towards me.

    ¡°Under law, it¡¯s involuntary manslaughter,¡± I answered. ¡°A base sentence for that is twelve to eighteen months. But it can be increased if there¡¯s reason to. The fact that he waited this long to confess probably won¡¯t do him any favors.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Archibald sighed. ¡°I¡¯ve been withering between my own four walls for practically half a century. Jail can¡¯t be worse than that.¡±

    Suddenly, it dawned on me. The case I took upon myself that day I arrived to Strona was now nearly complete. There was but one thing that needed to be done.

    ¡°Nigel, can you bring it?¡± I asked. He just nodded his head and got up. Moments later, he was back with Bubba¡¯s ¨C or, rather, Archibald¡¯s ¨C class photo. I was weary of touching it after what happened in the forest.

    ¡°Is¡­ Is that?¡± Archibald stammered incredulously.

    ¡°It is,¡± I confirmed. ¡°By pure luck of the draw, our landlord picked it up after you left it all those years ago. It¡¯s what started this whole investigation. There¡¯s a spirit lingering around it, unwilling to leave this world. Ezra¡¯s spirit. It¡¯s obvious now why it chose to cling to this photo. It thought you still had it. And all this time, Ezra has been repeating one thing only. ¡®I miss you.¡¯¡±

    Archibald¡¯s lower lip quivered.

    ¡°He¡¯s been patiently waiting for fifty years,¡± I added. ¡°I think it¡¯s time you set him free. He deserves to move on, and so do you.¡±

    <hr>

    Archibald hesitated for a second, but then extended his pale, bony arm. Nigel handed him the photograph.

    The moment Archibald¡¯s fingers touched the photo, a wave of elation rushed through his body, awakening feelings that he¡¯d long put under lock and key. Every single happy memory with Ezra replayed in his mind. He could practically feel his soft, unkempt locks at his fingertips, the smell of spring blowing in the breeze, laughter echoing through the corridors of his mind. All his worries and fears faded into non-existence, and for one blissful, all too brief moment, everything was perfect. It was as if the world itself was a joyous, eternal song, and every fiber of his being was swaying to its rhythm.

    For so long, Ezra¡¯s only wish was to be reunited with his first and only love.

    At long last, the wish had come true.