Writer's Friday, Week 2

Welcome back!

photo by @blue_fox_s_hut

This is the 2nd week of Writer's Friday, and today I give you the continuation of last week's story!

The selected prompt came from @blue_fox_s_hut 's Foxtober Art Challenge for Day 18: Ghost in the Pumpkin Patch.

Next week's prompt comes from The 6th House Literary (@the6thhouse_literary) and their October writing challenge.

Prompt: To live is to be haunted by what could have been

Now, let's write!

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Ghost in the Pumpkin Patch, part 2

       It was hard not to notice him. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk across the street, completely still, his eyes fixed in my direction. At first glance, I didn’t recognize him, but seeing how persistent his stare was, I offered a tired smile. He then began walking towards the shop, ignoring the pedestrians he had just pushed into.

            A familiar face from the university, perhaps, I wondered, as he pulled the door open. Ignoring Farah’s greeting, he waltzed straight to my table. His hand hovered over the chair opposite, pale and thin, but didn’t pull it.

            I was quite taken aback by both his approach and his demeanour. Now that he stood close enough, I was certain we had never met before, for someone like him would be impossible to forget. Long black hair was tied in a low ponytail, loose strands framing a face of sharp edges and soft, thin lips. His eyes must have been a deep blue, yet a trick of the sunlight made them dawn a violet hue. He was dressed in simple black jeans and a grey jumper, a backpack much like mine hanging from his shoulder.

            “Do I know you?” I offered, his hand still ghosting over the chair.

            “You are just like me.”

            As if drawing breath after a long time underwater, he spoke those words with the reverence one gives to a miracle. I saw a smile creep on his lips, eyes softening as he regarded me.

            “I’m sorry, you two know each other?”

            Farah stood behind him, suspicion deepening the lines around her eyes. In truth, she knew all of my friends, even those from college she’d never.

            The stranger straightened and wore a most sincere smile, turning to Farah slowly, not to hit her with his bag.

            “I just joined one of Lina’s classes. She promised to help me catch up. Oh, um,” he wiped a gloved hand on his jeans before extending it to her, “I’m Isaac.”

            Farah gave me a look, and I found myself nodding in agreement with the stranger.

            “And you two are the same, how?” she pushed.

            Without missing a beat, Isaac waved his hand.

            “I rarely see others wearing gloves inside.”

            Farah relaxed at that, his tone so friendly and the fact so simple and silly, I would have fallen for it too, had I not known.

            “I see. Well, Isaac, what can I get you?”

            “I’ll take whatever she’s having.”

            My friend left, and Isaac pulled the chair, leaving his bag on the floor next to him.

            “Do you often cover up for strangers like that? It’s quite dangerous, you know.”

            I noticed that, while my gloves were made of wool, his were leather.

            “How do you know my name?”

            The smile dropped. He brought his hands to the table, pressed them together and stared straight at them, thumb playing with the cuff of the left glove. He only answered after the espresso was sitting right in front of him.

            “I know what lives in your garden.”

            I felt my breath catching for a second. His words played over in my head, and the use of present tense made my shoulders relax.

            “There is nothing living in my garden. Unless you count the pumpkins.”

            “We both know that’s not true.”

            He proceeded then to tell me a story so horrifying I had to make a conscious effort not to stand up and run away from him. It was not about sickness or war. It was about regular people, leading regular lives, and what became of them in the end. It was cruel, disturbing and unforgiving, yet dipped in so much sorrow I could but feel my heart heavier with each passing word.

            When he stopped and I used a napkin to wipe my tears, my hands felt even colder than before.

            “So where is he? That sinner you mentioned.”

            Isaac handed me another napkin. “A year ago, he was spotted in a nearby village.”

            A year ago was when the surge of ghosts happened.

            “I tried to find him, but it was too late. He must have moved to a neighbouring village or town.”

            “And you think he is here now? And he wants my ghosts?”

            “I-”

            He finally looked me in the eyes then, for the first time ever since he began unravelling that grim tale.

            “I am not sure. But I believe, if he is not already in town, he will pass through very soon. He has to. And I have to find him.”

            He took a look around to make sure no one was paying us attention, and once the sidewalk was clear too, he removed the right glove as far as his knuckles. Instead of flesh, my eyes met dark bone and whatever was left of its wrapping, the stench of rot and decay attacking my nose instantly, my vision blurring once more.

            “He is doing it to you too,” I managed to say between gags.

            “He tried to.”

            He placed the glove back on, the odour disappearing as fast as the bone did from view.

            “I want to stop him.”

            I saw fear in his eyes, but determination burned in them too, as bright as the sun in the sky. His gaze travelled to the sky, still filled with clouds, the sun bravely fought against. An unexplainable ease rose in my chest, irrational as it was, that I’d just found something I had been searching for my whole life. He caught me staring at him, his cheeks turning a deep red. Before I could think better of it, the words slipped right out of my mouth.

            “You said you just arrived in town. Do you have a place to stay?”

            It’s been a year since. As I write these words, there has been no sighting of the Sinner, nor have any of the ghosts disappeared.

            Isaac has been living with me ever since that day. We grew close pretty quickly; I think that, maybe, we are in love. Mother really liked him, despite knowing the story we came up with about his sudden appearance was nothing more than a lie. I don’t know what I would have done without him, when she...

            But it’s already been two months. I am doing better now.

            We adopted the tabby cat that kept coming into the garden and let Debora name her. To this day, she’s the youngest amongst the residents of the pumpkin patch; we thought it proper to give her the honours.

            The ghosts have not taken a liking to Isaac yet, but I suppose these kinds of things take time. In the first couple of months, they avoided him all together, their ghostly figures fading instantly when he approached them. Ever since Mother, they seem willing to put up with him, and I am inclined to believe they are doing so for my sake. Stranger though, how only the elder habitats of the patch seem to be around when he is in the garden. Well, I am sure there will come a day when they all feel just as at ease with him as they feel with me.

            Isaac is incredible, after all. Farah can’t believe it any more than I can, and she even joked about being my maid of honour when the time comes. Isaac blushed so much, I thought he would excuse himself to the bathroom to calm down.

            He is absolutely incredible.

            There is just this one little thing that sometimes keeps me up at night, even as I lay in his arms. I think I hear his voice, even when his lips are not moving. The words are always clear, the tone just right, except his lips don’t seem to follow the movement at all. It’s happened a few times now, and I always blamed it on the light or my tired eyes.

But today, today I am sure it happened again. Right after, I stared at his shadow on the wall and found two beady, crimson eyes staring right back.