Bezpłatny fragment - Unusual citizens and their idiosyncrasies

Prologue

Tenth draft.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but time is slipping away — and I have very little left to tell you everything I’ve seen and heard.

I’m no writer, and I’ve never been much of a storyteller. But if a story exists, it needs to be told. That’s what I believe. It deserves to be shared — at least with a small circle of people, a circle that now includes you.

Right now, I’m sitting at a train station, thinking about all this. People tend to romanticize stations — I’m not sure whether that’s right or wrong. But here I am, sitting on a cold bench, wrapped in an old torn jacket and a pulled-up hood — and for the first time in ages, I have an hour to myself. Enough time to wait for my train… and to replay everything that happened.

Has it always been this way? Or did something go wrong somewhere along the line?

I’d like to say there was one defining event — something that split my life into a before and after. But that wouldn’t be true. There was no such moment.

I was born this way. My parents too. And theirs before them. And you as well. It’s all just cause and effect — there’s no such thing as before or after.

Still… there was one moment that stands out. The day I met my friends. I suppose that was the turning point. If not for them…

I looked up, watching a woman shuffle past.

If not for them, I wouldn’t be sitting here.

If not for them, this book wouldn’t exist.

Don’t let the gloomy beginning scare you. This isn’t a story about ghosts. And I won’t remain one until the end.

It isn’t even truly about me — it’s about friendship, and the strange secrets this world keeps hidden.

Chapter 1

I’m dead.

That’s the first thought. My body won’t move — something heavy seems to press down on my chest. Around me — dampness, dust, and silence. With effort, I sit up, look around, and try to remember at least something.

Is this my room? Why did I die? And, really, where does that certainty even come from — that I am dead? Ridiculous. It must be just some insane dream — a person can’t just wake up and find himself dead.

I stood up. Darkness flashed before my eyes, and I sat down again. Great start. After a few deep breaths, I tried once more — this time I managed to stay on my feet. Better.

Step by step, I made my way to the desk, sat down, and rubbed my temples, trying to ease the headache. From outside came the hum of car engines, the distant slam of shop doors. Through the thick curtains, thin rays of noon sunlight broke into the room.

I remembered neither yesterday nor, it seemed, the whole week before that. But now, that didn’t bother me much. Only one thought haunted me — and, I admit, terrified me: my body was dead.

I don’t know which part of the brain controls the instinct for self-preservation, but it chose the worst possible time to kick in. Along with the conviction that I had died came the fear of death itself.

Paradoxical, isn’t it? To fear dying when you’re already dead.

Alright then. I need to prove to myself that it isn’t true.

I looked around the room: a pen and books on the table, a tall wardrobe about two meters high opposite me. Clothes scattered everywhere. Heavy dark curtains hanging from ceiling to floor, tightly drawn across the window.

Memory loss could be explained by the fact of death — but only half my mind accepted that. The other half stubbornly insisted: I’m alive. And I have to prove it.

Step by step, I approached the window. Sunlight struck my eyes, making me squint and turn away.

Maybe it really is a dream? I carefully lifted a cup from the table.

Alright — I can lift objects. That means I’m alive, right? Now I just need to talk to someone.

Bits of memory began to return. I remembered a friend — a redheaded guy with freckles. And also — that I lived in Britain. My parents were far away, living abroad for years now. It all felt natural, as if it had always been that way. Good, I thought with relief — at least something.

But soon I realized I didn’t understand where I actually was. No, logically I knew — I was in my room. But what house was this? Where was it located?

I stared at the floor, straining to remember anything. Twenty minutes passed — in vain. Total amnesia.

Maybe I really just fell out of bed? There was only one way to find out.

Gathering strength, I hobbled toward the hallway — then, swaying, straight to the front door. A small vestibule greeted me. At the far end — a heavy iron door, which I managed to open with some effort. Beyond it — a beautiful spiral staircase, like those found in lighthouses. And then I was outside.

The November sun hid behind clouds; rain was about to fall.

That’s when it hit me — the realization of death. A cyclist rode straight through me. “So I really am dead,” I thought calmly, as a chill ran down my spine. But fear didn’t freeze me. As I descended the stairs, the intrusive thought slowly turned into an almost familiar reality — like a bad dream. I accepted the fact of death as a given.

Though strange: I could lift a cup, but not stop a bicycle.

For a minute, I stood in the middle of the street, letting passersby walk through me, thinking about what to do next. Maybe it really was a dream. Or maybe I’d truly gone mad — and needed a psychiatrist.

From above, a crow cawed loudly from a lamppost. It was staring right at me.

“You can see me! Someone can actually see me!” I exclaimed, then hesitated. “Wait — how can you see me? Too bad crows can’t talk.”

The bird kept cawing, then flew up and landed on another lamppost a bit farther away. It cawed again, never taking its eyes off me. It seemed to be calling me.

At first, I brushed off the thought, but then I realized — what else was I supposed to do? Just stand here, in the middle of the street? I looked at it once more. The crow didn’t look away.

Alright then. I followed it.

As I drew closer, it flew ahead again — from one lamppost to the next — and so it went, until we reached a narrow, unlit alley. There it descended to the ground and kept cawing, urging me to follow.

We must have walked like that for half an hour. I could barely keep up. The streets looked familiar — as if I’d been here before. Maybe then, I thought, my memory would finally come back.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked the crow now and then. But there was no answer. People still passed straight through me; I felt no weather — no cold, no warmth. And yet, it was strangely comforting, as if that’s exactly how things were meant to be.

At last, it stopped by an old, restored building. I came closer — ten meters, maybe — and at that moment, it simply took off and vanished into the sky.

Gasping for breath, I stood there, stunned, staring after her. She just flew away? I’d been chasing that stupid crow for nearly an hour — through God knows where — and she just took off. Stupid bird. I’d pluck every last feather off her if I could.

Now what? I had no idea where I even was. My gaze caught on a door to my right — wait, I knew this place. One of my friends lived here — Patrick, the red-haired guy.

I looked up once more at the gloomy sky, where the crow had vanished. “Alright then. Thanks,” I said silently. I knew she couldn’t hear my gratitude, but somehow it made me feel calmer.

This is all so weird, I thought.

The door to the building wasn’t locked. I started climbing the stairs, trying to figure out which door was his. A fancy metal one — no. A plain white door with cracked paint — also no. An old wooden one… maybe. Yes, that was it. I remembered it by the little Christmas bell that hung there all year round, waiting for its moment.

Should I knock? Or maybe… try to go through it? I touched the door with my hand — no, that didn’t work. So I knocked. Patrick’s probably asleep at this hour, I thought, or out wandering somewhere.

A minute later, I knocked again. Then started banging, until I heard an irritated mumble from the other side.

“Coming…” a hoarse voice grumbled. “Who’s there?!”

“It’s me, Jake!” I shouted back.

“I said, who’s there?!”

Of course — he couldn’t hear me. Who can hear a ghost?

Still, Patrick carefully opened the door.

The first thing I saw was his left hand — holding a baseball bat.

He stepped out onto the landing and shouted:

“Who the hell’s there?!”

“It’s me, Patrick, it’s me…” I said helplessly.

“Damn kids,” Patrick muttered, lowering the bat.

“One day I’ll catch them,” he whispered, and turned to go back inside.

“No doubt about it,” I blurted, slipping right through him before the door closed.

The apartment smelled of fried meat and spices. It looked a bit like mine — only brighter, cleaner.

“Who’s there, honey?” came a woman’s voice from another room.

“Just kids messing around again. Everything’s fine, Mom,” Patrick replied.

“And you needed a bat for that?”

The red-haired boy scratched the back of his head, looked at the bat in confusion, and set it aside.

“Yeah…” he muttered and walked further inside.

I didn’t really remember his mother — or rather, I remembered that she existed, but not her specifically.

I followed the voice into the room she was in.

A woman around forty or forty-five sat there, chestnut hair, fine wrinkles tracing her face. She rocked gently in a chair, yarn in her hands, watching some program on TV. Her face seemed so familiar — like I was on the verge of remembering her — but I couldn’t.

Alright, focus. I had to find Patrick. The joy of remembering at least something filled me completely. And finding my friend — that made it even stronger. I slipped silently into his room. Clothes, books, papers with scribbles — all scattered across the floor.

Patrick didn’t care much about the state of his room, and his mother had long given up fighting him over it.

The walls hadn’t been painted in years, yellowed in spots; cobwebs had gathered near the ceiling. The room reminded me of my own — suddenly it was clear why we were friends.

I recalled he’d always been into the exact sciences — nothing else could capture his attention the same way. That memory came to me because I found him at his desk, nervously writing something on a sheet of paper. As I moved closer, I saw equations — physics formulas. He didn’t look much like his mother: red hair, a face full of freckles, brown eyes, chubby cheeks with dimples — and that constant slouch. The full package. He was scribbling furiously.

“Patrick,” I said quietly.

He turned sharply, frowning.

“Patrick!” I shouted this time — but he just scratched his ear and went back to his desk.

I tried a few more times. Nothing.

I could’ve picked up something and thrown it, but he’d probably think it was a poltergeist — and by tomorrow, he and his mom would be halfway out of the city.

I said his name again, softly — and, oh God, he turned around again.

“Patrick, can you hear me?” I asked.

He frowned even deeper.

“What the hell…?” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and quiet.

It was obvious he could barely hear me — fragments, maybe. Then I decided to take a risk.

I reached for his pen. I had to do it quickly and carefully, so he wouldn’t panic or scream. The last thing I needed was his mom coming in.

After a second of hesitation, I snatched up his pen and began to write:

“Don’t be afraid. It’s Jake. I’m dead. I’m a ghost.”

Patrick turned to the desk, his face frozen — not just confused, but trembling with a nervous shiver.

For a moment he just sat there, breathing quietly, staring at the words. I thought I should add more:

“It’s really me. Don’t be scared. I’m dead. I don’t know how. I won’t hurt you.”

He sat for another minute.

“Was that you talking?” he whispered, barely moving his lips.

“Yes… yes,” I said twice, slowly.

“I can hear you… How did you die?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I wrote on the paper. “I lost my memory. I don’t remember anyone but you. Not even my parents.”

“Do you remember what month and year it is?” he asked quietly.

Oh no. What if I’d died fifty years ago — and this was Patrick’s son?

A chill ran down my spine.

“Are you Patrick’s son?” I wrote.

“What?! No, it’s me — Patrick. It’s 2025. I just asked,” he said.

Relief washed over me. After a few seconds of silence, he slowly turned in his chair.

“Where are you?” he asked timidly.

“Right in front of you,” I said softly.

Patrick crossed himself three times and mumbled a strange little prayer — probably something he made up on the spot:

God, oh God, please help me,

Keep all ghosts away from me.

God, oh God, please stay near,

Let me live another year.

Strangely enough, I didn’t disappear.

“Your prayer won’t help,” I said calmly.

“Get out, devil! I know you’re not Jake, and I’m not afraid of you, you damn poltergeist!” Patrick’s face twisted in anger.

“How can I prove it’s really me?” I asked — but he couldn’t hear me, so I wrote it down instead.

Patrick scratched his head, uncertain.

“Write something,” he said after a pause. “Something only you and I would know.”

“I’ve lost my memory,” I wrote. “I don’t remember anything. But I can talk — you can recognize my voice.”

“The devil can mimic voices,” Patrick replied.

“Oh, come on, Patrick! If I were the devil, I’d have killed you already — why would I pretend to be Jake?”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Alright then. If you don’t remember anything, how did you find me?”

“A crow led me here,” I whispered, realizing how absurd that sounded.

“Uh-huh.” Patrick nodded slowly.

“It’s true!” I said bitterly.

“So… where were you buried?” Patrick continued his interrogation.

“I don’t know. I woke up — I think — in my own room.”

Patrick’s skeptical expression didn’t change. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You don’t?” I asked quietly.

“I’m not sure.” He rubbed his chin. “I just think… the devil could come up with something smarter than a crow.”

Patrick coughed into his fist.

“Alright, let’s say I believe you.” He grimaced. “What do you want from me?”

“Tell me everything about me,” I wrote. “I don’t remember anything.”

He told me what little he knew — what I already suspected.

That we were schoolmates, sixteen years old, living somewhere in Britain. He knew nothing about my parents — I’d never told him anything about them. We’d had an ordinary, boring teenage life… until the night I was killed.

My death had happened over six months ago. They’d buried me in the city cemetery. I didn’t have many relatives, so only our class had come to the funeral.

My legs gave way, and I sank down on the nearest bed. I thought it had happened yesterday — maybe a few days ago. But six months…

“Who killed me?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. No one does,” Patrick said quietly. “We were at Tommy’s party, in his flat. You went off with some guy into another room — you know how it was, no one paid much attention.

When we realized you’d been gone too long, we went to check. You were lying there, dead — your arms crossed on your chest. And that guy… was gone.”

I listened, trying to recall even the tiniest detail — but I couldn’t remember the guy, the party, or even that night at all.

Patrick went on: “We called an ambulance. Mill tried to do CPR, but… nothing worked. The doctors said your heart just stopped — no clear reason. Happens sometimes, they said. But we didn’t buy it. We tried to find that guy, to learn anything — who he was, how he even got to the party. But it’s like he vanished into thin air. Hell, no one could even remember what he was wearing.”

Sitting on the bed, I leaned forward, locking my hands behind my head. A guy. A party. Cardiac arrest.

I repeated his words over and over in my mind, searching for some glimpse of memory — but saw nothing. Only darkness.

“Hey, you still here?” Patrick asked.

I stood up and wrote on the paper: “Yeah, sorry. Got lost in thought. Please believe me — it’s really me. And I need your help. I don’t want to stay like this.”

Patrick sat there, staring silently at the note. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let’s say I do believe you. What now?”

I wanted to return to my body as soon as possible — if that was even possible. But my body was buried. Probably already decomposing.

Patrick was thinking, his gaze fixed somewhere near me — not quite at me, but close enough. Then he asked: “Dude… do you see other ghosts?”

“Not yet — and I really hope I won’t,” I wrote. I meant it. The last thing I wanted was to meet another spirit. Who knew what that could bring.

Patrick stood up. “Let me take a picture of you. They say ghosts show up in photos.”

Before I could object, he grabbed his phone from the desk, turned on the camera, and snapped a photo.

A faint shiver ran through me — goosebumps, even.

“Nope. Nothing,” he said. “Here, look.”

He showed me the picture — nothing there. But I wanted to try again.

“Try once more,” I whispered.

He took a few more shots. Each time, the same strange tingling washed over me — and each time, I wasn’t there.

“Record a video,” I said.

“What?” He hadn’t heard me.

“Video,” I repeated calmly. “Record a video.”

“Oh — you want a video? Alright. Recording now.”

A faint tremor began running through me — constant, yet shifting. It grew stronger, then faded, like waves rolling in and out of the sea. I tried to catch the feeling, to hold it at its strongest point. I could control it — at least for a while — and I tried to push it further.

“Holy crap, Jake — your silhouette’s there!” Patrick shouted.

I pushed harder, trying to make the tremor stronger, but it drained me fast. Within seconds I gave up and let it fade away completely.

“That’s enough,” I whispered.

“Alright. Want to see it?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. Show me.”

He raised his phone and played the recording. For the first minute, there was nothing — just an empty room. And then, out of nowhere, a faint outline began to appear. It was me — barely visible, just a shadow, a black contour.

“Jake, this is bloody awesome!” Patrick exclaimed.

“I’m not so sure,” I said quietly.

After all, I was dead.

His brief smile disappeared.

“Let’s call Mill. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

“Who’s Mill?”

“He’s our friend — you probably don’t remember.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Yes,” Patrick said firmly. “We can trust him.”

“Alright. Just… don’t tell him I’m here yet. Ask him to meet us first — we’ll explain everything then.”

“Got it.” Patrick pulled out his phone and dialed.

After a few rings, a rough male voice answered, music blaring faintly in the background.

“Hope you’re calling to give me back the fifty quid you borrowed last week,” Mill said dryly.

“Uh, not exactly. Mill, we need to meet — it’s urgent.”

“What happened this time? Just tell me.” His voice came through between bursts of static and chewing noises.

“I can’t say over the phone. You wouldn’t believe it. It’s about Jake.”

“You found the bastard who did it?!” Mill shouted after a second’s silence.

“No. Something better. Are you free now? We’ll come over.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“I mean — me. Just me,” Patrick stammered.

“Alright. I’ll be waiting.” Mill hung up.

Patrick lowered the phone. “Done. So… shall we go?”

“Yeah,” I said, moving toward the door — but Patrick stopped me.

“Wait. Just a second, if you don’t mind.”

He rushed back to his desk and sat down.

I realized that the fragments of memory I had about this boy were right — nothing in the world mattered more to Patrick than the exact sciences. At school he’d always been top of the class in that field — though you couldn’t say the same about the humanities. If he had to choose between saving someone’s life or solving an unsolvable equation, he’d pick the equation without a second thought. So when an actual living ghost stood at his door, one he could talk to, Patrick chose physics.

I accepted that all I could do was wait, so I fell back onto the bed and waited. As I lay there, my thoughts began to sink deeper and deeper into the depths of my mind, trying to stir up any shards of memory — though, truth be told, there were none.

Maybe my parents know something, I thought. Why weren’t they at the funeral? They probably didn’t know anything at all. Maybe someone else missed me. Maybe I had a girlfriend? Unlikely. If I could remember Patrick, I would’ve remembered her too. Or maybe Patrick…

“You here?” Patrick’s voice broke my thoughts.

I stood up, grabbed a pen and a few sheets of paper from the table, and lifted them to let him know I was there — ready to go.

Patrick squinted.

“Let me carry those. A floating pen and papers might look a bit suspicious.”

I handed them to him.

Chapter 2

We stepped out of the house and started down the street. It felt as if my senses had sharpened — the sun was setting the horizon on fire, and the sky blushed in shades of pink. Patrick walked ahead of me.

I realized I couldn’t remember the way to Mill’s place — or even Mill himself.

I kind of liked this city. Hundreds of cafés and little shops, a restless evening life bubbling everywhere.

What struck me as strange was that I hadn’t seen a single dog or cat around. I wanted to ask Patrick where they all were, but decided to wait until we reached Mill’s — with all this noise, he wouldn’t hear me anyway.

We turned onto a quieter street, caught a tram, and rode it all the way to the last stop.

“What city is this?” I asked.

“This,” Patrick said, spreading his arms theatrically, “is our beloved rainy London. Best place on Earth, if you ask me.”

“Where are all the dogs and cats?”

“Uh…” Patrick scratched the back of his head. “Honestly, no idea. Maybe they caught them all and… ate them?”

Wow, I thought.

“When did people start eating dogs and cats?”

He grinned. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

“How much farther do we have to go?”

“At least thirty minutes, give or take.”

People passing by gave us odd looks — a boy wandering alone, talking to himself — but the curiosity that had overwhelmed me was far stronger.

“Do you feel thirsty?” Patrick asked.

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“So, what do you feel?”

I hesitated. It felt like… nothing.

“Nothing, really. I’m a ghost, remember?” I paused. “Though sometimes it’s hard to breathe.”

“Maybe it wasn’t heart failure,” Patrick said, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe it was suffocation?”

I touched my neck.

“I’d rather not think about that.”

We walked another couple of kilometres before we finally left the city behind. I never imagined Mill lived so far out — and that he travelled all this way every single day… if he ever actually made it.

We walked another couple of kilometres before the city finally faded behind us.

I could never have imagined that Mill lived this far out — or that he made this long, miserable trip into the city every single day… if he ever actually did.

A chill crept over me when I realized I couldn’t remember anything — and now, apparently, couldn’t feel anything either. Of course, I hadn’t felt much before, but hearing it said out loud somehow made the emptiness twice as heavy.

We reached the right building, and Patrick began ringing the doorbell of the flat until someone finally opened. It was an old stone house, cool inside. I noticed, to my surprise, that I could still feel a bit of cold — and the faint smell of damp.

Cheap paintings hung on the walls — the kind you buy in an underpass — as if to prove the place wasn’t abandoned yet, still clinging to its quiet life along with its residents.

“This house could really use a renovation,” Patrick muttered. “Otherwise, this heap’s gonna collapse soon.

By the way, you still here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said twice.

“Good. Just making sure I haven’t gone completely mad.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If anyone’s going mad, it’ll be me first.”

Patrick gave a nervous laugh. “Right. You’re the ghost, but I’m the one hearing voices.”

We climbed up to the third floor, and Patrick knocked.

A boy with light blond hair, unusually pale skin, and a grin that stretched from ear to ear opened the door.

“Patrick! Come in, man — great to see you!” he said, pulling Patrick into a tight hug.

“Hello, hello, I’m coming in, coming in,” Patrick beamed and stepped inside.

We entered the hallway. The look of the place outside perfectly matched the flats inside — old and worn. You could see the tenants’ shy attempts to make it look alive: little figurines, keepsakes from trips abroad, cheap market prints pinned to the walls. It was modest, cluttered… but warm in its own way.

“How’ve you been?” Mill asked while Patrick was taking off his shoes.

“Great. I’ve got good news,” Patrick puffed. “You said your parents went on vacation, right?”

“Yeah — and they’ll be gone for another two weeks, so…” Mill grinned broadly. “The apartment’s all mine.”

“Perfect,” Patrick straightened up. “Let’s go to your room — I’ve got something to show you.”

“Oh, not your physics stuff again?” Mill glanced at the papers in Patrick’s hands and rolled his eyes.

“This time — no physics,” Patrick sighed.

We walked into Mill’s room. He jumped onto his chair, almost knocking it over, then kicked another one toward Patrick to sit on.

“You said this has something to do with Jake. So, what is it?” Mill’s curiosity was clearly growing.

“Well… he’s here,” Patrick said quietly.

“What? What do you mean here?”

“It’ll be easier to show you.” Patrick placed a sheet of paper and a pen on the desk. “Jake, write something.”

I picked up the pen and wrote, Hi Mill, it’s Jake.

Mill’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Holy crap, dude — that’s insane! How are you doing this?” he stared at Patrick.

“It’s not me. It’s really Jake,” Patrick said calmly.

“Oh, come on, don’t mess with me. What’s the trick?” Mill snapped.

“Hello, Mill,” I said.

He froze, staring at the empty spot where I stood.

“What… what is that?”

I picked up the pen again and wrote: I’m a ghost.

“What the hell?!” Mill shot up from his chair, his eyes darting around the room.

“Mill, take it easy,” Patrick said, raising his hands to calm him down.

Mill, it’s okay, I wrote on the page.

Mill snatched the paper and tore it in half.

“It’s the devil,” he muttered, trembling. “Or a poltergeist.”

“Noooo,” Patrick drew out the word. “I checked — it’s definitely Jake.”

“How did you ‘check’?”

Patrick hesitated.

“Well… I asked him some leading questions.”

“Like what?”

“It’s Jake. Period.”

“But how?!” Mill wouldn’t give up. “Ghosts don’t exist!”

“Then I’m just a voice in your head,” I said.

Yeah… probably shouldn’t have said that.

Mill stared even harder, completely frozen.

I picked up the torn pieces of paper and wrote:

Mill, I was joking. We need your help. I’m dead — and I’ve lost my memory. Patrick, tell him.

Patrick started explaining everything from the beginning, emphasizing that he’d even read a prayer — and it hadn’t helped.

Slowly, Mill began to understand what was going on. To prove it, Patrick showed him a video of me on his phone.

“It’s definitely Jake. Our Jake — not some evil ghost pretending to be him, not Jake’s demonic twin — just the regular, ordinary Jake.”

It was strange how fiercely Patrick defended me. I was really lucky to have him.

“Damn… that’s wild,” Mill finally said after Patrick’s long explanation. “So, do you see any other ghosts?”

“Not yet,” I answered.

“I already asked that,” Patrick muttered. “Too bad, though, right? Maybe my grandma buried some gold bars in the yard and forgot to tell anyone.”

“So that’s a no?” Mill asked.

Patrick heard me, but Mill didn’t. That’s when I realized — the longer someone stayed near me, the easier it became for them to hear my voice. I tried adjusting my tone — quieter, louder, whispering sometimes — testing which volume would reach Mill.

“Not a single one,” I repeated calmly.

“What about at the cemetery?” Mill wouldn’t let it go.

“We haven’t been there. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to go,” I said.

“Why not?!” they both shouted in unison.

“I don’t want to become some kind of messenger between worlds — helping ghosts finish their unfinished business. That never ends well in movies.”

“Jake’s right,” Mill said, leaning back in his chair. “But, you know, we could find some help there. Maybe they’d know what to do with… cases like yours.”

I hesitated. The idea of going to a cemetery didn’t exactly thrill me.

“Who else can talk to ghosts, besides ghosts?” Patrick asked.

“Well, I don’t know… wizards, psychics, frauds, witches, you and me,” Mill started listing.

“Wait — that’s it!” Patrick jumped up. “Jake, your aunt!”

“What?” I froze.

“Yeah — your aunt! She’s like… I don’t know, a witch or a fortune teller.”

“What aunt?” Patrick clearly forgot that I remembered nothing.

“Your aunt. You used to tell us about her — she reads tarot cards.”

“Patrick,” I said, “need I remind you I don’t remember anything?”

“Right, damn, sorry. But if you did remember, she could probably help us.”

“That’s not even necessary,” Mill cut in. “My sister remembers her. She went to her once for a card reading.”

“You have a sister?” I asked.

Patrick and Mill exchanged smiles. I felt like I was meeting them for the first time all over again.

“Yeah. She’s with our parents right now. I’ll text them, but I’m not sure when they’ll reply — it’s night over there,” Mill said, glancing at Patrick and then at me. “So we’ll have to wait at least till evening. What do we do meanwhile?”

“Hide and seek?” I grinned.

“No. Definitely not,” Patrick said flatly. “Playing hide and seek with a ghost is way too creepy.”

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to sleep,” Mill said and collapsed onto his bed. “I was up all night working. Need some rest if we’re planning to do anything later.”

“I don’t know, Jake — what do you want to do? We could watch a movie, or play chess, if you still remember how.”

I did remember, but all I really wanted was to stop being a ghost as soon as possible. It felt like the longer I stayed this way, the smaller my chances of ever changing back.

Still, I agreed to play chess, and we sat down to the board.

“You okay?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I said.

We spent the whole afternoon in that old house with its cracked walls and cold drafts sneaking from every corner. After losing several dozen games, Patrick finally declared I was boring company and retreated to “solve his equations.”

I stayed alone with the chessboard and its pieces. Maybe I was a pawn in this life too… or at least a queen. I didn’t want to be either — and especially not a ghost. Though, I had to admit, it came with a few perks: no one could see me. I wasn’t planning to rob banks or steal, so that advantage didn’t last long in my mind. I could sneak up on people silently, but I didn’t want to scare anyone either. Well… maybe just once. Maybe Mill, while he was asleep.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a message notification — someone had texted Mill. I rushed to his room. Patrick was already there.

“Oh-ho-ho, look at this!” Patrick laughed in mock excitement. “Our boy’s in love! Who is she?”

He jumped back from the bed, holding up Mill’s phone like evidence.

“Give it back!” Mill shouted, leaping at him. “It’s not yours!”

“Jake, catch! Where are you?” Patrick yelled, dodging Mill’s attacks.

“Here!” I said.

Patrick tossed the phone toward my voice. It slid across the floor, and I caught it just in time.

I’ll admit, I was dying to know who she was and what they’d been texting about, but respect for my friend outweighed curiosity. I held the phone out toward the onrushing Mill.

“Here, take it,” I said.

But Mill couldn’t stop in time. With a loud, “Damn you!” he crashed straight into me, and we both fell to the floor.

He grabbed his phone, got up, and stared down at me, breathing hard.

“That was… weird,” he said between gasps. “Lying on thin air. Sorry, Jake.” He reached out his hand.

I took it — and suddenly, it hit me.

“Wait. People outside walk right through me… so how did you touch me?”

Mill looked at me, puzzled.

“I don’t know. You’re the ghost — you should know.”

“Who is she?” Patrick asked, running over with a teasing grin.

“None of your business, you two idiots.”

“Can I be your best man at the wedding?” Patrick laughed.

“I’ll hire security to make sure you don’t even get near the place,” Mill muttered.

“Alright, alright, I’m just kidding.”

Patrick flopped onto Mill’s bed, folding his legs under him.

“Erica? Maybe Erica?” he said, half to himself, half to me. “No, too pretty for him.”

“Shut up,” Mill snapped and showed us his phone. “My parents texted back.”

We both jumped off the bed and hurried to him.

“Well? What did they say?” we asked at once.

“Nothing much — they’re fine.”

“And about Jake’s aunt?”

“Hold on, I’ll ask,” Mill said irritably, his fingers tapping across the keyboard.

After a couple of minutes of silence, he spoke again.

“Yeah — my sister remembers her. She’s got her address written down: Forty-Four Vody Street, apartment eleven.”

“What kind of name is Vody Street?” I asked.

“How should I know? You think I name the streets? It’s all those stupid liberals,” Mill said.

“He has no idea what liberals are,” Patrick explained, glancing at me. “He just likes saying it.”

“Anyway, is it far?” I asked.

“There’s no such street in our city,” Mill replied.

“That’s because,” Patrick said, “your aunt lives in Liverpool.”

A heavy silence fell.

“I’m going there,” I said finally. “I’m going to find my aunt.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Mill.

“Damn,” Patrick sighed. “I promised my mum I’d spend the holidays with her.”

He looked torn — clearly wanting to come, but knowing he couldn’t.

“The holidays are almost over anyway,” Mill said. “And come on — how often do you get a chance to travel with a ghost?”

“Yeah, yeah… you’re right,” Patrick admitted. “But I still need to call her first. Can I use your landline?”

“Are you kidding? Of course you can,” Patrick said, then disappeared into the kitchen.

“So, Jake,” Mill turned to me. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my grandma buried the family gold, would you?”

“What? No, why would I?”

“Then you’re going without a ticket,” Mill smirked.

“Fine by me,” I said with a grin.

Mill sat down at the desk and opened his laptop.

“We’ll take the night express — we’ll be there by morning. You don’t want to warn your aunt you’re coming?”

“Good idea, but I don’t have her number.”

“I already asked Nika — she doesn’t have it either.” (That was Mill’s sister.)

“Maybe she has her own website,” I suggested.

“Maybe… I’ll check,” Mill murmured thoughtfully and started searching. A few minutes later he turned the screen toward me. “Well, that wasn’t hard. Shall we call?”

I looked at the website. In the centre was a picture of Aunt Laura. The rest of the page was filled with strange runes, magical symbols, and a black cat in the lower-left corner staring directly at the visitor.

“Let’s do it. What should we say?” I asked.

“What do you mean? Just tell her you’re here — she’ll be thrilled,” Mill chuckled, pulling out his phone. The line rang a few times.

“Hello, is this Laura?”

“Yes, hello,” came a calm woman’s voice. “What do you need?”

“Uh… this is Mill,” he stammered. “I’m a friend of Jake — your nephew.”

“Ah, Mill. Hello. I was expecting your call. You may come,” she said, her tone perfectly even.

Mill froze, staring at the phone.

“Alright, thank you — we’ll arrive tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”

“The sooner, the better, dear Mill,” Aunt Laura said — and hung up.

Mill slowly lowered the phone.

“Whoa… she really knows something,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Something mystical. How did she know we’d call?”

I hesitated, a strange chill running through me.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

Mill glanced at the monitor.

“Jake, we missed you — really missed you. Your death… it shocked everyone.”

“I understand,” I said. I didn’t remember anyone, and being dead made it hard to miss people anyway. “Can’t wait to get my human form back.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“I’m in, guys!” Patrick called cheerfully from the kitchen as he came back, looking pleased with himself.

“Perfect. Our train leaves at eleven from the main station. I’ll grab some snacks,” Mill said, snatching up his backpack and darting toward the kitchen. “We’re in for some marvellous days, marvellous!” he shouted from the hallway.

There was nothing Mill loved more than traveling — and nothing he hated more than boredom and doing nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Patrick said, turning to me. “We’ll get you your body back. I hope.” He hesitated at that last part.

By ten o’clock we left Mill’s apartment, carrying food and a bunch of pills he insisted on bringing.

“It’s better to have them than not to,” he said wisely, adding, “All genius things are simple,” and finally, “At least no one’s gonna die.”

Activated charcoal doesn’t exactly guarantee survival, but if he believed it did — fine by me.

We walked down a deserted street. A soft warm wind brushed against my face — I could feel it too. Evening was settling over the city. Small corner shops were already closed, their windows dark. We moved quickly, crossing several streets.

Up ahead, a silhouette appeared — someone walking slowly in the same direction.

“Guys, I think that’s Emma,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Mill confirmed.

“Who’s Emma?” I asked.

“We go to school together,” Mill replied.

“Mmm…” Patrick groaned. “Not really in the mood to see anyone.”

“Come on, there’s no other way. Let’s go,” Mill said.

We caught up quickly. It was a girl about our age, walking with a spring in her step and humming something to herself. She wore an old dress, her brown hair fell past her shoulders, and she was about as tall as us. I noticed her hazel eyes and the way her earrings glimmered in the streetlight.

“Hey, guys!” said a familiar voice — one I somehow recognized.

“Hey, Emma!” Patrick shouted.

“Why are you yelling?” she frowned, glancing between the boys. “Where are you off to?”

Mill and Patrick exchanged a glance.

“Well, uh… to an exhibition,” Mill mumbled.

“What kind of exhibition?”

“Famous artists,” Mill said. “I convinced Patrick to come with me.”

“So late?”

“It’s a private one — for true connoisseurs like me. And we’re already late, so… bye!” Mill said, and we hurried away from her.

“An exhibition? That’s the best you could come up with?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“You should’ve thought of something yourself, smart guy,” Mill smacked his lips. “Let’s go, I don’t wanna bump into anyone else.”

I turned around — the silhouette in the distance was fading. The girl looked oddly familiar.

We reached the station. The train was due in fifteen minutes. We sat down on a bench to wait.

“Phew, I’m tired,” Patrick said, stretching. “Why do we have to go to Jake’s aunt instead of her coming to us? He’s the ghost here — she should be the one curious about it.”

“You’ve only walked for forty minutes, that’s nothing,” Mill said.

“Forty-five, actually,” Patrick corrected him with mock seriousness.

The station was almost empty at this late hour. Massive columns, built a century ago, held up the ceiling. Stone patterns and marble faces stared down from the walls. I remembered how, as kids, we used to come here and draw moustaches on them — “juvenile vandals,” the station guards called us.

“They really knew how to build beauty back then,” Mill said. “Now it’s all minimalism and modern stuff. I don’t like it.”

“It’s not worse, just different,” Patrick replied. “It’s about taste — and how society evolves.”

“Don’t you think the station feels kind of… empty?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Mill looked around. “Yeah, but maybe that’s better — not so stuffy without all the people.”

“Hey again, guys,” came a familiar girl’s voice from behind us. We turned — it was Emma.

“Hi,” Patrick and Mill exchanged another look.

“You’re going to that exhibition… by any chance in Liverpool?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Yeah, Liverpool exactly. You following us?” Patrick asked.

“For your soul,” she said, giving him a sharp look. “I’m going there too. Let’s go together,” she said and sat down beside us.

“That’ll be nice — three’s more fun,” Mill said, swallowing hard.

Before she could start asking about the exhibition and the guys’ knowledge of modern art, I hoped one of them would come up with a way to change the subject.

“How’s your vacation going?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, not bad. I haven’t left the house for the past two weeks,” Emma said. “Yesterday my parents insisted I should ‘socialize,’ go somewhere, and — as they put it — finally make a damn mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” Mill asked.

“You know… the kind that gives you precious experience — teaches you how to live this life the right way.”

“Ahh,” Mill drawled. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“Well, I ran into you guys. Does that count as a mistake?” Emma shot Mill a sideways look.

“Uh, well…” The guys stared at her blankly. “No, why would it?”

“What are you even doing here?” she pressed, eyes still fixed on them.

“Waiting for the train. We already told you,” Patrick said, not sounding very convincing.

“Don’t lie. What exhibition of famous artists? You couldn’t even hold a paintbrush at five — since when are you into art?”

“I don’t have to paint to appreciate art — Van Gogh, for example,” Mill shot back.

“Sure, you don’t. But you’ve never been interested in him. Name three of his most famous paintings. I’m counting to ten.” She began counting.

“One.”

“‘Starry Night’…” Mill hesitated. It was clear her countdown was getting on his nerves.

“Two,” Emma said louder. “Three!” — even louder.

“Fine, you win,” I said, glancing at Mill. “Then we’ll take the stance of every guilty American suspect.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’ll stay silent,” Mill said, folding his arms across his chest and staring straight ahead.

The guys burst out laughing.

“All right, you stay silent,” Emma said. “Patrick, what about you?”

“Oh, I’ll stand in solidarity with my colleague — and keep quiet too.”

“And you’ll stay silent all the way to Liverpool?”

“It’s a long ride, but we’ll manage,” Mill said, stretching his legs and throwing his arms behind his head.

A whistle echoed in the distance — our train was approaching. We stood up and walked toward the edge of the platform.

“What’s your carriage number?”

“Ninth,” Mill replied.

“Well then, see you soon. I’m in the first,” the girl said and walked away.

We found our seats in the ninth carriage. I took the one by the window — didn’t want any passerby deciding to sit next to me. It was a regular open coach: three seats on each side, covered in neat blue fabric that had been washed too many times and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

Up front, a man was snoring softly, his head resting against the window. A few other passengers sat absorbed in their phones, music leaking quietly from their headphones. The trip promised to be calm.

The train jerked forward. The old speaker crackled: “The train is departing…”

“So, what do you think of her?” I asked.

“She’s endlessly curious,” Patrick whispered.

“Can we trust her?”

“I don’t know, Jake. Feels like the fewer people know about you, the better.”

“What about you, Mill?”

“I think,” Mill said, “if we’re already going to your aunt to bring her into this, and you two weren’t afraid to tell me everything, then nothing bad will happen if one more person knows. You know, the more heads think about a problem, the better for us.” He paused and glanced at us. “And besides, if anyone wakes me up, we’ll have one more ghost among us. Good night.”

He turned toward the window, closed his eyes, and soon drifted off.

***

I couldn’t sleep the entire trip — I’m not even sure ghosts are supposed to sleep. The motion of the train kept rocking me back and forth, lulling me one moment and shaking me awake the next. I got up and decided to take a walk. The carriage swayed gently from side to side; people slept peacefully in their seats.

Outside, the scenery kept changing — the sun hadn’t risen yet, but its first rays were already cutting through the horizon, blending with the fading stars. It was mesmerizing. Mist rolled over the wide fields, covering them like a blanket. I sat down at an empty table seat, leaning on my elbow, and watched the quiet beauty of our world — until I heard the sound of the inter-carriage doors sliding open.

With a loud clang, they closed behind a young man in a hooded sweatshirt, his face marked with a spider tattoo. His gray hoodie was filthy, and he smelled like garbage. He staggered down the aisle, swaying with the train, his eyes darting from one passenger to another — sizing them up, judging their clothes, their state, and probably what they had in their pockets. Then his gaze landed on my friends — and I knew exactly what was about to happen.

In two quick steps, I was beside him. He reached for Mill’s pocket — where Mill’s phone was.

“You really want to do this?” I said.

The guy froze, straightened up sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes narrowed as he glanced around the carriage, trying to locate where the voice had come from.

He stood there for a moment, then shook his head, as if trying to chase away a thought that didn’t belong — and bent toward Mill again.

“You sure you want to do this?” I said again.

The guy straightened up, more nervous this time, and glanced around the carriage. He stepped toward the seats ahead and peered over them — no one there.

“Guys, wake up,” I said, trying to touch one of them, but it was useless: my voice was too quiet, and my touch too weak.

“What the hell…” the man muttered under his breath.

Just then, the inter-carriage door creaked open, and Emma appeared in the doorway, staring right at him. He snorted, turned sharply, and hurried off toward the exit.

Thank God — she had perfect timing.

Emma walked up to the guys and, seeing they were still asleep, sat down on the seat beside us.

Chapter 3

Liverpool greeted us with rain.

We stepped off the train and walked down the cobblestone street, glancing around at the still-sleeping city. On this early weekend morning, there was no rumble of cars, no trams, no chatter — just the soft drizzle and the sound of our footsteps.

We reached the bus stop, waiting to catch a ride to the address we needed.

The guys thanked Emma several times for saving their stuff. Patrick was the most grateful of all.

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” he said, clutching his notes like they were the world’s greatest treasures.

“I’m coming with you,” Emma suddenly announced, “whether you like it or not.”

The guys stared at her, clearly expecting an explanation.

“I just think it’ll be more fun with you than at some boring exhibition,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Besides, I saved your butts — and your precious manuscripts. So, where are we going?”

After a bit of awkward silence, Mill and Patrick gave in. They both knew they couldn’t argue with a girl that curious.

The only thing left unclear was how to tell her about me.

“To Jake’s aunt. Her name’s Laura. Maybe he mentioned her to you?” Mill asked.

“No, don’t think so. Who is she?”

“A fortune-teller,” Mill replied.

“A fortune-teller?” Emma raised her brows in surprise.

Mill shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Well… she reads cards,” he muttered.

“And what exactly do you hope to find out there?” Emma wouldn’t let go.

“Something about Jake,” Mill answered reluctantly.

“What kind of something?”

“You’ll find out when we get there. And spare us the extra questions,” Patrick cut in.

“I hate waiting,” Emma huffed.

I had no idea how she would find out about it — or how she’d react when she did.

My friends were the only ones I could still trust; her, I couldn’t remember at all.

But if those two trusted her, maybe I could too.

The bus was due in about ten minutes. The guys sat down on a bench beneath the shelter at the stop, shielded from the rain. They shivered slightly in the chilly wind — but not me. I didn’t feel the cold the way they did. Even the raindrops passed right through me, as if I wasn’t really there.

***

“Jake’s aunt sure has taste,” Patrick said, staring at the beautifully restored red-brick building with its stone-trimmed windows and gleaming new glass. It looked like the sort of place where nobles or wealthy businessmen might live — but hardly a witch.

“You’re right,” Mill murmured. “I wonder what the rent costs here. Could she really earn enough from fortune-telling to buy a flat like this — or even rent one?”

“You’ll have the chance to ask,” Emma cut in, her tone edged with impatience. “Now come on, let’s go inside. It’s freezing and I’m soaked.”

We approached the house. The front door stood wide open, and we stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of old books, and half-light filled the hall. A huge pendulum clock loomed against the wall, its hands stopped at half past ten.

My aunt’s door looked more like a slab with a handle than an actual door. There was nothing on it but the handle itself and two metal digits marking the number thirteen.

“Creepy place,” Patrick muttered, glancing around the spacious room.

“What did you expect?” Emma replied. “She’s a fortune-teller, remember?”

She knocked. No answer.

“Maybe it’s still too early?” Patrick suggested.

“She said, come anytime,” Mill replied and knocked again — louder this time.

We heard a loud crash behind the door — as if a cupboard had fallen — followed by rustling, a quiet mutter, and the click of a lock. The door burst open.

“At last! Where have you been?!” exclaimed a woman, almost leaping out at us from behind the door.

She was dressed in an old dark-red gown, a green shawl thrown over her shoulders, which only made her garish makeup stand out more.

“We came straight from the train, honestly,” Mill stammered, looking a bit lost.

“And who’s this with you?” Aunt Laura’s sharp eyes darted toward Emma. She opened her mouth to speak but didn’t get the chance.

“Oh, never mind! Hurry up and come in — there’s a draft here fit for a graveyard!”

Inside, the apartment looked unbelievably luxurious: expensive furniture, fresh renovation, flowers on every windowsill, and a spacious, brightly lit living room.

It didn’t feel like the home of a fortune-teller or a mystic at all — more like the Manhattan apartment of a successful banker.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking! Come in!” Aunt Laura said indignantly. She looked like someone who was in a terrible rush, as if she were late for something important.

The guys quickly took off their shoes and stood waiting in the hallway for instructions.

“This way,” she commanded, striding across the corridor toward one of the many doors.

Only when we stepped into the next room did it finally feel like we’d entered the heart of magic. The room was dim, lit only by scattered candles. There were no windows — and I noted, no mirrors either.

Dozens of wind chimes hung from the ceiling, woven from glass and wood, with colourful tubes and simple bells painted in Asian and Indian styles. Every now and then, a soft tinkling sound filled the air when one of the guys brushed against them by accident.

The air smelled of incense — and something sweet.

“Sit down,” Aunt Laura said, pointing to four small chairs.

Once we did, our knees ended up nearly at chest level.

I took the seat on the far right, next to Patrick, who was slowly scanning the room.

“Well then, let’s begin,” Aunt Laura said loudly, settling herself on an identical chair opposite us. “You came to me to learn something about Jake, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Mill replied quietly.

“And what exactly do you want to know?”

“Well, actually… Jake is here with us,” Mill said.

Aunt Laura stared at him, unblinking, as if trying to decide whether he was joking.

“Well, then tell him to show himself,” she commanded.

After a moment, I reached for the pen and paper Patrick had placed on the small table between us and Aunt Laura, and began to write:

“Hello, it’s Jake. I’m kind of a ghost.”

Aunt Laura’s gaze stayed fixed on the page, her face showing not the slightest trace of surprise — unlike Emma’s. She stared at the words as if they were some eighth wonder of the world, glancing between the paper and the two boys beside her.

“As expected,” Aunt Laura said calmly. “So, how did you become a ghost?”

“Well… I died,” I said quietly.

“That much is obvious,” she rolled her eyes. “Jake, how did you die?” she asked indignantly, looking at my empty chair.

“I don’t remember,” I answered.

“All right then. What do you do remember?”

I told her the little I could recall: Mill, Patrick, vague shapes of a school — and that was about it. She soon realized that I remembered neither her nor my parents.

“Maybe you know something about my parents?” I asked.

“My sister — your mother,” Aunt Laura said with a sigh, her voice softening. She lifted her gaze toward where I sat. “Jake, you’ve been studying at the boarding school for a long time. Your parents… they simply gave you up.”

I wasn’t shocked by the news — but it did make me a little sad.

“It’s all right,” Patrick said gently. “My father left us too.”

“This isn’t about you,” Aunt Laura interrupted sharply. “It’s about Jake.”

“This is incredible…” Emma whispered — it was the first thing she’d said in a while. “Is it really him?”

“Yes, my dear. It really is,” Laura nodded. “And here’s what we’re going to do…”

She suddenly fell silent, staring straight ahead for a few moments. The tension in the room thickened — she was clearly gathering her thoughts — and then she continued:

“We must go to the place where you were buried. And before it’s too late… we’ll try to bring you back.”

“Is that even possible?” I asked. “My body must’ve already started to decompose.”

“It’s possible,” Aunt Laura said, leaning forward. “I won’t be revealing any great secret if I tell you that ghosts don’t exist. Except…” — her gaze swept across us — “except for those who’ve been cursed, trapped by a rather nasty spell. Why? you may ask. That’s exactly what we need to find out.”

She paused for a moment.

“I could’ve handled all of this myself, but I wasn’t sure you were truly a ghost. Your friends have confirmed it today — and you did well to come so soon. Though, honestly, it should’ve been me coming to you.” She sighed heavily. “Anyway, resurrection rituals aren’t simple things. I’ll need calf’s blood, the head of an anaconda, and…”

She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly as if calculating something.

“I’ll have to ask my cousin for help. We’ll visit her once we’re in London. The rest, I think, I already have. As soon as we gather everything, we’ll begin.”

None of the guys looked particularly thrilled about returning so soon, but Aunt Laura brightened things up quickly:

“I’ll refund your travel expenses and pay for the return trip — first class.”

“Will we have to kill a calf?” Mill asked hesitantly.

“No, of course not — you can buy everything,” she said.

“Even an anaconda’s head?”

“Yes, even that, believe it or not. You just have to know where to shop.”

“And where is that?” Mill persisted.

“That’s not something you need to know,” she said firmly. “And another thing — you all need to eat. Everyone except you, Jake, I’m afraid. Ghosts don’t eat. Go on, head to the kitchen.”

We stepped into a cozy kitchen where Aunt Laura immediately set about brewing tea and warming up pancakes with raspberry jam.

In no time, she’d laid everything out before us — delicate white saucers, porcelain cups, and a heavenly aroma — and then disappeared into her eerie room to gather whatever mysterious things she needed.

We were left alone in the kitchen.

“Jake, can I… touch you?” Emma broke the silence first.

“I don’t know if it’ll work,” I said hesitantly. “But you can try.”

She reached out and brushed her fingers against my hand.

“This feels… so strange,” she whispered.

“No kidding,” Mill snorted. “I actually lay on him once.”

Emma’s eyes widened.

“It’s a long story,” Mill muttered, choking slightly on his pancake.

“Hey, guys,” Patrick whispered, leaning closer. “Don’t you think she’s a bit weird?”

“Who?” Mill asked, also leaning over the table. “Emma?”

“Yes,” Patrick said sharply.

“Hey! I’m right here!” Emma snapped.

Patrick grinned. “Sorry, I meant your aunt, Jake.”

“Well, she’s not supposed to be normal,” Mill said matter-of-factly. “She’s a fortune-teller.”

“Yeah, but still… there’s something about her,” Patrick murmured. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. Statistically speaking, all fortune-tellers are frauds.”

“Why would she lie to us?” Mill said between sips of tea, then coughed. “She’s Jake’s aunt.”

“Jake, didn’t she seem a little strange to you?” Patrick asked, looking at me.

Honestly, she had seemed a bit odd to me — but then again, she was a fortune-teller.

And if TV shows were anything to go by, people who spoke to the spirit world tended to go slightly mad over time.

“No,” I said. “I like her.”

“Me too,” Emma agreed. “Besides, her pancakes are amazing.”

Everyone hummed in approval, their mouths too full to speak.

“How exactly is she going to bring Jake back?” Mill asked, looking around the table.

“No idea,” Patrick said. “Some sort of ritual. Maybe we’ll even summon a demon. We’ll ask her when she comes back.”

Aunt Laura didn’t keep us waiting long. She appeared in the doorway wearing a long black coat, a wide-brimmed hat adorned with feathers, a slim umbrella, and a tiny handbag clutched in her hands.

“No, I won’t tell you how we’ll bring him back,” she said with a smile. “Have you eaten, children?”

“Yes,” we all answered in unison.

“Good. Leave the dishes on the table — I’ll tidy up later. For now, off you go! Take a walk around the city until evening. I have errands to run,” she rattled off at lightning speed, waving her umbrella toward the door.

Outside, the air was damp and cool.

Fine rain gathered into droplets along the hems of our jackets, and we kept close to the shop awnings, trying not to get soaked.

The streets were almost empty — only a few passersby hurried past, not noticing the three teenagers and the one ghost quietly trailing behind. Начало формыКонец формыНачало формыКонец формы

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Chapter 4

“Maybe we should go after her,” Patrick said.

“Why?” asked Emma.

“I don’t know… something about her feels off. Bad feeling,” he muttered.

“And where exactly is she supposed to find an anaconda’s head and calf’s blood in Liverpool?” I asked. The second part still made some sense — but the first one raised a lot of questions.

“And what other ingredients does she even need?” Emma added. “A baby’s heart, maybe?”

We huddled together under the pouring rain, trying to decide what to do. The sky hung low and dark; the empty shops and tall grey buildings made the street look like a scene after the war — or like the townsfolk were hiding, waiting for the next air raid.

“Let’s vote,” Mill said. “Who’s in favor of following her? Hands up.”

Patrick and Emma, both raised theirs.

“I’m in too,” I said. “She’s my aunt — nothing bad will happen if we go after her.”

Though, deep down, I wasn’t sure I believed that.

“Perfect. Three against one,” Emma said. “Let’s move — before she disappears!”

Aunt Laura had left us about five minutes earlier, heading a block south from where we stood. She’d told us firmly to be at the station at six sharp. We ran toward that spot, but she was gone. She could’ve taken one of three directions, and we scanned each street carefully.

The clouds swallowed the last bit of light, and not a single ray of sun was there to guide us. We stepped off the sidewalks into the street, peering ahead, hoping to spot anyone — anyone who even looked like her.

On one of the streets, Emma noticed a figure in a long coat under an umbrella, walking briskly, splashing water with every step through the puddles.

“I see her!” she shouted to us.

We rushed after the silhouette, quickly catching up, trying to keep a respectful distance. Sometimes we fell behind, sometimes got closer, hoping she wouldn’t notice us if she suddenly decided to turn around and look back.

“Damn, what a downpour,” Patrick complained. “Where is she going?”

We passed several streets — the city felt like an endless maze. The guys’ shoes and clothes were completely soaked. All they wanted was to be somewhere warm and cozy, with the TV on and a cup of tea in hand.

As for me — I didn’t feel any discomfort from the cold, water, or wind. Well, not exactly. I felt all of it, but I wasn’t cold like the others, whose teeth were already chattering. The silhouette ahead turned into an alley, and we ran after her — but when we reached the corner, she was already gone.

“She couldn’t have made it to the end that fast,” Mill said.

“Yeah, no way,” Patrick agreed. “She must’ve gone inside somewhere.”

The alley was narrow — a car would barely fit. We ran through it, scanning the walls for a shop of strange things or something like that, but there were absolutely no stores here: every door was locked, mostly black backdoors of houses. On the ground lay a single old, trampled, broken-in-half sign that once proudly read a plain ‘Cheap Beer.’

We ran around the alley three times.

“Guys, I think this is pointless. We lost her,” Emma said.

“She couldn’t just vanish,” Patrick muttered.

“She couldn’t… but as you can see, she’s gone.”

“All right,” Mill started, “to hell with her, let’s just find some place to stay dry…”

Behind me, a basement door creaked open.

Before Mill could finish his sentence, he fell silent, and the others hurried to hide behind a trash bin, nearly slipping on the dirty asphalt.

I stayed where I was — after all, I was invisible.

Damn, what a shop…

The basement door opened wider and out came no one other than my aunt. She glanced around the street furtively, opened her umbrella, and hurried away.

The others came up to me.

“When the door opened, I thought I saw some light inside and heard a noise,” I said.

“We need to get in there, but I doubt they’ll be happy to see us,” Patrick suggested.

“That doesn’t look like a shop,” Mill added.

“I’m invisible, so I’ll go first. You follow when I give the sign, all right?”

“Yeah, perfect. Just hurry up — ghosts don’t get cold, but we sure do,” Patrick said through chattering teeth.

I walked up to the door and listened. The rain behind me drowned out all sounds from inside, so I had to go in blind. I gently pressed the handle and pushed the door open. Inside — only darkness, nothing else.

But I was sure I’d seen a faint light when my aunt came out.

I stepped in. A dark, damp room greeted me — the air was stale, heavy, with a hint of rot.

At the far end, there was a doorway without a door, and from it came that same dim glow. I stepped back to whisper to Patrick that it was safe to enter. The guys rushed inside, relieved to finally be out of the rain.

Something clanked loudly in the next room, and we froze.

“Did you see what that was?” Mill whispered.

“No. Stay here,” I whispered back.

The clanking came again. I crept toward the doorway and peeked around the corner.

Yes, it was some kind of shop — but not the usual kind. The shelves were thick with dust, as if people touched the items only when they absolutely had to. In the dim light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, I began to look more closely at the objects on the shelves.

They weren’t ordinary goods or household items. Every corner here was filled with unimaginable things — and the longer I stared, the sicker I felt.

On the first shelf stood jars filled with something dark and thick. Their contents weren’t clear at first glance, but when my eyes focused on one of them, it became obvious — it was blood. Pale, almost black, with crimson streaks, so dense it looked more like jam.

Each jar was labelled with ancient symbols. I wasn’t an expert in that stuff, but they looked like runes. A few jars stood side by side, and on one of them, I noticed an engraving in English: “The Day of the Fall.”

On another shelf lay heads — both human and animal.

But they weren’t ordinary heads. They were grotesquely distorted, with hollow, bulging eyes and mouths twisted into impossible shapes. Some faces were still covered with skin, but it looked too thin, almost transparent — as if these heads had been here for a very, very long time.

From several of them, a dark liquid was dripping, sliding off the shelves in drops and sizzling as it touched the air, evaporating. From others sprouted brittle black hairs, sharp like needles.

I held back a wave of nausea and turned my gaze to the head placed right in the centre.

The corners of its dried lips moved. I froze.

What the hell…?

Further down, in the corner of the shelf, stood open glass vessels filled with strange contents. In one of them floated tiny figures, each no bigger than a finger — resembling human infants. Their small eyes were closed, and their insides spilled from their slit bellies. They looked human, but they weren’t: some had six legs, others were covered in fur.

All of them gave off a faint yet persistent odor that made me sick to my stomach. On the third shelf lay twisted amulets and ancient medallions covered in runes.

In the centre stood a metallic cube, glowing dimly from within — as if a weak light bulb was burning inside it.

There were also herbs, books, and ordinary dead animals — rats and insects sealed in jars. The shelves weren’t just cluttered with strange objects; they looked like a collection of dreadful trophies gathered for dark rituals and magic powerful enough to shatter any reality. The atmosphere in the shop was so heavy it felt like the very space around us was alive, watching our every move.

Something stirred in the middle of the room.

I hadn’t noticed it before because of the poor lighting, but now it was clear: among the dusty concrete floor and shelves covered in cobwebs, something was moving.

Slowly. Unnaturally.

As if each part of its body existed separately from the others. It shifted its limbs — too long, maybe arms, maybe legs — it was impossible to tell in the dark.

Its movements were jerky, hesitant, as though the creature itself didn’t fully understand how its own body was supposed to work. I was certain it wasn’t human.

Its arms were too long — longer than its legs. With every step, it made a wet dragging sound, like someone pulling a sack of mud across the floor.

It didn’t see me — or maybe it pretended not to. From time to time, it would freeze suddenly, as if thinking, and then start moving again. That was enough for me. I backed away slowly, not believing my own eyes.

Emma’s hand pressed against my back, stopping me.

“Jake, what is it?”

There was no time to explain, so I whispered as quietly as I could:

“Take a look for yourselves — but be careful.”

They crept up to the corner and peeked inside.

From the looks on their faces, I knew they saw exactly what I had seen.

Mill was the first to recoil.

“That’s… horrifying,” he whispered, barely moving his lips.

The others came closer.

“What do we do now?” Patrick asked.

“We get out. Right now,” Mill suggested.

“No. We have to go in.”

We all stared at Emma, stunned.

“What did you just say?”

“We have to go in and try to buy something. It’s a shop, isn’t it?”

“A shop with human heads and babies? What exactly are you planning to buy there?” Patrick almost shouted.

“Or do you want to leave yours on a shelf? ’Cause I’m not planning to — I’m outta here!”

He and Mill turned toward the exit—

when the clanking sound echoed again,

right behind us.

“Did Hera send you?”

The voice came from behind us — hoarse, but loud enough to freeze every muscle in my body. A chill ran up my spine, from heels to scalp, locking me in place. I couldn’t even turn around to see who it was.

“Go on, answer me,” the voice snapped, irritated.

We turned.

It was the same creature we’d seen moments earlier, standing in the centre of the second room — wrapped in tattered, ancient rags. Its arms were unnaturally long, fingertips dragging across the floor. Its legs and torso were hidden beneath layers of fabric, impossible to make out. The hood concealed its face completely, and the dim light did the rest.

“N–no, ma’am… or mister…” Emma’s voice trembled. “We’re not from Hera.”

The creature exhaled slowly — a heavy, drawn-out sound.

“What ‘mister’? I’m a woman. Just an ordinary woman. So… who sent you, then?”

None of us believed that voice belonged to a woman, but none of us dared argue.

“No one, ma’am. We just… came through the wrong door. We’re leaving now.”

Emma rushed to the door, and the three of them slammed into it — locked.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the creature said, and there was a trace of amusement in its tone. “I think you’ve come to exactly the right place.”

It began to move toward me — slowly, hesitantly, as if remembering how to walk. Each step came with a faint crack, like bones bending the wrong way beneath the cloth. The movement was all wrong, too human and not human at all — as if there were two or three knees on a single leg, hidden beneath those endless rags.

“I think,” it rasped, “we’re going to have a lovely time together… khh–khh…” It laughed, low and broken. “Call me Margaret, my friends. Would you like some tea? I have chamomile, sage… and a few memories to spare.”

“No need to trouble yourself, we were just leaving!” Patrick was fumbling with the lock, desperate.

“Oh no,” Margaret said, coughing again — harshly, like an old fireplace trying to breathe. “You came in of your own free will. So here you’ll stay… until I decide otherwise.”

She kept moving forward, step by step, until she was almost right in front of me.

I tried to stay unnoticed for as long as possible and shifted slightly to the side.

The next instant, she lunged — unnaturally fast, almost silent.

She leapt straight toward me, raised her head, and locked her gaze on mine.

I couldn’t see her eyes, nor her face beneath the hood — only two dull reflections glimmering deep within. No pupils. No lids. Just the ghostly glow of some nocturnal creature.

Her breath came ragged and harsh.

“What an interesting case…” she murmured slowly. “Such an interesting…” Her voice cracked and died out.

I stood frozen. Only now did I catch that acrid stench coming from her — a mix of formalin, blood, and decay.

“Hello,” was all I managed to say.

“Oh, he talks, does he?” she said, genuinely surprised. “Hey, you!” she barked at Patrick. “Leave that bloody door alone! You’ll leave when I say so!” Her voice rose into a hoarse half-scream.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Patrick muttered.

“Follow me. All five of you.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

At that moment, a small, scruffy creature darted out from the corner. It shot past Patrick — who squealed like a little girl — and vanished under the rags of the old shopkeeper.

“Didn’t know you could make that sound,” Emma said dryly.

“Yeah…” Patrick muttered, embarrassed.

“Come along,” said Margaret, disappearing into the next room.

Mill glanced at Patrick, then at the door.

“It’s like it’s locked from the other side. You could have ten people push it — it wouldn’t budge.”

“Well then, guess we’re staying…”

We stepped once more into that dreadful room. The same stench hung heavy in the air — jars, heads, amulets, dried herbs — all exactly where they’d been. Margaret — if she had ever been human at all — stood behind the counter, wheezing and rasping.

“So,” she said in that dry, broken voice, “what do you want? What are you here to buy?”

“Nothing, ma’am. We came in by mistake,” Emma said quietly.

“No one walks into my shop by mistake,” Margaret rasped. “Everyone who enters must either buy something… or leave something behind.”

“And if we don’t?” Mill asked.

Margaret slowly turned her head toward him.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, her tone low and deliberate.

“Probably not,” Mill said thoughtfully, scanning the shelves. “If we buy something — we can leave, right?”

“Now you’re finally starting to understand,” she croaked. “That’s right.”

“How much for that pendant?” Mill squinted and pointed toward a mirror-like charm hanging near the ceiling.

“It’s not for sale,” Margaret said. “Not for money.”

“Then what’s the price?”

Her hood tilted slightly. “What are you willing to give for it?”

“I don’t know… what does it even do?”

Margaret slowly raised her hands to her head and tore away several layers of rags that looked like a hood.

What we saw beneath it made our stomachs tighten.

Her head was old and pale, the skin sagging and half bald. In some places it had turned a greyish green, as if rotting from within, covered with fine cracks and thin blue veins crawling along her temples. Her eyes were cloudy and swamp-like — dead fish eyes.

Strands of hair stuck out in patches, and it looked less like they grew there and more like someone had jammed them into her skull by hand.

“It kills your enemies,” she said softly, “but in return it makes you an old woman like me. Do you want to be an old woman like me?”

She stared at Mill without blinking.

“What — no!” he said, stepping back.

“So, you’re saying I’m hideous?” The old woman narrowed her eyes.

“Not at all! I never said that!” Mill blurted out.

“My friend only meant that he has no enemies,” Patrick stepped in quickly, “so that pendant isn’t really of any use to him.”

“Then your friend is either lying,” Margaret rasped, “or he’s a fool. Everyone has enemies.”

“He’s definitely a fool,” Patrick agreed at once.

“And what about your other friend…” She turned her head slowly and looked straight at me. “What’s wrong with you, boy?”

“I think I’m a ghost,” I said quietly.

“That much I can see. How did you become one?”

“I don’t remember. In fact, I barely remember anything about my life,” I replied.

“Interesting… very interesting…” She lowered her head and stared at the floor.

For about ten seconds she stood completely still — and then, suddenly, her right arm shot upward, toward the ceiling.

Out from her tattered sleeve darted that same scruffy little creature we’d seen before. It scurried up her arm, then leapt onto the nearest shelf, moving with unnatural grace — not running, exactly, but gliding, touching the surfaces only lightly with its tiny paws.

For a moment it looked like something might fall — a head, a jar, something fragile — but no. The creature was no bigger than a hand, and every movement was sharp, precise, practiced.

It darted up, down, sideways, and at last reached its destination: an ordinary-looking bookshelf. It grabbed a single book, scampered back along the shelves, climbed up Margaret’s arm, and vanished into her sleeve again.

Margaret slowly lowered her hand with the book and placed it on the counter.

“Here,” she said to me. “This is what you need.”

I stepped closer and took it.

It was an old book with a faded cover: “Preparatory Courses for Applicants to the Faculty of Physical Sciences.”

The absurdity of that title, in this place of all places, sounded almost like a cruel joke.

I looked at Margaret in disbelief.

“What do I need this for?”

She looked back at me and swept her long, bony finger around the room.

“It’s not what it seems,” she said. “Nothing here ever is.”

That look of hers made me feel unbearably uneasy.

“All right… how much does it cost?”

“A favor for a favor, boy,” she rasped. “A favor for a favor…”

Then her voice exploded into a roar.

“NOW GET THE HELL OUT!”

The words cracked through the air like a gunshot. Dust rained down from the ceiling.

We stumbled backward toward the exit. Her face was turning crimson, and by the time we burst into the next room, Patrick had already thrown the door open with one desperate pull.

“Wait,” Emma said. “We still don’t know everything.”

“What else?” I asked.

“What your aunt bought here,” Emma replied.

God, we’d completely forgotten why we came in the first place.

Absurd as it was, I decided to go back — just for a moment — and ask one last question, hoping for a final shred of kindness from the old woman.

But when I turned around and took a few steps… the room was empty. Utterly empty. No counter, no books, no trace of anyone ever being there. Not even a smell. I looked down. In the light spilling through the open door, something glimmered at my feet — a single gray hair.

I picked it up. Looked closer.

It must’ve belonged to that little creature; Margaret’s hair had been white as ash. I slipped the hair between the pages of the book and turned to the others.

“It’s gone,” I said.

Emma stepped closer.

“Yeah. Completely.”

“Good!” Patrick shouted. “I never want to see her — or that filthy thing — ever again!”

We stepped outside and headed toward the station. The rain had stopped, and the first rays of sunlight were breaking through the clouds. But my head was pounding with questions. Why had she given me this book? Why that book — “Preparatory Courses for Physical Sciences”? And if it wasn’t what it seemed… then what was I holding in my hands? Most of all — what kind of favor did she want in return?

Judging by the “goods” in her shop, the price might not just be terrible… it might be irreversible.

A man ran past us, late for his bus, holding onto his hat.

Then he froze mid-stride — staring straight at the book floating in midair.

“Jake, give it to me,” Patrick said quickly, snatching it from my hands.

I flinched. I’d completely forgotten — to everyone else, I was just a ghost. And the book in my hands looked like it was levitating.

“So, what have we got here…” Patrick opened the book in the middle and flipped through a few pages. “Looks like plain old rubbish. Just another boring coursebook.”

“I doubt it,” Mill said darkly. “Remember what that pendant could do? Maybe the book does something similar. And the price for keeping it might be…” He stopped mid-sentence, pressing his lips together — and Emma jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Don’t scare Jake,” she said firmly.

I swallowed hard. The last thing I wanted was to end up like that old woman — living in a basement, selling cursed trinkets, and chatting with small, hairy monsters.

Chapter 5

The café by the station was almost empty. It used to be full of the down-and-out, but lately the local police had been driving them all away.

Soaked and freezing, we stumbled inside and took seats in the farthest corner — there were still about thirty minutes left until six o’clock.

Everyone bought themselves a cup of sweet tea from the vending machine and sat there sipping that watery mix of who-knows-what. Judging by their faces, it didn’t taste great, but at least it was warm. No one spoke. We just stared at the table, avoiding eye contact with the cashier and the few scattered customers.

What had happened in that basement had shaken us badly. We might’ve blamed it on a group hallucination, or exhaustion from running around in the rain — if not for the book in Patrick’s hands.

I kept glancing at it — the one solid proof that everything had really happened.

“I think I want to become a shaman,” Mill said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” I asked, surprised. “Why?”

“Well, you know,” Mill said with a grin. “To do stuff. See the future, raise dead Jakes — or at least one of them — and visit weird little shops.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mill,” Emma said. “Like that old hag said — everything has a price.”

“God, I thought we were done for,” Patrick sighed, rubbing his head. “‘You’ll leave when I say so,’” he mimicked her raspy voice, then shuddered. “And those jars — did you see what was in them? There were children!”

“Tss!” Mill hissed. “Keep it down — we’re not alone.”

He glanced around. The few people in the café were buried in their phones, so no one was paying attention.

“They weren’t children,” Mill said quietly. “Where have you seen a child with six legs? Or fur all over its body?”

“Nowhere,” Patrick said, frowning. “But where have you seen a shop with people inside vanish into thin air? Exactly. They’re doing something with those infants — sealing them in jars and selling them. Like merchandise.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But someone’s got to be helping her — delivering all those… goods.”

“Heads,” I said. “What scared me most were the heads. The sheer number of them. Their faces — twisted, deformed.”

“They could dig up heads from cemeteries,” Patrick muttered, “but that many infants…?”

Emma looked up at me.

“Jake, what was your aunt doing in a place like that?”

“I don’t know,” I said — and I really didn’t.

“Were your parents close with her?” Emma asked, squinting.

“I don’t remember anything from my life.”

“Damn it,” Patrick sighed. “Mill, maybe we could talk to your sister again?”

“And ask her what, exactly?” Mill said. “If she’s ever seen a baby in a jar at our aunt’s place?”

“You’re right,” Patrick sighed. “It does sound stupid when you think about it.”

Our conversation was cut short by the jingle of the bells above the door. In the doorway stood a familiar black cloak and a hat adorned with feathers. It was my aunt.

“Oh, there you are, children!” she exclaimed loud enough for the whole café to hear, utterly unbothered. “Splendid! The sooner we leave, the sooner we arrive!”

“Trains run on schedule, don’t they?” Mill muttered, leaning toward us.

“Yes, my dear boy — on schedule,” she replied, smiling and winking at him. “Unless, of course, the schedule changes.”

Mill blushed slightly.

“I’ll have a black coffee, no cream, no sugar — plain black. And make it quick, please, I’m in a hurry,” she rattled off to the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

The barista lifted her eyes slowly, clearly unimpressed by this interruption to her peaceful kingdom. She’d seen hundreds of people like my aunt — all rushing, shouting, and terribly important — but that was their problem, not hers.

Here, she was the queen. She decided whether you’d make your train, and whether your coffee would be good… or something you’d curse all the way to your destination. She popped her gum, dragging out each word like a stretched rubber band.

“Two fifty,” she said flatly.

My aunt calmly fixed her with a piercing stare and placed a note into her hand.

“Keep the change.”

The woman shuffled over to the coffee machine and started pressing buttons. It hissed and gurgled — the ritual had begun.

Meanwhile, my aunt turned and gave us a quick, conspiratorial glance — her loyal little followers, silently promising that if a fight broke out, we’d be on her side. But then her eyes fell on the object in Patrick’s hands.

“You didn’t have that book before,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am… uh… I bought it from a stall nearby. I really need it for my exam prep. Been meaning to get it for ages, just never got around to it.”

“Good,” she said curtly. “Now let’s go.”

She grabbed her coffee and dashed for the door, splashing it everywhere as she went.

“Well? Don’t just sit there — move, move!” she shouted over her shoulder.

We jumped to our feet and ran after her.

Patrick, trying to finish his tea on the go, managed to spill it all over himself.

***

Everyone took their seats. I settled by the window, hoping no one would sit next to me — after everything that had happened, being too close to my aunt felt… unsettling.

Then it hit me: if she already had all the ingredients, where were they? She only had her small handbag and her coat. Surely, she didn’t stuff everything into her pockets… There was no way to mention it to the others — she’d hear me, and I wasn’t eager for that conversation.

“Well, children,” she said, taking another sip of her coffee, “as soon as we arrive in London, we’ll go to my cousin’s place, and then straight to Jake’s grave.”

She paused for a second. “On second thought, that should be done at night. Too many witnesses otherwise.”

“How exactly are we going to bring him back?” Patrick asked.

She turned, glanced at the passengers around us, and continued in a quieter tone:

“You won’t have to do much. Just stand nearby — or outside the cemetery — and make sure no one comes close to Jake’s grave while I’m working. I’ll draw the alogram around the headstone and read the incantation.

Jake, you’ll need to stay beside me. At some point, you’ll fall asleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be in your body again. Clear enough?” The guys frowned.

“That sounds… way too easy,” Patrick said suspiciously. “Was bringing people back from the dead always this simple?”

“I’m not resurrecting the dead,” Aunt Laura corrected. “I’m reuniting a person with his soul.”

“Oh, right, now I get it,” Patrick nodded approvingly. “Wait — no, I don’t. That is basically resurrection, isn’t it?”

“No, dear,” she sighed. “It’s one thing when the soul is still here, wanting to return to its body. Quite another when the body’s gone — or the souls already crossed over.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Patrick muttered. “And… you’ve done this before?”

“Hmm… no,” she frowned, thinking. “But once, I had to trap a human soul that lived in the basement of an old house. And guess what? It tried to strangle anyone who came inside.”

“And what did you do, ma’am?”

“I sealed it in a jar. What else could I do?” She rubbed her eye. “Terrible fate, really — sitting in a jar until the end of time… or until someone lets you out.”

“So, like a genie? Do you still have that jar?” Patrick brightened.

“Yes, somewhere in my flat,” Laura said. “But I wouldn’t call it a genie. Genies grant wishes. This one would kill you the moment it’s free.”

Patrick swallowed nervously.

He was about to ask something else when the loud slam of the carriage door cut him off.

An old man with a bushy mustache, a worn conductor’s jacket, and a belly that strained the buttons stepped in. He looked us over as if deciding whether we deserved a fine simply for existing.

“Tickets,” he growled.

“Just a moment,” Aunt Laura said, setting down her cup of coffee and rummaging hastily through her handbag. It looked clumsy and uncharacteristic — she was usually so composed.

After a few seconds of frantic digging, she produced four crumpled tickets and handed them to the conductor.

He didn’t even take them. Narrowing his eyes, he said flatly,

“You’re in the wrong carriage. This is first class. Your seats are in the second. Move at once.”

“But, sir…” Aunt Laura glanced at the tickets. “It says —”

“Quickly, please. You’re holding me up,” he interrupted impatiently.

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

Aunt Laura suddenly lifted her head, and for the first time that day, her voice rang with steel.

“Damn you!” she snapped, thrusting the tickets right under his nose, her face flushed crimson. “Look again. And don’t interrupt me. These are the right seats — and the right carriage.”

The conductor frowned, finally took the tickets, and examined them carefully. Slowly, his face went slack.

“Well… yes…” he murmured, handing them back with a dazed expression. “Thank you.”

He turned on his heel and stomped off, muttering angrily under his breath.

“He’s not even going to apologize?” Emma whispered, astonished.

“He doesn’t need to,” Aunt Laura said curtly, staring off toward the end of the carriage.

She fixed her gaze on a single spot and began whispering something under her breath. A moment later, the conductor stopped in his tracks — as if he’d run into an invisible wall — beside a lady who was holding out her ticket. He didn’t take it. He didn’t even look at her.

“Sir, are you all right?” the elderly woman asked.

No response. Then, suddenly, he muttered,

“Excuse me…”

He clutched his stomach and staggered toward the vestibule, but tripped over someone’s bag and crashed to the floor. A second later, he vomited.

Struggling to his feet, he took a shaky step forward — then slipped again and landed with a dull thud right in the same spot… and vomited once more.

Within moments, he managed to stand, took two more steps toward the door — and was sick again.

“What on earth — ?!” shouted a richly dressed elderly lady nearby, a few drops splattering her sleeve. “Get out of here, you filthy man!”

Clutching his stomach and covering his mouth, the conductor finally stumbled into the vestibule and disappeared behind the door.

Needless to say, we were all beside ourselves with joy — and the sweet taste of poetic justice.

“Ma’am, how did you do that?” Emma asked in amazement.

“Oh, that was just an old stomach-ache spell,” Aunt Laura replied calmly.

“Can you teach me?”

Aunt Laura lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Hmm, I could… but witchcraft is something you learn from childhood — or when a person has a certain spiritual sensitivity to it, you see?”

“I suppose, ma’am…” Emma frowned, clearly dissatisfied. She wanted to learn magic — that much was obvious.

“Maybe one day you’ll come visit me,” Aunt Laura said, softening her tone, “and we’ll see what can be done, all right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Emma nodded, visibly cheered.

“And what about us?” Patrick piped up eagerly. “Can Mill and I learn too?”

Aunt Laura gave him a long, pointed look.

“Boy, nobody likes a show-off. Did you know that?” she said, leaning closer.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, embarrassed.

What a woman, I thought.

I’d never believed in witchcraft. Every time I saw some “psychic” or “wizard” on TV, I was sure they were frauds — people who’d say or do anything for attention or money. They preyed on the vulnerable and fooled them with cheap tricks.

Take those TV shows about “psychics,” for example: they find a woman whose child has gone missing, contact her, and offer “help” in exchange for filming the story for broadcast.

Meanwhile, the crew digs up whatever information they can — where the child was last seen, what he was wearing, that he played the violin… And then, on camera, comes the act. The woman sits down, trembling, next to the “psychic,” who speaks in a solemn, mystical tone:

“I see… I see a red jacket,” he says. “And… wait, be quiet, please… I hear… yes, I hear the sound of a violin.”

And what happens in that mother’s heart at that moment? Of course she believes him — she wants to believe, because she’s desperate to know her child is alive.

That’s why I always thought all those so-called psychics were idiots. The same goes for fortune-tellers, healers, and “soul-guides” who promise to cure every illness, reveal your past, and predict your future — or whatever else they claim to do.

I looked at Aunt Laura. She had just made a grown man vomit on command. It wasn’t like they’d had dinner together and she’d poisoned him for dramatic effect.

And besides — I was a ghost. And the only person who might be able to save me… was this witch.

The train swayed gently from side to side. Outside, a fine drizzle had begun to fall.

An hour later, everyone was asleep. Aunt Laura pretended to be as well, though every ten minutes she cracked one eye open, peered down the carriage, then shut it again.

For all her sternness, for all the effort she put into looking cold and composed, there was something motherly about her — a quiet, watchful care that slipped through despite herself.

I couldn’t sleep. The rhythm of the train lulled me, but I hovered in that strange half-world between waking and dreaming. I tried to remember anything from my life — faces, sounds, moments — but it was useless.

Maybe, when I was alive, my friends had meant more to me than my parents did. After all, they were the first ones who came to mind. Especially Patrick. I glanced at him: his head tilted back, mouth wide open, sleeping like a child. I couldn’t help but smile. Resting my head against the window, I tried to push away the darker thoughts and simply watched the landscape drift by.

Chapter 6

“We’re all special, aren’t we? Some a little less, some a little more. Some imagine themselves as mighty mountains,” — she lifted her hands dramatically, drawing out the word, eyes wide with mock wonder — “when in truth, they’re not even a tiny mosquito. Others don’t imagine anything at all but believe — firmly believe — that they are special. So, who’s right?”

She fixed her pitch-black, tar-like eyes on me.

“Is it the little mosquito who thinks he’s a mountain, convinced of his own greatness? Or the one who knows he’s nothing — absolutely nothing? I wanted to say I thought it all came down to upbringing and birthplace. Some are luckier — and so they rise above others: ‘These people around me are of a lesser kind. I’m different. I’m special. I deserve more. I’m better. I’m never wrong — but I learn from my mistakes. I’m kind to everyone, unless they make me angry.’ Heard that before, haven’t you?”

She threw me another glance, and I nodded before I realised it.

“And then there are those less fortunate, yet just as firm in their self-belief: ‘I’ll make it. I’ll break through, because… because… what?’”

She tilted her head, looking at me questioningly.

“Because I’m better than the rest. I deserve better. And so on, and so forth — you know the script by now. So tell me, who does deserve it? Who’s actually right? Who’s truly special? Who’s the lesser kind, and who’s the very meaning of life? Maybe everyone is, each in their own way? Oh, no. I don’t buy that.”

She lowered her gaze, smiling broadly.

“If everyone were special, then no one would be. So who is it then? Who? Or maybe the more interesting question — the one that really keeps us up at night — is: how do I become special?”

She looked at me from beneath her lashes.

“I… I don’t think I’m special,” I said, trying to defend myself.

“Oh really? But you’re a ghost!” she cried.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“The answer seems to dangle right there, on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken,” she went on. “But your brain — that traitor — resists it: ‘That’s wrong! No, not that!’”

She paused for a moment, then spoke softly, almost gently:

“I don’t know… Maybe everyone is. Maybe no one is. The only thing I know for sure is this: in an infinite universe, within that brief flicker of time we call a life, it’s the silliest thing to worry about.

Think of something pleasant instead — flowers, the sea, a beautiful view from the window.”

“Kristina, leave Jake alone!”

“Sorry, Mum.”

For a second I wondered why I was listening to all this from a ten-year-old curly-haired girl and not from some elderly philosophy professor. Her theatricality both scared and fascinated me — and she seemed far too clever for her age.

We were sitting around a large wooden table covered with a tablecloth, in an old flat that belonged to Aunt Laura’s cousin, drinking tea and trying very hard to show how much we enjoyed it. That seemed terribly important to Aunt’s cousin. The apartment had creaky wooden floors, creaky chairs, creaky everything, really. The old-fashioned furniture, the high ceilings — nearly four metres, I’d guess — the dim lighting, and the warm tea gave the room a kind of… I don’t know… coziness, perhaps.

Aunt’s cousin — Fiona, as she introduced herself — was a pale woman, fluttering around the table handing out spoons and pouring tea. She wore a light dress, and it seemed that every movement came effortlessly to her, like a butterfly. I kept half-expecting her to lift off the ground, or that the smile, never leaving her face, might suddenly illuminate the room with some sort of magical glow.

“I’m so glad you came,” she said, practically shouting the last words. “Especially you, Laura! It’s been years since I last saw my dear cousin — and just as many since I’ve had any guests at all!” she exclaimed, hugging everyone right there in the doorway. She even tried to hug me, which turned out rather awkward — but still, she made the effort.

Fiona lived with her daughter, Kristina, who, to be honest, was nothing like her mother. She had thick chestnut hair, large brown eyes, and a patience that her mother clearly lacked. She didn’t act like a child her age. She didn’t rush off to play on her phone, or on the computer, or with dolls — or whatever ten-year-old girls do these days. And she didn’t leave my side for a single moment.

“She’s homeschooled, so she hardly ever meets people. And you can be sure — she’s never met a ghost,” Fiona explained to me.

I didn’t mind. Her questions — like “How do you go to the toilet?”, “When you eat, does the food turn invisible too?”, or “Have you ever thought about robbing a bank?” — actually amused me. They even helped me forget, for a while, that I was dead. She sat next to me at the table and joined the tea party like the rest.

“I like black tea. No sugar,” she announced solemnly. “Sugar is bad for you.”

Fiona, busy pouring tea for everyone, hesitated for a moment when she reached my cup.

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded, smiled, and hurried on to the next guest.

“Well then,” Aunt Laura declared loudly, “children, I’m very glad to see my dear cousin — and all of you here. Now, we just have to wait until nightfall, and then we’ll head to the cemetery and bring Jake back to life.”

“I’m coming too?!” cried Kristina, jumping off her chair with excitement.

“No, sweetheart, you’ll stay home for now.” Kristina slumped back in her seat, disappointed. “Now drink your tea,” Aunt Laura added with finality.

Everyone drank their tea and devoured the pastries as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that far from the truth — we’d barely had breakfast. Aunt Laura and Fiona were deep in conversation, laughing brightly every now and then.

“Do you remember Ronald?” Aunt Laura began.

“Oh yes — the troublemaker who used to steal everyone’s lunch,” Fiona replied.

“And do you remember that day when…” Laura lowered her voice to a whisper, and a moment later both burst out laughing.

Meanwhile, I was still answering Kristina’s endless questions, which had slowly shifted from childish curiosity to something… older. Deeper. There was suddenly a kind of thoughtfulness in her that didn’t fit a ten-year-old girl. She seemed older, wiser even. It made me uneasy, though there was no malice in her eyes — just that strange mix of innocence and understanding.

“So why do you think about it then?” I finally managed to ask.

“Think about what?” Kristina looked puzzled.

“About people — like you said, who deserves something and who doesn’t.”

“I don’t know… It just happens. I just think,” she said quietly, her voice falling a little.

“All right. And which kind of people do you think you belong to — the first or the second?”

“I already told you,” she said, lifting her chin. “It’s silly to think about such things. So I won’t anymore.”

“Hm, fair enough,” I said. “Your mum said you’re homeschooled. Why’s that? Wouldn’t you rather go to school with other kids?”

“Oh, I’d love to,” she said eagerly, “but I can’t. What my mum teaches me… they don’t teach that in schools.”

“What does she teach you, then?”

She frowned and fell silent.

“Why so quiet?” I asked, surprised.

“I’m not allowed to tell anyone what she teaches me.”

“Why not?”

“Mum said people wouldn’t understand… and they’d want to kill me.”

I stared at Fiona in disbelief. Could this woman — with her glowing smile and angelic gentleness — really have said something like that to her own child?

“But…” I began, wondering how to convince the girl otherwise. “Technically, I’m not a person. I’m a ghost.”

She lifted her chin solemnly and smiled, eyes lighting up.

“Yes, that’s true! Come on, I’ll show you something!”

Well, that was easy. A pang of guilt ran through me — tricking a child like that probably wasn’t very nice — but curiosity got the better of me. She jumped up, grabbed my hand, and led me into the hallway.

“Don’t turn on the light,” she whispered. “You’ll scare them away.”

Them? I almost asked, but decided to chalk it up to childish imagination. We walked all the way to the end of the corridor, to the last room.

“When you see them — don’t move and don’t speak. They might get frightened. Stand by the door and wait for my signal, all right?” She tried to give me a stern look but missed and stared somewhere around my stomach instead.

“Yes,” I whispered.

The door creaked softly as we slipped inside and locked it behind us. Kristina let go of my hand and walked to the centre of the room. We stood in darkness; from the kitchen came the faint clinking of dishes, outside the wind was rising and twilight thickened. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, blocking even the faintest trace of light. It was dark as a coffin in there.

Kristina stood in the middle of the room and raised her arms. She began to murmur — half whisper, half chant. It went on for about ten minutes. I had time to grow thoroughly bored and started thinking it was just some childish game. Still, I didn’t move — whether to humour her or simply to avoid disappointing her, I wasn’t sure.

Something blue flickered in the far corner of the room. I squinted, trying to focus — but there was nothing. Just the same thick, impenetrable darkness. A moment later — another flash, this time high up near the ceiling.

I began to watch more closely. Here and there, along the walls and in the corners, faint blue sparks blinked into existence — each one lasting only a fraction of a second before vanishing again.

Then there were more of them. Dozens, maybe hundreds — tiny glimmering dots scattered across the walls. Some stopped flickering and stayed alight, glowing softly like little blue stars.

I wanted badly to step closer, to see them better — but I remembered her warning: don’t move.

Kristina was waving her arms slowly now, like wings — up and down, up and down. I couldn’t take my eyes off those blue lights; they were too strange, too alive. There were more and more of them with every passing second. The room was no longer dark at all — it was filling with a gentle, shifting blue glow.

Then one of the lights drifted away from the wall and floated into the air. I watched, spellbound. It was alive — though not quite an insect, not a butterfly, not a flame, but something in between. Its edges flickered like tongues of fire, and it glowed with a soft blue radiance.

Another joined it. Then another. And another.

Soon the space around us was filled with these tiny beings — each one about a quarter the size of a butterfly. Some shone brighter, others dimmer. They moved like dancers: some fluttered like flickering fire, others swayed like the rolling tide of the ocean.

Even though I was a ghost, I had the distinct feeling that the little flame-butterflies could see me. They circled around my motionless body for a moment, curious, before slowly drifting toward Kristina. One by one, they settled on her outstretched arms, which she kept lifting and lowering as if conducting this mysterious ballet.

More and more gathered around her, and soon thin luminous trails began to stretch from her hands — like comets streaking across a night sky. The sight was nothing short of magical.

She turned toward me slowly, still moving her arms in that graceful, dreamlike rhythm.

“They’re teaching me how to control them,” she whispered barely audibly.

“Why?” I asked, just as quietly.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They don’t tell me. Maybe… for protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“They always say, ‘You’ll find out when you grow up,’” she replied, shrugging again.

Suddenly, the door swung open, flooding the room with light from the hallway. In an instant, all the glowing creatures vanished. Fiona stood in the doorway, her expression stern.