The Man Who Swallows Nightmares

my ghost | 05

Malachi 

GHOSTS LINGERED WHERE THEIR MEMORY dwelled. That was what I learned from our Kingdom's archives. That one sentence was consistent with all the historical, folklore, and academic volumes. Nothing told me of a woman with dove gray eyes and brunette hair that seemed endless like the sea's waves. Then again, I hadn't searched all the documents.

I covered my mouth to suppress another yawn. The night was dedicated to her. She lived within the thin portrait on my ceiling. Once the sun rays dipped beneath the horizon then the unseen became visible. I figured out her favorite utensil was a writing device. Similar to my quill but not.

With my Ghost's presence, I've chosen to stay up until she fades. Sometimes she lingered an hour, the whole night, or five minutes. There was no pattern. There was no form to it all. It was like witnessing magic for the first time - fresh and alluring. I retired to my bedchamber earlier and earlier each night.

"Retiring early?" Nicholas's tenor voice fluttered to grasp my attention. His comment halted my departure last night. I'd inhaled the roasted turkey, buttery potatoes and carrots, and fresh strawberries to finish the meal. The gold goblet shimmered with the artisan's magic particles, making the dove feathers within the glass flow. The King waived his right hand at me when I stood up. The Queen watched me while she finished her dessert. Her silent gaze always followed me. The King's emerald vine coiled around his ring finger, gold flakes dusted his hands. His dismissiveness boiled my heart.

I tasted my own pepper heat. I need not recall that memory. My tongue tried to recoil around my distaste for my Father. Don't think about him. Don't think about how you could stop this. Don't think about how I can suffocate him with his own Gift of Reflection.

I turned the page in The Ancient Kingdom of Thrive, the words dropped outside the physical book and took form to shape miniature citizens, shadows, the castle, the fields, whatever the words described; the words showed the story. My fingers grazed the cedar desk. My quill positioned beside my left elbow.

"No need to show off," I said.

The book groaned. I was sure it hadn't encountered a reader in awhile because the book's words turned into multi-colors, one minute it was turquoise then the next a sharp orange. The words were jittery as if they were actors on a stage. They tumbled over each other, creating a cluster. If thoughts were a river endlessly flowing then these words were wanting to be free, but consisted of being a puddle.

"I'm looking for a woman," I declared. The puddle turned into a miniature Gifter. The new shape put their hands on their hips and gave me a side eye.

"Not what you're thinking." I tried to cover my warm face.

I guess a book can think.

"A Ghost. She may have lived here in the Castle. Her name is Darlene."

Darlene.

I withheld a sigh. She had to be a Ghost. She had to. There was no other explanation for her portrait in my bedchamber. But if she were then she would be able to hear me. I would think.

The words took their own shape, pulling out letters to ask: "Last name?"

I rubbed my face. "I do not know."

If I could talk with her again, I'd ask more than her last name. What makes you laugh? What's your Gift? You clearly have one. What taste would you be?

My face got warm again.

The words clumped together. Their appearance was a floating cloud instead of the previous puddle. Spiraling on top of each other, they searched their book for my request. Invisible snowflakes reappeared on the desk where the book laid open. I found out when I got my Gift how books held the magic particles. The trace revealed the magic from touch and Creation: the writer and readers. I could take the diluted particles and borrow a small sample of their Gifts. It was a fraction of the Power. With that small amount, I could use it for maybe a minute, but it drained all my strength to use the Gift. In conclusion, I never applied the Gift because it did more harm to myself than good.