A Soul for a Soul

Dear Dr. Beck

Dear Dr. Beck,

I am writing you this because I promised, this tale had to be told, but up until now I didn't know whom to tell it. Everything you will read has been written down exactly as it happened. It is unbelievable, and strange, but if anybody can be trusted with this, I sincerely hope it to be you.

I should give you a glimpse on how it came about, how a pharmaceutical student ended up writing you, from his internship in Westbury, about a Faery.

For me, it all started with the video, or rather with Tim, the boy who got bitten. Puzzled about the nature of the bite I ventured to the graveyard myself one day, searching until I found the thrown stick, but couldn't find anything else. Already on my way out, an old woman approached me, telling me quietly that what I was looking for I would only find at night. Naturally I didn't take her word for it, but as I was awoken at night by the sound of footsteps again- I'm supposed to be the only one renting a flat in this building, but I can often hear persons walking around and even talking- I was illusional trying to find any more sleep so I took my chances.

Still unsure what exactly I was looking for, I made my way through the graveyard, towards the grave with the stick.

„Who are you?"

I turned to the person that spoke, but found myself to be alone.

„Anybody there?" You know, I always hated that line in movies, but as of right now nothing else came to my mind.

„Ah, one second." The first thing I saw was a bare foot. Pale and unusual given it wasn't exactly warm. The foot was followed by a leg, appearing out of thin air, ending in the hem of a white dress. After a while she stood before me, fully visible, from her curly hair to her dark eyes, rosy lips, and her body, only wearing a nightgown but not appearing to be freezing.

„Nice trick." I said as I watched her sitting down on the gravestone. „I take it you aren't exactly normal?"

„That depends." She gently stroked the rim of the stone. „Normal for what? For Whom?"

„ Are you a ghost?"

A chuckle passed her lips, carried away by a soft breeze. „Sorta."

She leaned forward, her eyes glistening with mischief. „Why are you here? You aren't like the others who venture on this ground nowadays. You are like people used to be in the old days."

Reluctantly I indicated to the ground in a questioning manner. She understood and nodded, and I took a seat.

„Are you here often?"

„Some times more often than others." A new breeze caught a strand of her hair, causing it to make this waving movement I only knew from shampoo adverts.

„Were you here last night?"

Another laugh, but it sounded bitter. „Why? Did I kill someone?"

„I don't know. But I wanted to ask you about the kids that were here last night. Said one of them was bitten by an insect. I have never seen such a bite caused by a flying one though."

„Is he okay?" She suddenly appeared to be concerned.

„Yeah. Just a little spooked... Or hyped. You never know these days."

She was quiet then, and when she finally spoke, her manner had changed to being calm. „If I tell you a story, would you stay and listen? Do it and I shall tell you about the insect."

„Tit for tat? Deal." I pulled out my flashlight and a pen and a notebook, and she got excited asking me if I could write.

„It all started about 1830, I think, when Philip Ripton came over from England. He was traveling with his father, a carpenter, to sell his crafts."