The Myth of the Great Man Baby... And the Ghosts Who Raised Him

Father

DeeDee had taught Thomas how to keep to the walls.

Mommy and Daddy, they'd never yelled that loud before. 

She assured Thomas they both just needed to cool down. Kissed his head and told him she loved him so much. More than anything in this world.

Then her eyes shone with tears so she whipped her head back so Thomas wouldn't see.

Over and over. Teased to not get them caught. Weight shifted toward where his step was headed.

Toward the rooms forbidden to everyone except his Father. After Mother insisted there was either some kind of leak or poison, something, to explain everything she would see, the shrill cries of anguished children, and pain gripping so cruel at her chest.

In the back side of the house was the tearoom his Mother used to host; when they'd been newlyweds and newly moved. Naive and ignorant to the curse. Of which-- Thomas hummed the siren song that had flowed through the walls, coaxing him into heavy, serene embraces of sleep. In the dark.

Lalala lu li la, lalala-la.

"...Write a note to the sea, and place it in a glass bottle..."

Coming to the door firmly latched shut, Thomas sucked in a breath hold. Hold.

Yanking the knob open with a pull.

Of course he was careful as to not cross the threshold. Dee-ceit had warned ghosts could be very particular about that. 

"He-- hello? Any-- anyone home?"

And it was with ninety-two percent certainty that he could say it was a ghost in this room. Practically a surety!

Air carried notes of children's laughter despite the overall gloom of a hospital. And yet it smelled of warm linen out of a dryer and some almond milk type of soap.

"I-- my name is Thomas. Thom-A-S Masters. M-A--"

A terrible moan cut him short, sending a chill up his spine.

What glided toward him hunched over and hand clamped to his tiny stomach was awful.

Draped in a hospital gown what could have been a milky pale man dragged out a ragged cry. "eeee, he-- he--" he racked with coughs.

"Please can I help you? Tell me what to do," Thomas insisted, and yet his own foot wanted to step back and run. But-- but he couldn't, could he? This man, this poor person was so obviously sick and in pain and-- and he still hated that. Hated it with all his click-clock heart. Or wait-- no, he didn't--

"Help?" it asked. Mop of unruly hair parting just a little so he could see thin rimmed glasses.

Taking a shot of courage Thomas nodded. "Yes! Help, I want to help you. I-- I want you to not be in pain."

Before anymore could be said he recoiled, body curling unnaturally as if made of air rather than-- well, he probably was air. He never-- but Dee-Dee had blood. He'd see it. Even the times he didn't want to. Or, especially then. 

A ghost never had to kill you to prove their point. Sometimes it was asking about deaths or other times it was the things you think you know. By and by Thomas had to be quite mindful of his tongue.

"Please, come, come closer to me." His voice wobbled terribly. His image looked to actually fade, struggling to just stay here where Thomas and anyone could see.

So really, it was a no-brainer to follow instructions. As fast as possible.

Ice cold hands clamped down upon his shoulders. The ill man professing terror in his expression alone. "We're dying. We're all dying here, we need-- need ener-- HnnGHH."