𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 | "The Carriage held but just Ourselves - And Immortality."
In which Eden Mercer learns there is more to the Problem, and herself, than meets the eye.
𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 & 𝐂𝐨.
𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐡...
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𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 drops that slid down the window in her bedroom. She was sitting on the window seat, her knees pulled to her chest, teary-eyed as she kept replaying the conversation with Anthony. Her diary lay discarded on the seat beside her, having written enough of what she was feeling, but the ink had gotten smudged from the tears that had fallen onto the pages. All she wanted was for Anthony to believe her about the skull. She didn't want to be alone in this realization. She wasn't lying—and she wouldn't lie about something that terrified her.
As she sat there, someone knocked on the door that led to the attic. Wiping her eyes, she called out, "Yeah?" as she stood and walked halfway across the room.
Anthony appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a tray of medical supplies. "Hi," he greeted awkwardly. Eden just stared at him. "Uh . . . I know I look like Anthony Lockwood, but I'm not. I'm actually a fully qualified doctor, so . . . "
Eden inhaled, sitting down on her bed. "Good," she muttered. "'Cause he was a massive prick to me just now." Anthony nodded, his gaze falling to the tray in his hands as he stood there, waiting for her to invite him into her space. She licked her lips and nodded into the room. "Come on, then. Bring it in."
He moved forward, sitting down next to her, placing the tray beside him. Eden glanced at him, but decided to keep her gaze on her hands. Anthony ran his hands on his trousers awkwardly. "Uh, I'm not sure what I should—"
The auburn-haired girl lifted her left arm across her body, showing the wound to him. Carefully, he pulled the sleeve of her maroon, long sleeve polo up to reveal the bloodied gash. Most of the blood had clotted by now, but it was still in need of being cleaned. Anthony looked at her after he had dipped a cotton ball into the bowl on the tray, which Eden could tell was a peroxide and water solution from the smell of it. "This is gonna hurt," he warned her softly.
"Thanks for the warning," she stated as he pressed the cotton ball over the wound.
Reflexively, her fingers jumped at the sting. Anthony's pinkie stretched and brushed over the heel of her hand softly—a reassurance that sent Eden's stomach into a frenzy. "I was . . . " Anthony started. "I was orphaned at the age of six. So, uh . . . all I can say is I don't really enjoy talking about my past. And that's what's behind that door."
Eden nodded, her gaze still on her hand. "Okay," she whispered softly, not pushing the topic of the secret door on the landing anymore.
Anthony cleared his throat, taking more solution on a different cotton ball, removing the dried blood from her hand. "And, uh . . . you used it to convince me that, not only are you one of only two people in the history of the world to be able to talk to ghosts, but that we actually have a Type Three ghost in our house." He reached back to the tray, grabbing an antiseptic packet and a band-aid off of it. Taking her wrist gently in his hand, he opened the antiseptic and spread some over the cut, being careful to not apply too much pressure over the wound. "You know, two events with one-in-a-billion probability. And the chances of you being right are—"
