Grim and Mory

Chapter 2: An unwanted visitor

"You can see me?" the man asks confused, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He is taller than her. Thin too, practically a skeleton with skin. He waves his hand in front of Mory's face, side to side, as if she were some small animal. Mory trembles, following his hand with her eyes, not daring to move or speak. She doesn't even know if she could if she tried. The man leans forward and she flinches at their proximity. He peers at her face questingly through his hair. It's rather unruly, she notes. It could use a wash as well. "How peculiar," he breaths, furrowing his brow. "Why can you see me?"

Mory swallows, her breath shallow. This man is insane. Of course she can see him, does he think he is invisible? His coat looks expensive, and he is dressed far too cleanly to be living on the streets. The collar of a white button down peaks over the edge of his cloudy grey sweater, not a speck of dust in sight. Perhaps he has some sort of mental disorder? No matter the case, he is still dangerous. And inexplicable. She has never seen anyone move as quickly or as eerily as he does.

The man reaches his hand towards her and she jerks away, but he does not falter. It isn't until something within his coat buzzes--a phone, she identifies distantly--that he freezes. He smiles at her, a smile that takes her breath away painfully. It is a beautiful smile. Beautiful in an abandoned sort of way; a beauty that is forlorn. "Ah, I almost forgot." It's a small smile, barely there. A ghost of a smile on this ghastly man. "Goodbye, for now," he whispers, almost soothingly.

*_*_*_*

Mory opens her eyes, a shiver coursing down her spine. She is on her favorite bench, under her favorite but barren tree. Looking up, its branches appear as though they are cracks in the dull, winter sky. The crick in her neck is worse, and Mory supposes she must have dozed off. She blinks, her thoughts hazy. A ghost of a man materializes in her minds eye and she bites her lip. Her heart still pounds at the memory of what must have been her dream. It's coming back to her in pieces, making her sick all over again. She hurriedly tosses her bag over her shoulder and nearly runs from the park.

Though it's late in the evening, any appetite she may once have had is gone. All thoughts of food make her nauseated. To distract herself, she browses in a small comic and book shop. After wasting a somewhat unreasonable amount of time procrastinating, Mory resigns herself to school work. She does have a lab report to write up, she thinks bitterly. She exits the shop with a ring of the bell, her thoughts now occupied with reactions and masses and chemicals.

Mory fumbles in her pocket for her keys, the thin cotton layer of her gloves dulling her sense of touch. The door unlocks with an audible click and she gratefully shoulders her way into the welcoming warmth of her apartment. The stairs are cast in shadow as she passes the door to her neighbors below, her ears burning with the sudden shift in temperature. Proper blood flow restored to her fingers, she makes quick work of unlocking the door to her flat.

Her flat is quiet except for the creak of the door. Mory welcomes the peace, though she feels a twang of loneliness. Her roommate is in Spain this semester for her Spanish major study abroad requirement, so Mory has the place to herself. She wishes for the trickling of music that would leak through her roommates door, but instead her ears are filled with the oppressive white noise of silence and the occasional creak of the floor boards from the neighbors above.

With a self deprecating huff, Mory drops her bag in the entryway. Rolling her shoulders, she decides a warm bath is of the upmost priority, despite the piles of work waiting for her. She has a bath kit from Christmas, she muses, as she peels off her outer layer of a coat, hat and gloves. She reaches to unravel her scarf, but her fingers graze against her collarbone. She pouts to herself. Wasn't the homeless man a part of her dream? She finally flicks the lights on to her sitting room, a small and quaint room with a small sofa and a few mismatched chairs huddled around a tv. She blinks as her eyes adjust to the light, and let's out a shrill scream.

There, sprawled out on her two person sofa, was the figure--no, the man--from the park, fast asleep. He startles awake, snapping to attention. He is on his feet within a heartbeat, coat billowing around him as he reaches in and pulls out something that takes Mory too long to process. It is eerily silent as she stares at this man, dumbfounded, as he brandished a scythe in the middle of her living room. She is too shocked to feel anything, to think anything, although she registers that her palms are now flush with the floor, her tailbone sore. She must have fallen.

"You--it--that--here!? You're REAL!?" she stutters, stumbling back up and backwards. He couldn't block her exit this time. He surely wouldn't throw the scythe? Can you throw a scythe, maybe like a boomerang? It looks much too heavy, much too cumbersome...

"Wait, wait!" he pleads, the scythe vanishing back under his coat. *How does it even fit?* Mory wonders incredulously. His voice is still thick from sleep, with a slight accent she can't pinpoint. "I mean you no harm. You, ah, startled me," he explains sheepishly as he raises his hands above his head in a sign of goodwill, impossibly still.

"I startled you?" Mory shouts unbelievingly. "You're the one in MY living room with a SCYTHE and YOU'RE startled!?"

The man opens his mouth to reply, but quickly shuts it, at a loss for words. In the light, his face doesn't look as lifeless as it had in the park. He looks as though the embodiment of death was mixed with the perfection of celebrities. Where Mory expects his eyes to be a dazzling blue, they are a bottomless grey. His face is delicate yet sharp with cheekbones and a jawline that many would kill for. Yet, it is off putting and unearthly. Mory realizes she was staring, though perhaps for the wrong reasons. She had felt terror looking upon him in the park, but now it is merely a vague sense of familiarity. She doesn't understand, nor appreciate, her change in sentiments.

"Get out," Mory breaks the silence. "Don't you dare come near me! Get out," she commands, belatedly realizing the only plausible exit is behind her. "Use the window!"

"That seems brash," he answers dryly, before continuing. "I have come with a purpose and I intend to see it through. Calm yourself--" He begins assertively but breaks off, noticing the stormy change in her face. "And...please...let me...explain?" he finishes lamely.

"You have a scythe!" She fumes, anger overtaking her terror. "What are you, the grim reaper?" She sets her jaw, grabbing an umbrella beside her, brandishing it like a sword. She knows it is nothing compared to a scythe, but it made her feel better. More in control. Maybe a little bit intimidating. "You're deranged and dangerous and impossible and terrifying and, and...a stalker!" she spits at him. "How did you even find me? You don't even know my name!" 

"Morticia Eve," the man recites expressionlessly. "Daughter of James and Livia Eve. Nineteen years old, born April 17th, 1998. Sophomore in university, aspiring scientist. Average in height and appearance. Brown hair and eyes, no notable or defining physical features. D--" Again, he broke off abruptly without explanation.

"Average?" Mory frowns to herself, her mind racing. This is all too unrealistic, too implausible. She hopes she is dreaming again. "What the hell? You break into my house scaring the crap out of me with a weapon and then you insult me!?" She swipes the umbrella through the air, almost dropping it. She fumbles with it, and points at the window. "Out. Now."

Mory is met with a simple and determined response. "No."

"Ugh!" She yells exasperatedly. This guy isn't going to be going anywhere anytime soon, not until he gets what he wants. It can't hurt to hear him out, could it? She looks him up and down, and though she knows he put that weapon somewhere, he appears harmless. She glances at the umbrella and feels foolish."Sit."

He complies, sitting on the sofa and staring at her. "Can I--" he asks, but she interrupts.

"No! Shut up!" She dashes to the kitchen, yanking a drawer open. She grabs the largest knife she owns, takes a can of bug spray from under the sink, and returns to the living room. She is relieved to see that the man has not moved, waiting patiently for her. "Alright," she settles herself at the farthest part of the room from him. She holds the spray out in front of her, knuckles white over the hilt of the knife. She ignores the fact that her hands are shaking. "Explain."