The butter simmered gently in the pan as Jared halved an apple and emptied its seeds from the core. He gathered them to one corner of the chopping board and eagerly bit into one quarter. He winced – heavily, yet happily – at the sharpness, his taste buds sodden by heavy coffee and bouts of nicotine. His tongue a hue of mustard.
'Wat doin'?'
The ghost girl, Tenebrae, hovered in the doorway as the kettle wheezed. Wisps of steam slithering beneath the underside of the kitchen cupboards. The vapour flirted with her – steam and smoke, transient by-products of gathered heat.
'Making a lock.'
'Wha?'
That's all she was now. A walking flame, her life now cut short and yet the burning torch of life still flickered. Speech fractured into self-derived trauma. Language was there, but the intent was nullified, as if speech and desire were a universe apart. Memories were her core structure, experiences moulded by love and heartache, laughter and chocolate. All these things mattered: a warm shower, a mug of tea, beans on toast, no matter how trivial, each was a totem claimed by spirit. She was now a burning effigy of life, and now others would come to bathe in the light, some would cross the dark divide in an act of pilgrimage. To gather around her warmth, and eat.
'You are a beacon, Tene'. Others will come. You are the warm fire in the long night.'
'Bads innit?'
'Very.'
Poor sod. If murder wasn't bad enough. That's why she loitered. A burning ember in the still night, furious, unforgiving until she had her answers. There had been others, but not to this degree. Some who had unfinished business, others who were just so stubborn in life they thought they would carry it on after into death.
She was a patchwork aberration. No longer a creature of flesh and appetite, a lauded spirit of emotion; clothes fused to spiritual skin – an idea of succulent possibility. She stood in his kitchen as she had died. Wet, bedraggled, a hole in the back of her head which gave way to jellied blood and dead leaves.
'I is scared.'
Jared grabbed the pestle and mortar from the cupboard and nodded. 'Good.'
Her tongue hid itself beneath her top lip. 'Whay?'
'It will make my job easier.'
He stirred the butter once more and started to grind down the apple seeds. A deep unnatural crack, knuckles in flex.
'happle seeds? Butar?'
Jared smiled. 'It's all bollocks really. Old Testament kinda shit.'
Her tongue found itself under her lip again.
'The seeds are a symbol of Eden. The apple, Lucifer gave to Eve. To grind down the pips into dust is a statement to the divide. Not again.'
'Bol-locks innit?'
'Possibly. But it seems those who dwell in the divide adhere to its commandments.'
'Butar?'
Jared kept grinding and gave her a sly look. 'It's a surprise.'
'Waat's comin'?'
Jared stopped, playfully bashing in the pips with one hand. 'There is no name for them. The first night is the worst. You – my dear – are the north star. A chance for those in the cold depths of unnatural places to warm their hands and feast on your sweet and savoury memories. They have forgotten about such things. What would be your response if you saw a leg of lamb on a table and hadn't eaten for a month.'
