It had been seven days since Wyatt's return to Nowhere.
Seven days of caring for a woman Wyatt knew nothing about.
It wasn't hard in the sense of there being a lot of work to be done. It was hard in the sense that Wyatt didn't know what to do with her. His own mother.
Wyatt was a man of action. A man of rights and wrongs and dos and don'ts.
Logic told him that Evelyn was taken care of. She had three square meals a day, a fresh set of clothes to wear, and plenty of books, radio, and television to fill her time.
But Wyatt sensed her disconnect whenever he was concerned. She knew him, or rather she used to know him. But she didn't anymore.
And even though her mind was drifting, Wyatt knew that her maternal instincts were still intact. She wanted to know Wyatt.
This was where logic met its end and turned into emotion, which was a skill Wyatt hadn't mastered.
He'd never been good at being known.
These were all of his thoughts that ran through his head as he sprayed fertilizer on the roses. He'd read that it was best to do it before sunrise, so the sky was just now turning baby blue.
The greenhouse was Wyatt's oasis. Even when Hal was alive, he'd spent most of his time amongst the tomatoes, roses, and dirt.
Marigold kept politely asking Wyatt when he was coming back to school in the way girls do when they don't want to be direct but also want an answer. Most days, she would ask, "You need a ride?" but sometimes it would be "I can bring your homework to you."
For the first time in Wyatt's life, school wasn't his priority. It was a curious feeling to suddenly be faced with choices.
All his life, Wyatt Best had been the mascot of good grades, respectable friends, and a promising academic career.
School was life and life was school. Brambleby Academy was all there was, is, and ever would be.
But now? Now Wyatt had other priorities. He had a mother to take care of. He had his own produce farm to grow. Money to make. A job to work.
He was smack in the middle of adulthood before he even knew it had begun. And what would he go to school for now anyway? To get a job? He already had one at the Penny's for the time being. To make a career? Everything he'd need for that was sitting in this greenhouse.
All of the data was lined up in place, but for once, Wyatt was finding it hard to accept.
He drew his shoulders back and stretched.
The sky purpled up above and Wyatt put away his tools before going back into the farmhouse.
He washed the grime off of his hands and turned off the water when he heard voices upstairs.
He straightened and craned his ear to listen.
His mother was one of the speakers, but he couldn't identify the other. It was too quiet.
Had one of the Penny's come to visit?
There was a pit growing in Wyatt's stomach as he cautiously made his way up the stairs.
"Mother?" he called.
There was no answer, but there was a scent.
It was faint, very faint, but it made chills trace down Wyatt's spine. For a second, he couldn't move.
Memories flooded through his mind in a suffocating rush.
Memories of Hal, of every bad thing that happened after Wyatt set foot in this house, flashed before his eyes.
He knew this smell. It was rot and decay and hate. And it could only mean one thing.
There was a ghost with not-so-pleasant intentions inside his house.
Wyatt clenched his jaw and forced his feet forward. "Mother?" he called, more desperate this time.
He shoved open her door, ready to go to war with whatever it was inside.
But there was only a boy.
Evelyn frowned deeply. "Wyatt, honey, privacy?"
The boy stood up and when his body caught the morning light, Wyatt could tell that he was a ghost by the rays trickling through his form.
Realization dawned on him.
Ophelia's secret ghost.
He'd almost forgotten about him.
"This is my friend, Marshall," Evelyn said, extending a slender hand to the ghost.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Marshall said. If he weren't dead, Wyatt thought he'd be blushing by the way he ducked his head.
"Oh, don't be silly," Evelyn said. "We have guests coming and going. So many people, so little time, you know."
"Right," Wyatt said. "How about we go downstairs and get something to drink, then?"
"Bring me some brandy on the rocks, will you?" Evelyn asked.
"Sure," Wyatt replied, though he knew there wasn't any brandy in Nowhere, much less his own house.
Marshall followed him out into the hall, his feet hovering just above the wood.
"I'm sorry," the ghost apologized. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was on the road when I heard--erm, felt--that someone was crying."
Wyatt regarded him curiously. "Ghosts can do that?"
Again, Marshall looked like he was blushing. "We have a knack for...sensing desperation."
"And my mother was crying?"
"I'm sorry," Marshall repeated, starting to float down the hall in the opposite direction. "I shouldn't be here, I--"
"Hold on," Wyatt said. "Must've been pretty loud if you could sense it that far away."
Marshall drooped his shoulders as if he were the one that was guilty. "Yes. It was."
Wyatt waited for him to go on, but when he didn't, Wyatt put his hands in his pockets.
He couldn't explain why, but he felt like this ghost might be a good addition to the Best farmhouse.
"So can ghosts actually drink anything or...?"
"No," Marshall admitted, but then added hopefully, "but we can pretend."
"Sure," Wyatt replied warily.
Marshall followed him downstairs, where the dining room table was littered with junk and knickknacks from where Wyatt had cleaned out the old cupboards in the house. Hal clearly hadn't taken inventory of the place when he'd moved in and Wyatt had found old bottles of moonshine from the Prohibition stacked up in one cabinet, and fabric that had long since been used by rats in another.
It had taken him a long time to figure out how to change the electric wiring in the house--a task he'd had to seek Oscar's help on.
It wasn't long ago that he thought all houses had working light fixtures simply because they had bulbs screwed into the lamps. He'd learned the hard way that all of the electricity was connected--if one outlet didn't work, then there was a good chance that all of the other ones didn't work either.
He cleared out a spot for them to sit and decided to forfeit the effort it would take to pour a drink since Marshall couldn't drink anything anyway.
They sat across from each other in silence. The ceiling fan whirred clumsily overhead.
Wyatt weighed the willowy boy before him. Marshall was the nervous, quiet type, he concluded.
Wyatt had experience with both of those traits himself, so he decided to ask, "What's your story, then?"
Marshall shifted. "I don't remember. I died, obviously, but it was like I was asleep. I woke up older, even though I died a long time ago. I wandered for days, maybe even weeks, and then I met Ophelia."
"We had another ghost like you," Wyatt replied amiably. "He didn't remember where he came from either."
"Did he eventually? Remember, I mean?"
Wyatt thought back to that night in the forest. He'd been half-unconscious, so it was all a little foggy. But Silas had regained his memory once he had a few clues to his past.
Maybe the same could happen for Marshall if they were able to find a link that would help him remember.
"I've been feeling better, well, more whole since being here," Marshall said.
Wyatt regarded him again.
The Bests generally had the natural ability to sort out which eggs were good and which ones were bad. Some called it "business sense", but it seemed to work outside of the workplace more often than not. Perhaps this was because the Bests generally had the natural ability to be skeptical of people.
Regardless, Wyatt couldn't ignore the ease he felt in relation to this ghost boy. It was the same gut feeling he'd had when he'd met Oscar.
Marshall was a good egg.
So, Wyatt told Marshall about Gwydyr.
At first, Marshall seemed like he was acting polite in order not to laugh in Wyatt's face, which Wyatt appreciated, but as the explanation went on, Marshall began to realize that everything being told to him was done so in seriousness.
Wyatt explained Gwydyr's bloody history, how his brother had been searching for it for decades, and how its energy manifested itself onto the ghosts.
Upon hearing this, Marshall looked hopeful again. "So the more time I spend near this forest, the stronger I'll get?"
Wyatt couldn't help but reflect his optimism. "Never know."
Marshall let out a sigh of relief. "Well, if it's true, then I'll have my second chance."
Wyatt's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"All I know is that I wasn't supposed to die," Marshall confided. He tucked his hands beneath his seat, looking down boyishly. "I'm not ready to go."
"But when the next eclipse comes..." Wyatt didn't say you'll have to.
Marshall squirmed. "But Ophelia said that won't be for a while?"
"I don't think so," Wyatt admitted.
Marshall grinned crookedly. "Good."
Wyatt picked at the chipped table absently. "My mother seems to like you."
"She tells good stories."
"Does she?" Wyatt nodded to himself. "She needs a friend. Maybe it won't be so bad having a ghost around the house after all."
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Hey guys! I hope you're having a good week! My family's sick with the Dread Virus, which is kind of bleh, but more time for writing! Yay!
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