Clearing up after a ghost freak-out is not how I planned my evening to go, but I have no other choice. My mum will have a fit if she comes back and finds my room looking like a particularly disgruntled tornado has swept through the place.
The particularly disgruntled tornado in question is nowhere to be seen, and I manage to sweep up the broken glass, tidy my clothes, pick up the fallen dresser, even screw a new light bulb I find in the storage cupboard into place, and restore order to my room without even a hint of Sam.
I try calling his name, which makes me feel even more crazy when nothing but thick silence answers my calls. Well, for a moment. The house creaks and wails, the wind outside howls for attention, throwing leaves against the glass and bending trees to its will, but Sam's voice is strikingly absent.
I spend the night tossing and turning, my mind a maelstrom of chaos. When I fall asleep, I dream of hands on my shoulders, shoving me down. I dream of Sam's outburst going too far, crumbling walls, getting stuck in a pile of rubble, clawing my way out. I dream of my dad, pounding his fists on the door and demanding I let him in.
It's a restless, uneasy night, to say the least.
I startle awake to the sensation of ice on my cheek, and I find Sam knelt before me. Smudgy and forlorn but there, at the side of my bed. His unexpected presence makes me flinch, but at least this time I don't scramble, nor do I knock myself out. I take that as a win.
"Sorry," he says weakly, drawing his hand back. "I think you were having a bad dream."
The room glows with the rosy hue of sunrise, bringing with it the cold clarity of morning after a chaotic night. Fear clings to me like a second skin, and my heart clenches against invisible blows.
I glance towards the door, but it's closed and still and there aren't any shadows lurking beneath. With a shuddering sigh, I cover my face with my hands, feeling as though I haven't slept at all.
"I'm so, so sorry about last night," Sam rushes out, his echoing voice tinged with remorse. "I don't know what— there's no excuse for it. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Please, don't shut me out."
"I'm not shutting you out, Sam," I assure him as a shudder slides down my spine. I can't tell if it's because the room is freezing, because Sam is freezing, or if it's merely a remnant of that dream. Maybe all three.
"I've never done that before, and it... it felt awful. I felt weak. Like... like I wasn't quite attached, you know?"
I'm not sure I do, but I nod vaguely as I try and wake up properly. "I think I'd get angry, too," I muse aloud, trying to make him feel better. "If I found out..."
I can't quite finish; the thought summons a cavernous hole in my chest. Dread and pity and frustration all mingling into a chaotic storm. If I'd been killed and everyone talked about it being an accident, and that I should have been more careful, I'd be furious. Way to blame the victim.
"Sam, do you know who did it?"
He's quiet and, when I part my hands to glance his way, he's looking down at the sheets, fogged brows furrowed, lips set in a thin, unhappy line. "No. I can't— I can't remember." His voice is bleak; a dismal arrow tip slicing straight into my chest.
"I'm going to help you figure it out," I say quite suddenly, surprising us both. "What happened. Maybe that's why you're stuck here, and if I can help, then I should. If anyone else says what happened to you was a tragic accident, I'll set them straight for you, alright?"
He stares at me; disbelief and brittle, cracking hope warring for precedence behind his eyes. "You will?"
I nod. "I promise."
Unbidden, something he said the other night comes back to me, like bubbles rising from the depths and breaking the surface. In all the frenzy of Sam's sudden appearance and my subsequent breakdown, most of what he'd said didn't quite register. Rather, I was too busy panicking that I could hear what he said at all.
It registers now.
"Is this your bed?" I say, gazing up at the ceiling. It's decorative; a mass of patterns all swirling together like ocean waves. The paint is cracking, but the effect is beautiful nonetheless. Actually, the cracks add a little bit more character to it.
The house accepts this compliment with a wailing creak, and I hastily reassess my opinion. Surely a house doesn't need to settle this damn much.
Sam hums vaguely. "I mean, I was here first. And — when I knew I was stuck here — I chose this room 'cause I can see the town in the winter, when all the leaves are gone." Abruptly melancholy, he rises and retreats to look out a little gap between the curtains. I get the impression of a prisoner surveying freedom from behind bars. Locked away. And now I'm abruptly melancholy, too. "You can go back to sleep, if you want. I promise I won't wake you up again."
I reach up to cup my icy cheek — something Sam must've just done to startle me from a nightmare — and find myself thinking of the murder mystery I read last night. Poirot's deductions. Sam jabbing his finger against the word murdered.
Perhaps, I muse, I could give it a try. Figure out what happened to Sam by playing detective. Maybe he can move on, or find peace, or whatever it is ghosts do when they're done being ghosts. And, I figure, I'm quite lucky to have the victim of the murder around to answer questions that would, usually, go unanswered.
The only difficult part will be finding solid proof. Sam isn't all that solid, after all, and I've got nothing but my word.
Somehow, thinking of the cheerful townsfolk of Eden's Gate, I highly doubt they'll take me at my word.
I roll over and find the book lost in the sheets. "Sam?" I call softly.
"Hmm?"
"If I'm going to help you, I need you to do me a favour," I tell him, absently thumbing through the pages.
"If you help me, I'll do anything."
"Just... warn me if it gets a bit much, alright? I don't know what it's like for you to relive all this, so you've got to help me understand."
He's quiet for so long that I look over my shoulder to check he's still here. I find him watching me; his form is blurred but his focus is razor-sharp and locked on me.
"Thank you, Theo," he tells me, his voice soft and shuddering. "I mean it. Thank you for seeing me."
His words summon a lump at the back of my throat, and I have to blink away the sting of tears.
I clear my throat. "It must've been awful for you."
He lifts his shoulders in a misty, halfhearted shrug, his gaze sliding back out the window to the woods and the town beyond. "I was alone for a while. And then this lady showed up looking to renovate the place. I tried everything to get her attention. I screamed, I threw things, but she couldn't hear me. She couldn't see me. No one could. They all just blamed it on the house. Faulty wiring, old floorboards, the wind. It... Do you know how frustrating it is to try and get someone's attention and they won't look at you? I had no idea what happened, and every time I tried to leave, I couldn't. I just end up back here. I... I think I preferred being alone to being lonely." He trails off, looking miserable and vague as a rosy, early morning sunlight streams in through the window and casts his form in a glow that makes him almost transparent. His face shimmers, and I wonder if it's the shine of tears. As I study him, he schools his features, looks at me, and offers a brittle smile. "I definitely prefer being seen by you, though."
"Why can I see you?"
Sam shrugs once more. "Not a clue. Why am I still here? Sometimes there are no answers— just more questions."
Absently, I mess with the book. "I'm sorry for not believing you, at first."
He laughs, an echoing sound, wandering over to sink onto the edge of the bed. "I don't blame you. I was just worried you'd fall down the stairs and be stuck with me forever, when you ran." Something behind his eyes lights up, and he says, "Besides, you did believe me, at first."
I frown, but realisation spears through me with all the suddenness of a strike to the face. "Holy shit," I blurt out. "You're my nursery friend?!"
He grins. "The one and only."
I'm about to retort when I hear a door squeal open and the creak of approaching footsteps. The sound echoes and carries in the old house; an archaic alarm system screaming out the presence of an intruder.
A burglar wouldn't be so obvious with their approach— which could only mean...
Sam holds his hands up in surrender, choosing to leave the excuses to me.
Hastily, I grab my phone and hold it to my ear.
"Theo, who are you talking to?" my mum asks, opening my door and peeking into the room with furrowed brows. She's got her dressing gown on, blinking blearily, and guilt blooms in my chest.
I pull the phone a little away from my ear, mimicking an imaginary conversation. "A friend from college— remember Jamie?"
"Oh!" she says with a smile. "Of course I do. Tell him I said 'hi'."
"I will. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. I'll go downstairs. How was your shift?"
"Busy, but good. I'm getting used to the routine of it all, I think," she tells me, cheerful as always. "I'll leave you to it. See you later."
Once she's gone, and once the door clicks shut after her, I drop the phone and rub my eyes. I need to be more careful.
Sam is practically buzzing with excitement. "Who's Jamie?" he asks, wiggling his vague brows with intrigue.
I don't answer right away, not wanting to disturb my mum anymore, and I put on my glasses. I gather my laptop, a little notepad and pen, the book and my phone, and balance them all precariously in my arms.
"An old friend. Can you, like, interact with things?" I ask in an undertone.
Sam crosses his arms and surveys the room. He hums curiously. "Sometimes. If I focus hard enough. And, if I focus even harder, I don't interact with things. Watch."
He closes his eyes tightly and his whole body goes rigid, as though he's mimicking a stone. Then, he opens his eyes, turns, and walks straight at the wall—
—and straight through it.
I blink, startled, but I hardly have a moment to register this strange ability of his when Sam emerges from the wall once more. He gives a dramatic bow and wipes imaginary sweat from his brow.
I snort, bemused. "Impressive."
Then, with all my things, I leave my room and head downstairs to keep from disturbing my mum as she sleeps. I settle in the lounge and organise everything on the coffee table.
Sam, who followed me down, sits cross-legged on the old sofa at my side, rubs his hands together, and watches me curiously.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice rising with intrigue as his eyes blaze with it, too. A candle through smoke; an insistent glow, even as darkness tries to smother it.
"Well, I told my boss I'll be in at twelve, so we've got a few hours to make up a plan for solving your murder," I tell him casually. This is my new normal— chatting with dead people, playing detective. "You say you can't remember who pushed you, but what do you remember? Anything at all?"
I grab the notepad and idly mess with the pen as Sam fidgets and rubs at his temples and looks around.
My curiosity softens towards pity. "Sam, we don't have to do this, you know. Not if you aren't ready."
He fervently shakes his head. "No, I am ready. I..." He trails off, and I watch as a shadow passes over his features; a storm rolling in with thick, dark clouds. He continues in a soft, echoing voice, "I remember loud voices... and a hand on my back. I remember falling, and I remember feeling this... agony across my head—" He reaches up and points at both temples, as though the pain was so bad, he cannot distinguish which side the blow came from, only that it encompassed his head— "I remember people screaming, and— and blood on the floor. I... I remember watching them run out the front door, and leaving me behind. After that, there's nothing but darkness and pain."
I frown, dread seeping like tar through my veins, tugging and pulling at my focus. Sam looks forlorn, shrinking in on himself against invisible blows, and he won't quite meet my eyes.
"Sam," I begin, reaching and placing my hand over his own clasped together. It's like touching an incorporeal ice cube — something that's there but not there, something that my brain can't quite interpret and chooses instead to turn its back on even as my skin tingles with the cold, proving its existence — and he startles and glances up at me. "Who's 'them'?"
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tells me, "I thought they were my friends."