C H A P T E R • T W O
Lydia soon found herself, still shaken scared and unbelieving, sitting cross legged in front of the mirror, the boy staring back at her. She found herself more interested in how she no longer could see herself in the mirror, only Stiles. The rest of the reflection, however, was exactly the same. She saw the refection of her room, all of her things and belongings. It was strange, trippy and Lydia was still half convinced she was sleeping.
She found herself speechless, staring into the class like some mental patient. Stiles was staring back at her with the same curiosity, brown eyes wide and bambi-like. Lydia took the moment to take in his appearance, from the sunken, bruised eyes to the old-fashioned clothing on his small body. He was skinny, gangly and pale. He looked sick, almost possessed - which lead Lydia to her first question.
"Are you sick?"
Stiles blinked, evidently surprised. "Sick . . . as in illness? Like a stomach bug or something?"
Lydia nodded, and Stiles sighed.
"No, I'm not sick," Stiles said, and Lydia didn't have time to dwell on the tightness in his voice before he was asking his turn in question, "how old are you?"
"Eight," Lydia replied, chin high and voice proud. She didn't need to be told to know she was a intelligent eight year old.
Stiles' face lit up. "Same!"
"Are you always eight?" Lydia asked.
"No. I can grow up, if I want,"
"How do you do that?"
"What? Grow up? Same as you, I guess—"
"But you're dead, so how can you keep growing up?"
"I died when I was seventeen," Stiles explained, and Lydia felt her eyes widen. Seventeen? But he was eight? "But something happened when I was eight, so it's like an important age. It's like a cycle— a life cycle. I start at eight, grow till I'm seventeen, and then I go back again."
Lydia swallowed thickly. "How many times have you been eight?"
Stiles smiled, looking sad but excepting. "I've been in here for ninety-seven years."
Lydia gasped, slapping her hand over her mouth with a audible clap. She felt her stomach twist uneasily. She was staring at a boy who was over 100 years old, but somehow was in the form of someone who looked no day older than her. Hell, that shouldn't be the most surprisingly thing in the situation as the boy was currently inside her mirror, but the number shook her more than she'd expected.
"You. . . you're—"
"Old, I know. It's kind of embarrassing, really. I always used to make fun of my parents because they were old, but now I'm like a dinosaur," Stiles said with a light chuckle.
"Dinosaurs went extinct over 65 million years ago," Lydia said, almost automatically. She hadn't realised she said it until Stiles burst out laughing.
"Very true. Okay, so maybe I'm not a dinosaur, but it sure felt like it when you looked at me like that," Stiles said. His eyes widened suddenly, grinning. "Hey, what's your favourite dinosaur?"
Lydia was silent for a moment, confused by the conversation turning. "Brontosaurus," she said, slowly.
"Mine's a raptor," Stiles admitted.
"What happened to your family?" Lydia asked, deciding to get back to the main topic. She didn't want to discuss dinosaurs, she wanted to know about Stiles.
Stiles visibly deflated. His smile dropped, eyes shutting down. Lydia noticed the signs of someone closing off, her mother did it frequently when Lydia asked about the disappearance of her younger sister who was supposed to come home for the first time when her mother went to the hospital, but never did.
"I don't want to talk about it," Stiles finally answered, but voice was tight and deep.
Lydia frowned. "But—"
"I don't want to talk about it!" Stiles snapped, and Lydia caught a glimpse of his dark eyes, burning with fury and something twisted. His face was drained white, the purple under his eyes faded to grey.
Lydia could feel herself trembling, but she was frozen from moving away.
"I— I'm sorry," Stiles apologised. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," Lydia replied, quickly and quietly. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, breathing deeply. When she opened them again, Stiles looked normal. His face wasn't paper white - though it was still deathly pale - and the colour under his eyes had returned. He looked as he had the whole time before.
"What about your family?" Stiles asked, evidently trying to save the conversation.
Lydia took the bait. "Just me, my mum and my dad."
Stiles smiled. "That's nice," he said. "You're an only child, then?"
"Yeah," Lydia nodded. "I know my parents want another child, but I don't think they will now."
"Why?"
Lydia just shook her head.
"You know, you still haven't told me your name," Stiles said.
"Lydia," she replied.
Stiles smiled. "Lydia, I like that name." He sat up, going on his knees. He shuffled closer to the glass and Lydia suppressed from shuffling backwards. He couldn't hurt her, so it would be futile.
Stiles pressed his hand against the glass, his palm on the surface. "Nice to meet you, Lydia," he said.
It took Lydia a moment to catch on, and when she did, she moved closer, pressing her palm directly over Stiles'. She stared at it, noting the way his fingers were longer, reaching far past hers.
*
"Dad, do you believe in ghosts?" Lydia asked her father later that night.
They were sitting around the dinner table in their newly decorated dining room that was probably as big as Lydia's room alone. The downstairs of the house was impossibly spacious, wide and hard to fill. The house itself was grand and most likely classed as a mansion, but the downstairs only consisted of five large rooms while upstairs had many smaller ones.
Her father looked up from his food, mid chew. He seemed to be seriously considering this as he swallowed thickly. "Ghosts?"
Lydia nodded. She refused to look at her mother who, out of the corner of her eye, Lydia knew was looking at her strangely.
Mr Martin shifted in his seat, as if the question made him physically uncomfortable. "Ghosts aren't real, love,"
Lydia felt her stomach drop to the floor. "How do you know?"
"Well," her father began, "there is no proof that ghosts are real, nor anything paranormal. How can something exist if it's died?"
Lydia stiffened.
"Anthony," Lydia's mother warned.
"Sorry, love," he apologised, and Lydia didn't know if he was apologising to her or to her mother, but she didn't really care.
"It is possible," Lydia said, insisted. "Peoples souls, they can—"
"Lydia, stop this, now," Natalie demanded, voice tight. "This is ridiculous, ghosts aren't real."
"I'm not scared of them," Lydia promised defiantly. "I swear, I'm not—"
"Lydia, you need to stop this at once. No more ghost talk, alright? They aren't real, no one believes in ghosts," her father said, reaching across the table and grabbing her hand. Lydia snatched it away as if she'd been burned.
She blinked rapidly to keep the tears out of her eyes, but she was truly hurt. Ghosts were real, they had to be, because Stiles was one. And Stiles was her friend now.
*
authors note: short chapter, just enough to show the blossoming friendship!
comment your thoughts and opinions - positive and negative! any feedback is helpful feedback! :)
until next time. . .
love ells xxx