Vines crawl along the walls, walls covered with chipped and faded white paint, and they wrap around banisters, around stairs, around windowsills.
They wrap around the house, taking it, claiming it, making it look abandoned except for them. The town children, they spread stories in tiny whispered voices about that house, strange legends and tales that change from voice to voice.
The house is three storeys tall, and covers a large amount of land, taking up the space and seizing more by putting the fence further out, warning off the cramped, small houses of the town. The grass rises high from the moist dirt, but it’s brittle, like a soft breeze could shatter it. The driveway weaves, in a smooth pattern, up until a large door; wooden and grim and rotting away.
It’s the largest house in the rural town community, and it’s a symbol in itself. Children dare each other to knock on the front door, but they never do. Parents tell their offspring to keep away, for safety reasons, but the eerie look of the house is more than any warning.
There’s no story to the house; only hundreds of make-believe and pretend whispers. No-one knows who the deed belongs to, and no inquiry has been made, yet.
***
It’s a gloomy, silent night. Ryan gazes up at the full moon, his eyes glinting in the dark. His jagged hair is tousled, not brushed, and his lips are dry and rough. His jacket is worn, but it’s okay, it’s not too cold yet.
He’s standing on the other side of town, his own private escape; through his bedroom window, down the neighbour’s tree. His father’s bitter slurs are like a broken record by now, and Ryan’s used to it.
His feet echo loudly on the hard sidewalk. One, two, three steps. The moonlight filters through the trees, illuminating Ryan’s path in a faint blue. He’s not quite sure what to do now; so he walks. He knows everyone in town; he was raised here, but not born here. He was brought here before he could walk, and he recognises the country sky as his own.
His footsteps tap, gently, and he pauses. His body looks thin in the light, and casts a long shadow along the grass. His eyes drift from his shadow, upwards, to the large house in front of him. It looks even more haunting in the night, with long, angular overshadows and hidden shady crevices.
Paranoia sweeps with a subtle breeze, wrapping around Ryan’s mind as his eyes drag along the house, and the vines that hold it. He remembers tuning out the stories he was told as a child; Ryan disliked all the outrageous and unreliable rumours, and couldn’t bear to suffer through each new theory.
The quietness of the night soaks into everything, and the air hangs thin, breakable, in the air. Ryan inhales through his nose, his hair falling over his eyes, casting a dramatic shadow over the side of his face.
His footsteps crack the silence, and they start on the long, winding path to the decaying wooden door. As he passes, the thin and fragile blades of grass sway in a soft wind, almost as high as Ryan’s waist. The driveway is wide enough for exactly one car; a few inches of misjudgement however, would send a vehicle into the dirt. He keeps walking, and the stars wink at him from above.
The driveway is white cement, and it glows in the moon light, thick and solid. Ryan wonders when the last time a car drove over the very path he’s walking on was.
When he reaches the front door, it’s larger than he thought. Two brass handles are held in the middle, tarnished and chipped, and Ryan places his palm in the crease, and pushes lightly; the wood feels soft and flexible against his skin.
The doors float open, the edges falling away from Ryan’s palm and into the house, welcoming him. Ryan takes a slow step in. It’s eerie inside, and it emerges into a hallway that disappears into darkness. Ryan takes another step inside.
That’s when he hears it; slow and soft, a melodious tune from a piano. It drifts with the air, hanging and haunting and whispering. It comes from somewhere further, into the sullen darkness. Ryan, hesitantly licking his lower lip and letting his eyes adjust, ventures forward.
As he walks further into the hallway, he passes nameless doors, setting a lazy pace to take it all in. He reaches a staircase, and can only make out its outline from the faint moon light seeping in through a higher window.
The stairs are white, and covered in dust and the corners are knitted with cobwebs. Ryan’s shoes leave indents on each stair as he climbs, and the grooves on the bottoms of his shoes are collecting dust and other messages of abandonment, as he follows the soft music.
When he reaches the top of the stairs, it’s louder. He can hear the vibration of the keys, can feel it tingling in his fingertips. The second storey of the house is filtered through a light blue, with small gatherings of dust covering all the surfaces.
He turns to the left, trying to pinpoint the direction, and everything is so open; there are no doors, only small sections of walls and wooden floors, and this must have been a floor for mingling, for socialising. There’s another flight of stairs, but Ryan’s sure the sound is coming from this floor, he knows it.
He turns his head further, and it catches his eye. The tiny glint of something once polished; he can see the end of a piano poking out from behind the wall, in the centre of a room. More of the room is in view as he steps closer, and the notes are louder; they’re complicated, filled with something beautiful and meaningful.
Ryan takes further strides, his long legs hugged by denim standing still, beside the wall, and gazing at the sight in front of him.
The large piano, covered in dust like everything else, is side on to Ryan, and Ryan watches as fingers glide of the keys. The boy, the spirit, the apparition; Ryan doesn’t know what to call it, but it’s as beautiful as its music.
The boy, Ryan decides, is sitting with his back straight, his hands expertly and delicately playing and his eyes are focusing on the keys. The boy’s face is relaxed, at peace, almost distant. Ryan knows he must be imagining this, but the boy looks transparent. His skin is pale grey, as is his clothes, all the same translucent colour, except for his hair which is dark, black dark. His clothes look formal, from another era. A long coat, with a collar that stands up and two rows of buttons, along with what looks like trousers.
Ryan’s hand smooths over the side of the wall, holding him up, as he watches, fascinated, by this boy, this ghost, who plays the piano. The music fills the silent night air in a way Ryan thought impossible; it doesn’t break the silence, it doesn’t interrupt it, it fillsit. Ryan’s transfixed by the relaxed look on the face of the boy.
Slowly, as not to disturb the flow of the notes, Ryan walks forward. He looks up and down the boy’s slender build, of his straight posture and neat playing. Soon, he’s close enough to rest a hand on the piano. The music tapers off, into nothing, holding the air and squeezing it empty until it’s unbearably quiet.
The boy looks up. His eyes are dark, and Ryan can’t determine the colour, but they seem unsurprised; almost expectant.
“That was stunning,” Ryan says, quietly.
The ghost smiles, and eyelashes blink over grey cheeks. His fingers slide from the keys down to his lap.
Ryan swallows and steps forward, and the boy watches him. Ryan reaches out, to touch the boy’s hair, to see if his hand would fall right through, but the boy just smiles sadly and fades away before Ryan reaches him.
“Wait,” Ryan says, but by the time the word leaves his mouth, he’s alone.
The keys of the piano are covered in dust and cobwebs, like they haven’t been touched in years.
***
Ryan knows what he saw; those grey lips, dark eyes, he knows the boy is what most people would call a ghost. Ryan can still feel the stirring in his ribcage, a day later, which the boy had caused. He can’t concentrate on any of his classes, or any conversations; everything else seems to fade into the background.
He finds himself in front of the house trapped in gnarled vines once more, the following night. He pushes open the door, just like yesterday, and is welcomed with the stale air of the house, but the sound of music doesn’t grace his ears. It’s still, and quiet, and wind blows in through the open door, disturbing the settled dust.
He flicks on the flash light he brought with him, and swerves it from side to side, taking in the hallway more than the night before. There are older paintings on the walls, but the canvas is rotting and decomposed, and the image is unrecognisable.
He reaches the foot of the stairs, but doesn’t venture further.
“Hello?” he says, and his normal voice sounds so loud in a house this empty.
Silence greets him, and he swallows all his perceptions and concepts of life and afterlife. He knows he saw this boy.
“Hello? Can’t you come out?” Ryan asks, biting his lip. “Please?”
There’s a noise and Ryan doesn’t startle, doesn’t jump as his eyes fall to the boy sitting on the top of the stairs. The grey, see-through boy that smiles gently, with his arms folded over his bent knees.
“Hi,” Ryan says, taking one cautious step upwards. “I’m Ryan.”
The ghost doesn’t speak, but keeps smiling and watching Ryan as he steps closer and closer.
“What’s your name?” Ryan asks, his voice scratching through his throat and his heart starts to stutter, because the boy may not be real, but he’s the most attractive thing Ryan has seen.
The boy blinks, but does not answer.
“Can’t you talk?” Ryan asks, and the boy starts to fade. “No wait, stop!”
The boy disappears, and Ryan had only made it half way up the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan calls out, sighing. “Did I do something wrong?”
Ryan feels something cold, somethingfreezing hover next to him, and suddenly the boy is there, standing only a foot away on the same step, and smiling.
“I...” Ryan starts to say, but the boy extends one hand, and Ryan notices the slip of paper in it. Ryan reaches forward, gripping the edge of the paper and restraining himself from touching the ghost hands; if they can hold solid things, surely they’re solid as well?
Ryan looks at the paper, and it’s an old photo. It’s worn, with white creases and the colour is brown and faded, but Ryan can still see it clear enough. It’s of what seems to be a mother, a father and a son who is, undoubtedly, the boy in front of him. They’re smiling formally in the photo.
“Is this you?” Ryan asks, looking up and his gaze meets the dark swirls that are the boy’s eyes. The boy nods, and gestures for Ryan to flip it over. He does.
Boyd Urie,
Grace Urie,
Brendon Urie.
The date is too worn out to read, and Ryan looks back to the boy. “Your name is Brendon?”
The boy’s smile widens, and he nods. Ryan’s fingers shake lightly, and he didn’t notice how cold the room was until now. Ryan smiles at Brendon, and wonders if he could get Brendon to play the piano again.
“Can I?” Ryan says, slowly inching his hand closer to Brendon. Towards the grey cheek that looks so soft, so untouchable.
The smile on Brendon’s grey face dims, but he doesn’t move. Ryan steps even closer, and his palm is close enough to feel the air grow colder around it, and it touches Brendon’s cheek. It feels like touching freezing water, and Ryan wasn’t expecting it, wrenching his hand away in surprise.
Hurt bursts over Brendon’s shadowy face, and he sinks back from Ryan. Cobwebs entwine around them, and Ryan takes another step forwards.
“I’m sorry,” he apologises, eyes pleading. “I didn’t mean to... it was my own fault.”
A gust of wind billows in through the open door, sweeping dust up on the stairs and on to Ryan’s shoes. Brendon’s eyes watch the dust float in the air, a sad, almost wistful expression on his face.
A beeping noise cuts off Brendon’s thoughtful expression, and he seems wary as Ryan quickly raises his wrist and switches off the alarm on his watch.
“I guess that means I should go,” Ryan says, and Brendon frowns, but nods. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay?” Ryan tucks the photo into his back pocket.
Brendon smiles, closed mouth like always, and Ryan takes that as a yes.
***
The dust doesn’t come out of Ryan’s clothes and his father gets suspicious. He starts asking Ryan open ended questions, with suggestive meanings, but Ryan manages to avoid any conflict on the matter. The last thing he needs is for everyone to think he’s insane.
Maybe he is insane, and this is all a figment of his imagination, but at least he’s still sane enough to realise how ridiculous it is. Besides, he doesn’t feel like sharing Brendon, if he’s being blunt.
The musky, stale air of the house is ingrained into his mind, and the silhouettes of cobwebs being cast against lonely floors. The way those grey lips tug upwards into a smile, and dark eyes penetrate from behind black, shadow hair.
It’s been almost a week since the last visit, where Ryan learnt the boy’s name and left with promises of returning. It’s that afternoon that Ryan comes home to see his room ransacked. The bitter taste of alcohol is in the air, and his father is making loud, slurred claims that Ryan’s keeping a secret.
Ryan ignores the violent hand movements and swearing as he gets his father to bed, with reassurances of honesty and loyalty. A badly placed elbow makes his ribs ache and a bone-hard knuckle makes his lip swell.
He doesn’t bother sneaking out of his bedroom window that night; he just slips out the front door.
He can see families having dinners through lit windows, and can hear the buzz of televisions as everyone in town winds down at the end of the day. He hums quietly to himself, hums a song he knows the name of, in the back of his mind.
He cuts through the middle of town, slipping though leaf-covered branches and smelling the scent of cut grass. His sneakers grow wet and soggy from the ground and his hands gain tiny gashes from pulling away branches and jumping the fence, and his feet completely trample the thin grass in the front of the abandoned house. A thin, human sized row of flatten grass stays as a reminder.
He flicks his hair from his eyes and pushes his way through the front door. He ignores the debris on the floor, the remains of household items, and walks in. His footsteps echo, and he opens the first door in the hallway, and it looks different in the dwindling light of day.
Inside the first door is just a storage room, the shelves covered in a thin layer of grime, and all the items are weaved together by a spider’s home. Ryan closes the door, and moves, slower this time, to the next one.
The hallway looks different during the day; lighter, softer, less dramatic. More like a broken down house than a haunted habitat. The next door he opens leads to what Ryan guesses is a kitchen, with large, crude sinks with bulky, distorted taps. Cupboards stand, some with the doors fallen off, and it all looks forgotten.
He steps into the kitchen, and there’s a large table in the room, with delicate carvings covered by a film of dust. Ryan moves to the sink, and studies the tap, before trying to turn it. There’s a scratchy, clanking noise as the pipes try to work, before silence. Ryan guesses nothing in the house works, then.
The room grows colder, gradually, and Ryan turns. Brendon’s sitting at the table, back straight, and his curious eyes on Ryan, just watching.
Ryan swallows, and Brendon looks even more intangible in the light. He steps forward, and speaks, “sorry for barging in.”
Brendon seems unaffected, and his unreal eyes blink.
“I...” Ryan doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. “I... did I disturb you?”
Brendon just smiles at this, and shakes his head. He looks like a bad projection, sitting there at the kitchen table. Ryan realises, with a sudden jolt, that this was where Brendon must have lived, must have grown up. This house was once new, and clean, and cared for. Brendon was once alive.
Ryan moves wordlessly to pull out a chair, wiping it with his sleeve, before sitting across from Brendon. Daylight is dimming now, and Brendon’s getting more substantial, if that’s possible, in the twilight.
“I asked about this house,” Ryan says, his fingers making patterns on the dirty table top. “No one had any answers. No one knew of anyone living here for a long, long time.”
Brendon turns his head, to look at the wall.
“What happened to your parents?” Ryan asks, and Brendon doesn’t turn his head. “Can you speak?” again, the ghost doesn’t reply.
Bird calls from outside meet Ryan’s ears and he looks out the window; it’s getting dark now, and he can see the sun setting. It’s a display of colours that sets the sky on fire.
“Come sit outside with me,” Ryan says, and the ghost looks at him, blankly, and Ryan just smiles.
Ryan doesn’t care about going insane.
“Come sit out on the grass,” Ryan says, standing up, and the ghost is staring him deep in the eyes. Brendon parts his lips, and for a moment Ryan thinks he’s going to speak. Instead, Brendon’s tongue –grey and soft- swipes over his bottom lip and he stands up, nodding.
Ryan feels weird, walking through the house to the back door with Brendon trailing after him, because surely Brendon could move some other way? In the back of Ryan’s mind, he can imagine Brendon just disappearing and re-appearing in the backyard. He doesn’t say this.
The back of the house has suffered the same fate as the front; long, unruly plants snake up from the dirt, towards the sky. Ryan stomps around, flattening a patch, before collapsing and stretching out under the stars. Brendon seems unsure, gliding softly on to his knees. Ryan half-expected him to fall through the ground.
Crickets fill the air; their sounds vibrating around in the night, and Ryan sighs. His eyes stay on Brendon, who now takes one finger and, slowly, concentrating, draws in the dirt. Ryan sits up, interested, and tries not to frighten the boy.
The sky has officially killed the sun, only a blanket of black space and burning stars above them now, and a lazy, half moon hiding behind them. Ryan squints to read what Brendon wrote in the dust.
Why did you come?
It’s written in elegant script, considering it’s just etched into dirt. Ryan’s breath catches in his throat, and it’s been a while since someone asked Ryan anything. Ryan doesn’t mind fading into the background but right here, right now it’s just the two of them and Ryan seems to be the only one to speak.
“My dad,” Ryan says, quietly.
He’s really doing this, spilling his guts to a dead person; to person that doesn’t exist. To a figment of his imagination.
“He drinks, sometimes,” Ryan says, looking down at the dirt, and Brendon shifts, edging closer, making goose bumps along Ryan’s arm from the cold. “He just misses her a lot. I don’t remember her, isn’t that sad? I don’t even remember my own mother. I haven’t even seen a picture. We moved, right after she died, to this town.”
Ryan looks up, and Brendon’s staring at him, thoughtfully, and he nods for Ryan to continue.
“And he just gets carried away, occasionally,” Ryan says, and then looks down at his hands. “Sorry, I’m just not used to holding the stronger part of conversations.”
Ryan feels a cold pressure on his leg; he can feel the weight, but he can’t feel the surface. His eyes dart to his knee, where Brendon’s hand now rests. Ryan tries to swallow the feeling that just burst into life inside him. He’s getting pathetic; becoming fascinated by his own phantasm.
“People don’t like us; the townsfolk seem repelled by us, and maybe it’s because Dad doesn’t make the best first impressions. I’m all he’s got.” Ryan toys with his shoelace. “You’re a good listener.”
Brendon smiles wryly. Ryan grins shyly, and looks back at his shoes. Ryan goes, “I know everything will be okay, eventually.”
Ryan looks up, and they’re closer. Brendon’s staring out in front of them, out at a town that used to be so different back when he was a real boy. Back when he was alive. Ryan lifts his hand, and mentally prepares himself, before resting a palm against Brendon’s cheek.
It still feels like freezing water, and as his hand slowly drags downwards, it leaves a trail, a smudge, down Brendon’s face like a distorted projection, before returning to its original grainy grey. Ryan feels like, if he pushed hard enough, his hand would slip inside, but he doesn’t try; he just lets his hand slip back down into his lap.
Brendon turns, and smiles softly. Ryan’s heart twitches and his mind whirls a little. Brendon’s the one infatuation Ryan can’t explain away, can’t get rid of with logic or reasoning; Ryan doesn’t fight it, doesn’t care.
“I wish you were real,” Ryan whispers, and Brendon rests his head against Ryan’s shoulder. The pressure is gentle and cold, and Ryan closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale.
Ryan can feel himself losing touch with reality; his fingers outstretched and its shore is just out of reach, and everything he once knew washes away with the waves. He’s left alone to float in the sea of unknown, which grows steadily colder and more demanding.
Above them, drab clouds smooth over and smother the moon, and Ryan can barely see. Tonight he doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to check on his father, or clean up his violated room. He stays, with Brendon’s icy breath flowing along his collarbone and the photograph in his back pocket.
***
When Ryan wakes up in the middle of the flattened grass, with the sun beating down on him, he’s alone.
***
Ryan’s starting to fail his classes, neglecting homework to tend to his pathological need for the company of a ghost. Ryan empty chest and empty mind are filled with memories of unnatural coldness and soft touches, barely there but still tingling.
Ryan talks, and Brendon always, alwayslistens, but never speaks. His surreal eyes stay on Ryan’s, always taking in information but never including his own. Ryan gets used to sudden bursts of confessions and comfortable silences. Brendon doesn’t care that Ryan doesn’t have many friends, nor that his father is a drunk and that Ryan only has enough money to scrape by.
Brendon’s acceptance and quiet company is something Ryan silently cherishes.
***
Sue Jones leans in, and says, quietly, “He’s a weird kid. Always hangs around that old house.”
“He used to be an okay guy,” her friend tells her, lips moving subtly, “but now he seems to be zoning out all the time.”
“You know his father passed out on the tavern floor Saturday night?” Sarah says, an urgent whisper, “It took them hours to get in contact with Ryan, and he didn’t mention where he’d been.”
“There’s something real strange about that guy,” the friend says, tapping her nose, “he’s a ticking time bomb, I’m telling you.”
***
Ryan closes his eyes, laying down on the dirty ground as music fills his ears. Brendon plays, his fingers moving swiftly and his eyes closed; lost in his music.
The sun comes in the window, in faint rays. The room glows a pale yellow, and the music sounds so loud, echoing almost. This ghost seems to enjoy Ryan’s companionship, and likes to play for him. Ryan doesn’t complain.
The eerie feel of the house is always there, always nagging, but Ryan’s grown used to it, become desensitized. Ryan starts to hum along to the music, in the back of his throat, and bleak darkness stills in front of his closed eyes.
Suddenly the piano keys let out a low, dull noise, sharp and loud that Ryan’s eyes snap open. Brendon’s grey hands are flat on the keys, and his head is bent downwards, his hair hiding his face from view.
Cautiously, Ryan lifts himself to his feet, biting his lip. He walks over to the piano, carefully, and sits next to Brendon, but doesn’t touch him. The air has grown colder and quieter and it holds everything in suspension.
“Brendon?” Ryan asks, and the ghost lifts his face. He looks at Ryan, with pain in his expression.
Wordlessly, he lifts his hand to run it along Ryan’s jawbone, and Ryan tries to ignore the prickling goose bumps from the icy touch. Brendon leans in, and in a soft whisper, in a voice so smooth and so trusting it makes Ryan’s throat close, he says, “I wish I was real too.”
Ryan wonders how long Brendon’s been thinking about that one statement, and Ryan doesn’t even realise his eyes are brimming, threatening to overflow. He sucks in a shaky breath, still staring at Brendon.
Ryan knows, as soon as he says these words, he’s doomed.
He’s officially insane once they leave his lips, and there’s no hope, no denial that there’s something seriously wrong with him.
His lips part, pink and gentle, and the words escape in a quiet confession.
“I love you.”
He’s in love with a ghost.
With a thought.
With an illusion.
With someone who doesn’t truly exists.
Brendon nods, and his grey throat shifts as he swallows, and Jesus Christ, this has gone too far.
***
Spencer Smith moved here last year, when his parents wanted to move away from city life. In that short year, it wasn’t hard to learn close to everyone’s names, and get a pretty good perception of the townsfolk.
One thing that attracts Spencer to this place is the paranormal activity that always seems to linger next to its title. There’s always a story or mystery that comes up every few months, being dismissed by few and intriguing many. Spencer’s spent most of his time researching all things paranormal on the internet and researching in books until his parents would sigh. It’s just a fascination.
He’s standing outside, right now, in the afternoon sun, taking a walk to clear his head a little. The town’s beautiful outdoors seem to encourage it, and Spencer’s blue eyes look up, expecting to see the matching sky, only to notice the thunderous clouds overhead.
As if on cue, it starts to rain, and Spencer groans as it starts to pelt down on him, over his light brown hair, down his thin clothing. He starts to run home, but he’s so far away. He’ll just find a shed or something to duck into for a while, just until it passes.
That’s when he spots it; the vine entrapped house. Of course Spencer’s heard about it, and it’s always been an interest of Spencer’s to see if it really is a spooky as everyone says. He doesn’t think twice about running up the driveway and into the house to get out of the rain.
Water drips off his hair, landing on the floor and turning the dust to mud. Slowly, he lets out an impressed huff of breath, taking it in. The house is old and unused, no doubt, and Spencer walks through it carefully. Up the first flight of stairs, and he wonders if he’s supposed to be getting a ‘feeling’. That feeling they always describe on the websites, or in the books, of when something unnatural is nearby.
Spencer doesn’t feel anything; he’s kind of disappointed. He walks up the second flight of stairs, slowly, to the top floor.
Up there, he can see into a large room, with old style lounges and small tables, all covered with years of sediment. He stills when he hears a voice, and quickly hides behind a wall. The voice is coming from the room, and Spencer silently slides to a sitting position, and peeks past the wall.
There’s a boy, a boy Spencer recognises as Ryan Ross; he’s heard the rumours about him. He has brown hair tucked behind his ears, and his jean clad legs are crossed on the dirty wooden ground. He’s talking, lowly, to someone sitting across from him. For a split second, Spencer believes it’s a disturbed cloud of dust, but then.
Then it hits Spencer that there’s more shape to this cloud, and his chest tightens and shit.It looks like a boy. With its legs crossed across from Ryan and its back straight. Spencer doesn’t breathe for a moment.
“It’s raining,” Ryan says softly, and the ghost nods, and Spencer can see their entwined hands. Only rare encounters have been documented where a spirit can hold something physical. Even then, Spencer wasn’t sure which stories were fake.
“Are you warm enough?” says the ghost, in a voice so strong that it seems unfitting to his unsubstantial character.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, and smiles, gazing at the ghost.
Spencer is captured by the look in Ryan’s eyes, and the unnatural feel of the moment. He feels like he’s watching a private moment, like he should run away now and forget he saw anything. Burn all his books and delete all the favourites on his computer. This is something Spencer never expected.
The ghost looks like a vision, in the delicate, intricate jacket and pants, and the boy, Ryan, seems content with just sitting there, his skin pale and his blue lips betraying his lie. Spencer heard this kid was a little odd, but this is beyond him.
Quietly, Spencer backs away, taking the steps two at a time until he bursts outside, into the storm.
The rain doesn’t bother Spencer as much as he walks home.
***
Sitting at the bus stop, Ryan curls around himself. It’s cold, and his layers of clothing don’t seem to cut it.
Lately, Ryan’s been thinking about death.
About what happens, and why it happens. Why is Brendon still here, when the others aren’t? How did Brendon die? Does he still feel pain? Ryan would give close to anything for Brendon to be flesh and blood and tissue, but how would Brendon even cope with today’s world? Would Ryan ever die to really be with Brendon?
The last question sends a trickle down Ryan’s spine, causing him to shudder. Even though Brendon’s talking to him now, seemingly trusting him enough, Ryan still hasn’t asked how it happened. Why he’s dead. Ryan doesn’t know if he wants to hear it.
The bus is late and Ryan is cold, shivering and wishing he was home in his bed, wishing whenever he touches Brendon that for once, just once, he’d be warm. This isn’t like those Disney movies; there’s no bright colours and magic wishes, it’s dark and dreary and sometimes, to Ryan, hopeless.
Ryan tries to imagine it sometimes; Brendon with red lips, with colour in his cheeks, with a grin and warm eyes. With a beating heart. Ryan’s mouth goes dry and he feels pathetic, and small.
The bus driver has to honk his horn before Ryan realises it’s there.
***
“You should leave.”
Brendon’s voice hums in his ear, swirls around his mind.
“No,” Ryan murmurs, and Brendon’s wintry cold hands slide down Ryan’s forearms, and Ryan longs to feel the touch of fingers, the texture of skin.
“Stop wasting your life here,” Brendon says in a silky voice, so close to Ryan’s ear. “Spend time with real people.”
Ryan looks up, at Brendon’s face, and leans in, for the first time pressing his lips to Brendon’s, but there’s nothing. Only arctic air, nothing to press against.
“I love you,” Ryan mumbles, and Brendon just nods.
“That’s why you have to leave.”
“I can’t leave you,” Ryan says, shakily. “While you’re...while you’re still here I won’t be able to leave.”
“Then get rid of me,” Brendon says softly.
Ryan blinks, lips parted. “How?”
Brendon places one hand on the back of Ryan’s neck, feather light, and says, “Bury me.”
Ryan gulps, breathing coming in deep and heavy. “What?”
Brendon’s everywhere; Brendon’s in the air, Brendon’s curled up next to him, Brendon’s in his mind.
“Third door, first floor. In the hallway,” Brendon whispers.
Ryan nearly runs to the room, if his legs weren’t trembling so much and his heart wasn’t palpitating at unhealthy speeds.
When he opens the third door, he sees it’s a bedroom; an old one, and rather bare, but a bedroom none the less. Brendon’s bedroom?
“The closet,” Brendon says, and he’s floating near the side of the room, his face distant. Ryan takes hesitant steps, fitting his hand on the closet door, and opening.
Air leaves his lungs, and he staggers backwards, tripping to the ground. His eyes portray his horror. Brendon’s skeleton, he assumes, is on the closet floor, curled up, as if sleeping.
“I...” Ryan tries to say.
A cool sweep of wind wipes away Ryan’s hair, and Ryan realises it’s Brendon’s hand.
“It’s okay,” Brendon whispers.
“How?”
“Thieves.”
Ryan swallows.
“I don’t know what happened to my parents; I only assume they died as well. We were...wealthier, I guess you could say, than most.”
“How...?” Ryan asks, and if this is all in his imagination, he’s pretty fucking creative.
“Stabbed,” Brendon says quietly, his hand hovering around his stomach, as if remembering.
Ryan shudders, and tries to breathe, tries to do something but think about it.
“I don’t want to stay here for eternity,” Brendon mumbles, sitting on the bed and bringing his knees to his chest. His dark eyes search Ryan’s.
“And burying you would...would cause you to leave?” Ryan asks.
Brendon smiles, gently, and nods.
Ryan can’t breathe.
***
It’s raining.
It’s fucking raining and it’s so fitting it makes Ryan want to scream, and his mentality is finally snapping, with bones at his feet and a shovel in his hand, trying to dig at moist dirt. The dismal and overcast night sky looms overhead. The garden shed is wide open, from where Ryan kicked in the door, and Brendon’s there, sitting, with raindrops falling straight through him.
Ryan sniffs, and stabs the shovel into the dirt, wedging it. He pulls it up, and throws the earth to the side. He takes another forceful hit to the soil, shifting it.
Brendon sits, gazing at him with an unreadable expression. Brendon will always be a mystery; the years of solitude, years of living half here half there, must have taken their toll and he’s different from anything Ryan has ever known. Ryan won’t forget everything Brendon has shown him.
Ryan throws more dirt to the side, his arms already aching.
“Need help?” asks an unfamiliar voice.
Ryan looks up, and it’s that guy, Spencer, the one everyone calls a supernatural fanatic. Ryan stills, and Spencer’s eyes dart to Brendon’s spirit for a moment.
“Yeah,” Ryan breathes, and the abnormality of the situation hits him.
And Spencer, Spencer just walks into the garden shed, grabbing another spade, and starts digging. As if this is okay, as if this is normal. Maybe there’s no need for questions because there’s no answers; or maybe there’s no desire for answers.
They do that for half an hour; Ryan and Spencer shovelling in silence, while Brendon watches, contemplating, and more and more soil piles up.
Eventually, Brendon speaks, “I think that’s deep enough.”
Spencer stops, wordlessly, and Ryan sighs, also stopping. He moves to pick up the bones, and he does so with great care, because it’s Brendon. He lays them down in the hole, and Spencer watches, and doesn’t ask.
Gradually, Ryan turns to Brendon, and desperation is covering Ryan’s face. Brendon stands, moving closer, his grey, elusive hands moving to cup Ryan’s cheeks.
“Goodbye,” he whispers, and Ryan nods, leaning in and their lips meet.
Still nothing but frosty air, like freezing water. Ryan’s chest starts to shake, and when they pull back, his eyes are red.
Ryan mouths the words, and Brendon’s thumbs skim along Ryan’s cheek, too light to feel anything.
“I love you too,” Brendon says, letting go, and picking something up from the ground. It’s small, white and hard; a fragment of bone Ryan missed. “I think you could get away with keeping one little piece.”
Ryan nods, Adams apple bobbing, taking it from Brendon’s hand, and placing it in his pocket. Rain drips down his hair, and he’s soaked through. Brendon tries to smile.
Ryan turns, and starts to shovel the dirt back into the hole. Spencer, who catches on, wipes the wet hair from his face and helps. After the first few spadefuls of dirt, Brendon dims, and as Ryan watches, completely disappears.
Spencer doesn’t say anything about Ryan crying and angrily throwing the dirt back in.
And when it’s over, with Ryan kneeling on the new dirt and the rain has long finished but water still streaking his cheeks, Spencer leaves, not explaining and not asking for explanation.
***
The house is no longer eerie or haunting or mildly intimidating.
It’s just empty.
The piano stands, alone, the dust still on its keys.
***
Wind blows Ryan’s hair, fanning it like a curtain in the breeze, and the day is just starting; the birds are starting to sing and sun is steadily rising.
His bag, stuffed with clothes and junk he thought he’d need, sits beside him, and money stolen from his father while he was asleep rests heavily in his pocket. The black string around his neck holds a small white bone, almost mistaken for a stone unless looked at closely. A photograph is hidden away in the front pocket of his bag.
The bus isn’t going to arrive for a while.
Ryan feels numb, for the most part. Empty, almost. Can you miss something that wasn’t there? When the sun hits his eyes, he blinks, feeling its warmth.
Footsteps cause Ryan to look left, and Spencer smiles at him, hands in his pockets.
“Going somewhere?” Spencer asks.
Ryan nods. “Away.”
Spencer sits next to him. “Can I come?”
Ryan looks at the clear blue eyes, swallowing and nodding.
Spencer’s arm is warm against Ryan’s.
***