I pause and slowly, carefully turn back to him.

“Stay a little more”

His request is a plea addressed to me, in the garden that was our temple for a few minutes. We have only just met, but there is already something familiar about him. Something cool, which doesn’t bother me despite the winter freeze. Something quiet, which blends in with the silence of the landscape.

Everyone avoids this place, the old O’Connor estate, where lightning struck on a stormy night and set everything on fire. The owner of the house and the entire staff were burnt to death. Several people have tried to buy it since then, all without success. At least, that’s all I know about it. The story sometimes comes up at school, where students whisper about it and scare each other with it. Well, it’s not a pretty sight, and if I can help it, I don’t walk home this direction. Today, however, I had to hurry, and with this amount of snow, the walk-around would be a nightmare. Besides, it was getting dark. So I had no choice but to walk past the haunted estate, but, well, I feel like I can handle it. I’ll be home soon and can warm up by the fireplace.

That’s how I ended up here and found him.

The boy looked a few years older than me, lean but strong, and much taller than me. Although that may not be a fair comparison, considering the fact that I am quite short. According to Patrick, my classmate, I won’t grow any more and will stay this size forever. We’ll see about that.

The boy, however, is tall and slender. He is taller than anyone else in my class. His hair is just long enough for his brown strands to start to curl, with a few stray locks hanging over his forehead. His gaze is distant, his eyes are downturned and as blue as forget-me-nots in summer.

I find him in the mansion’s garden, standing under an old tree, a black spot in the glossy whiteness. It’s strange, because no one is ever seen inside the fence, especially not in winter, and especially not alone. If I saw a couple of brats younger than me here in the middle of summer, playing daredevil or war of numbers, I wouldn’t even bat an eye. But I saw a boy who looked back at me. And as he was looking at me, he started to approach me. For some reason, due to some kind of law of attraction, I did the same. He was beautiful, more beautiful than any boy in the village. His summer clothes suited his relaxed posture. A loose shirt and a corded jacket—if I were in his place, I would be cold, but he didn’t seem bothered by it.

“What are you doing here?” I don’t fit the stereotypical image of a villager, but I too have that certain suspicion, and he is a stranger wandering where he shouldn’t be. I can only hope that I am acting sufficiently aggressively towards him, just enough to make him back off.

However, he steps closer, his gaze fixed on mine. He is trying to hide how much the situation amuses him.

“And what about you? You. What are you doing here.” He takes a step closer, closing the distance between us, which is not customary between two strangers. This makes me uncertain, and my initial determination evaporates. For some reason, I don’t step back, though.

“I live here.”

“Here?”

“No, not here, but around here.”

“Where?”

“I’m not so stupid to tell you that.”

“And how stupid are you?” He’s having so much fun, like someone who hasn’t seen the light in years and doesn’t even know how to smile properly. All right. I have to go, I’ve had enough of this comedy.

“Wait, stay a little longer.”

That was the first time. I hadn’t stayed then, but I did afterwards. I went back, and every time I walked by, he was there too. Winter turned into spring, and spring flowed into summer. We always met at the old estate, under the mulberry tree. We had picnics, he retreated into the cool shade, while I basked in the sun. Occasionally, I managed to bring some snacks. He never ate any of it, but I was happy to eat it all. It was all so intimate, so perfect. I never had any friends; boys usually rejected me right away. But with him, everything was different, so different that I didn’t notice the things that didn’t fit together. Or rather, I convinced myself that they did fit together. For example, the fact that he didn’t know anyone in the village. No matter who I told him about, he always just looked at me kindly, listened patiently, but never had anything to say in response.

“How come you don’t know about Scrumpy Tom? He bakes the bagels at the bakery!”

“Do I have to know everyone who bakes bread?”

“Who do you know then?”

“Hm?”

“From the village. Who do you know?” I hadn’t asked about his family or friends in the months we had been meeting, and I can’t explain why.

“They… can’t see me.” That made me laugh somehow.

“Oh, I see, but I can. I can see you, but no one else can.” I joked with him. “I wonder what that means. Am I some kind of clairvoyant?”

“Potential.”

“Sorry?”

“It shows potential.”

From then on, I never brought up the subject again. It didn’t matter.

It was autumn, and the maroon and dirty brown leaves were slowly falling from the trees. On All Souls’ Day, the school held a memorial ceremony in remembrance of students who had passed away. We walked down the ancient corridor, my patent leather shoes tapping softly on the grey artificial stone as my classmates and I walked with candles given to us by our homeroom teacher in our hands. Everyone had to place their candle on one of the mini “altars,” which usually contained a picture of the deceased and perhaps a few personal items. Wreaths lay at the foot of the old photographs, along with folded pieces of paper on which people had written their good wishes. Several people gathered at one girl’s altar, including her parents. I remember her name was Millicent, and she had died less than a year ago. She was found in the woods, covered in mud, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle to her body.

At least that’s what I read in the report. I also gave my candle to Millicent, but as soon as I lit it, I left the theatrically mourning crowd. I stopped at an empty altar where no one had even placed a single candle. The person must have been dead for a long time, so there was no one to mourn them. There was only a ring under the picture, which, unlike the others, was not a photograph but a charcoal drawing. My eyes were first drawn to the symbol on the ring. Not a symbol, but a coat of arms. A crow holding a cut rose in its beak, with a drop falling from the stem of the rose. Blood. This is the O’Connor family coat of arms, which I see at the entrance to the estate every time I visit. The boy. This drawing… curly hair, arched eyebrows, a mischievous smile.

I started running as fast as I could. I ran so that my lungs didn’t begin to burn, and my legs burned from the strain. I ran until I reached the estate. Although it was raining heavily and the sky was thundering, he was there, under the mulberry tree. Mixed emotions flashed across his face when he saw me.

“It’s you, the boy who burnt inside,” I spoke incoherently. I was completely soaked, my teeth chattering so hard they almost cracked, yet something inside me was burning. Something strong and angry.

“Yes?”

“Yes. You’re dead, you… You’re dead!”

“It doesn’t have to be this way forever.” He struggled with whether to say the words, and I exposed him, and now nothing will ever be the same. And he knew it.

“What are you talking about?” My voice sounded hysterical even to my own ears.

“What if I told you that you could bring me back? To life, you understand? I would live again!” In the ominous twilight, I saw an emotion on his face that I had never seen before: greed. “Well, what do you think?” He came closer and placed both hands on my shoulders. “Would you do it for me? Would you help me come back?”

I didn’t know what to say; it all came so suddenly. On the surface, I didn’t believe it, but deep down, I knew it was all true. All of what I had figured out. He didn’t deny it either.

“How?”

“There is a ritual, a ceremony, but I need you for it. If you agree, the ceremony will take place, and I will get my body back. I will get flesh, blood, and skin, everything I used to be. You can do it, I can feel it. What do you think, are you in?” With the last sentence, he shook my shoulder slightly.

“I… I don’t know it yet.”

“What don’t you know? Don’t you want to help? Maybe you don’t even like me.”

“Of course I like you!”

“Then?” After one extremely long moment, I took a deep breath, and I answered.

“What if I agree?”

“Let’s meet in a week, at midnight. Come alone.”

“I always come alone.”

“I know. But please, do so this time. Listen, I just don’t want you to look at me differently from now on.”

I felt warmth and relief. Something that had recently broken apart was now beginning to reform.

“Okay.”

“Are you in?”

“I’ll see. Midnight, then?”

“Midnight. Here.”

That evening, I dressed warmly, as winter was already knocking at the door, and I didn’t want to freeze to death. I put on a comfortable skirt, tights, and a warm coat. I didn’t take anything else with me, just myself. The ritual, or whatever you call it, was quite vague, but if I had needed anything that could be found in the house, he would have told me. I picked up the lamp in my tiny bedroom, and a bad feeling came over me. It was as if I was saying goodbye to the warmth, the soft carpet, and the comfortable bed. From now on, everything will be different, I can feel it.

By the time I stumbled to the mansion in the dim light of the lamp, he was already there. He was waiting in the same place he always did. He grinned when he saw me, and that wide grin somehow made his eyes seem deeper. But he was still beautiful, otherworldly.

“You came.”

“Yes. What should I have done?” I admit, I was a little scared. It’s late, and I’m the only one here. The whole thing somehow… didn’t feel right. Is this how I’m supposed to feel when I want to help someone I love?

“Go into the shed. The wide wooden door is at the back; the lock is old, but if you push hard, it will open.”

“Yes, and then?”

“You’ll find a shovel there, bring it out here.” His voice was different now. Much harder, much more dominant, like someone who is used to giving orders. He was probably used to all this in the past.

Everything was just as he had said. After a strong push, the door opened, and the shovel was resting in the corner, covered in cobwebs and years of dust. I went back to him.

“Now what?”

“Now start digging, there’s already a hole there,” I swear I hadn’t noticed it before, but it was there. I didn’t know what would come of it, but it was too late to back out now. I’ll do it for him. It was almost dawn by the time my hands froze and my legs gave way. Then he took over and finished it himself.

“Great, now what?”

“Now stay as you are.” He stepped closer, then took another step. He was only a few inches away from me, and I lifted my head to look into his longing, forget-me-not blue eyes. He wrapped his arms around my neck, and I felt his every movement. Everything we both wanted. We breathed each other’s air, which was hot and clean at the same time. And then he kissed me. It was a hasty, determined kiss, deep and full of flavour. I kissed him back, we tasted each other, passionately, like I had never done with anyone before. Then suddenly he grabbed me harder, clutching my neck. It hurt. But before I could say anything, or even react with surprise, I heard a crack, and then the world went dark.