A cold November morning, he hears the padding of tiny feet darting back and forth across the room. He sticks his fingers out to pull back the blanket but retracts them suddenly, because the air outside his bedcave is freezing. He blinks once, then twice, and peaks his head out from under the blanket to see an inch of raining gray sky frowning at him from behind the curtain.
He frowns back at it.
The padding of feet suddenly stops, and is replaced by a creaking that is slowly but steadily nearing his bed. He grins with a fuzzy warmth and shoots his hands out wildly to catch the offender, who is now squealing and wriggling in delight in his arms.
"Mama stop!" A girlish giggle fills his heart with content and he complies momentarily to flip her over to face him.
"Oh no!" he croaks in a morning voice, "There's a ghost in my bed! Quick! Someone get the Thermos!"
"Mama, 'sme!" She giggles. "I'm nada ghos'!"
"Are you sure?" He raises an eyebrow. "You smell like a ghost. And you sound like a ghost!"
"'Cause, mama!" She puts her hands on his face, and he can't help but revel in how small they are. They don't even completely cover his cheek. "I'm a Hafgos." And to prove her point, a ring of grey brushes over her, revealing pointy blue features and little glowing red eyes that make his heart faintly crumple at the edges. (she looks like him. she's his. she should be with him.)
"I see. And what is this little half-ghost of mine running around this early for?" He lifts himself up on the pillow, so that he can smile down at her. He laughs when a look of remembrance lights up on her face. She throws up her arms and jumps out of the bed, hovering over him and pulling on his shirt.
"'Ridur made panpakes!" She beams, so loving and sweetly that for a moment, he wants nothing more than to crush her into his chest and stay in bed all day. It is a pleasant thought, but he pushes it wayward and lets her lead him by the hand out of bed.
The apartment is small. It has two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room that doubles as a dining room. He decides it is perfect though, because as soon as he stands he can smell breakfast so strongly that if he didn't know better, it might be in front of his face. No house (excuses. making excuses.) could feel as homey and inviting as his.
"Goodmorning, Snores-a-lot." A whisp of chill passes through his lips, but he greets it with a yawn. The ghost in the kitchen does not look at him when he speaks, but only flips a pancake in the air, catching it on a plate and setting it before him in a sharpened grin.
"Thanks, 'writer," he nods, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his (not yours. you've no right to her. you're too dirty.) little girl awkwardly try to climb up onto the stool. He offers to help her, but she shakes her head and grunts, apparently forgetting that she has the ability to float into place on her own. She manages though, and when she is finally seated she takes a deep melodramatic sigh and wipes her brow of imaginary sweat.
"Woo! Man, dat makes me starbed." She nods excitedly, and neither man can retain a chuckle.
"How many would you like, Ellie?" The ghost smiles at her, holding a plateful of pancakes in one hand and a spatula in the other.
"Um... maybe only fibe-or-six." He laughs at that too, because "five-or-six" is the closest thing the three year old knows to a number.
And so she is served two small pancakes, and they sit down together as an odd sort of family, talking about today's errands and how he must be on time today, or Mr. Forienger will definitely fire him.
But then the door rings, and both he and his daughter shiver simultaneously.
He wipes his hands on his pants undutifully, and trudges over to see who on earth- or the ghost zone- it could possibly be, that might have the politeness to knock on his door, of all people's. He doesn't have time to wonder very long though, of course, because as the door swings open and as he is about to give his greeting, a trio of large green vultures trigger his gag reflex.
When he is finished defiling the waste basket, a very worried Writer has taken his daughter into the bedroom and is helping her get dressed.
"What the hell do you want?" he growls quickly, wanting nothing but for them to be gone, to erase their memory and their smell and for god sake, the smell of his house.
"Da boss, he says to give you dis," one says flatly, tossing a letter from his beak. It lands on the coffee table and he eyes it, swearing that it must be burning a hole through the glass.
"Why now?" is all he can manage to ask, though a thousand questions are rumbling through his head, none of them seemingly intelligent enough to take on form. It isn't why now that he's so concerned with, but why at all. Is there reason? Is it only to cause more suffering? (it would be easier that way. you could hate him and not yourself.)
"We don't know," another says, in a much more flamboyant accent. "All we knows is that everythin' you're supposed to know is there."
"I don't want it. Take it back."
"Look, Mr. Fancy Pants Ghost boy-man, vatever. Ve don' make da rules. Ve jus' take orders from da boss, okay?" He lowers his head, pointing at the letter with his beak. "Ve can't go home until you read it. He'll kill us."
"And what makes you think I won't?" He stomps towards them menacingly, but they only stare at him flatly, as though he's told a bad joke.
"Oh please, you? Kill somevone? You didn't even vanna kill da boss, let alone-" But he is silenced by the sickening dull thud of his comrad, a dissipating pile of ectoplasm on the floor. He looks back at the man, and without another word the two remaining birds evaporate into thin air, soon followed by the green substance that once threatened to stain his carpet.
His eyes fall away from the floor, and back onto the table. He searches around the room to make sure he is still alone, and picks up the letter as though it will bite him. He pushes on, past painful phrases and words that claw and scratch at his chest, demanding his heart as sacrifice.
He does not stop, even as Writer and his little girl quietly make their way back into the living room.
"Are you okay?" A small bony hand rests on his shoulder, and cold blue eyes meet a forest of worry. "What did they want?"
He cannot answer. He can only choke back a sob of anger and disgust, and stand up to flee from the offensive piece of paper before him. The child, oblivious to all but her mother's distress, wanders blindly after him, holding back sobs of her own.
"Don' cry momma." She nearly catches him, her arms open to embrace her mother, but instead finds herself open to no one but a closed door. "Ridur! Ridur wasa matter wit' mama?"
But the writer, consumed with worry, cannot help but pick up the letter and scan it hungrily, chest burning with anger and pity and bloodlust, until he finds the one line that makes him want to run into that room and hold the young mother until there is once again nothing left but himself and his daughter. To write away everything and make it all better again.
I never meant to hurt you, Daniel. I could never mean to hurt you. I love you too much for that.
And with that, the writer lets the letter flare up in one hand, picking up the softly crying child in the hall and phasing into the bedroom to do the only thing he can think of doing.
He holds his family and he prays for the rain to stop.