Emara shivered as she blinked her eyes open. The room was still dark, and she glanced at her alarm clock—2:12 AM glowed on the screen in a low, orange hue. She looked towards her bedroom window, seeing the bright, white glow of the waning moon in the sky. After a moment, she lay her head back down on her pillow, her brow furrowed in a knot as she tucked the covers a little tighter around her. It's cold…
The next night, she woke again, a shiver rushing up her spine. For a moment, she thought she must be imagining it, but the feeling remained—a distinct sense of being watched. Lifting her head, she looked at the clock—1:57 am. She tapped the console, and subtle orange light spilled into the room as she sat up, and startled. I thought I closed my door…
She pushed her covers back, rubbing at her bare arms against the chill in her room. Do I need to turn the heat pump up again? She wondered, approaching the door. The chill seemed to grow worse as she drew closer to the opening, a shudder shooting up her spine as she pushed the door closed, listening for the soft click.
She waited to see if the latch would pop open, wondering if it had weakened. When nothing happened, she made a soft hmph, and scurried back to her bed. Tapping the console again, the light blinked out, and she curled up in her covers.
When she woke on the third night, her body was wracked by the cold, and a faint scent of decay invaded her nostrils. Once more, a distinct sense of being watched overtook her, and she froze. As her anxiety slowly faded, the thrum of her heart in her ribcage finally settled, and she pushed herself to sit up.
The door to her bedroom sat open, again. She swallowed, despite the tightness in her throat, squinting against the darkness.
"Hello?" She called. Her voice seemed to dissolve in a vacuum, and her heart stuttered in her chest. No answer came, and she huffed. Of course not, she chided herself, rubbing at her eyes as she threw her covers back.
She nearly yelped at the cold that skittered over her skin, and wrapped her arms tightly around her body. She exhaled, and through the cool light from the moon, saw the spectre of her breath. Her brow furrowed as she slid off the mattress, moving towards her doorway, where the cold only seemed to grow more intense. She let out a shuddering groan as she pushed the door closed, and didn't bother to wait and see if it slipped back open, hurrying towards her bed and wrapping up in the covers again.
What's going on?
Emara tapped a few commands in the console of her tablet, selecting a few different functions as she stood in the centre of her room. She glanced up into the corner where she'd installed the tiny keyhole camera that afternoon, then looked down at the screen again. Seeing herself stood in the same spot on the display, she tapped in a few more settings, then closed the application, and set it on the small desk in the corner.
Looking up at the corner, she watched the camera blink a few times to confirm the feed was running, and then crossed the room to lay down in her bed, curling up into the covers.
On the eighth night, she woke up. She glanced at the clock—2:13 AM. It's been a while, she thought, curling up a little tighter. That feeling of being watched washed over her, and she stuck her head under the covers.
"Go away," she muttered. Slowly, the prickling cold began to fade, and she fell asleep again.
As she pushed herself up off the mattress the next morning, she rubbed at her neck. "Time to check the feed and see nothing again," she muttered, crossing the room towards her desk. She tapped the tablet and selected the feed rewind as she pulled on her dress robe, padding out into the kitchen to make herself a hot drink.
The prickling cold had faded, but the memory of it lingered. She sat down in the chair at her desk, hot mug of tea in her hands as she tapped on the fast forward function, watching a sped-up version of the night's events. She turned over a few times, or shifted in her sleep, but as she had seen since installing the camera—nothing was out of the ordinary.
The feed flickered, and a dark mass appeared at the edge of the screen. Emara startled, and quickly tapped pause. She held her breath for a moment, then tapped on play, watching as the feed continued at normal speed.
The swirling, dark mass crept into her room, pooling astride her bed where she lay, curled up on her side. Some seconds passed, and it formed into a shape, then became solid. She felt sick—she recognised that condition, but it couldn't be… right? She squinted as she watched, her heart thudding loudly in her chest.
The hooded figure only stood there for a long time, watching her sleep. Hours seemed to pass—but in reality, only seconds—as she watched and waited for something to happen. Her chest squeezed uncomfortably, and she realised she'd been holding her breath.
She swallowed a gulp of air as she turned away from the screen, choking on her breath as she wrapped her arms around herself—she was so cold, all of a sudden. Looking at the screen again, the figure moved. A great hand reached out, and she held her breath again.
With resounding shudder, she shook her head to clear the jumble of her thoughts. The figure pulled off one of its spiked gauntlets, and a moment later, drew its knuckles down her cheek. They picked up a tuft of hair, and tucked it behind her ear. Emara felt unsettled. It was so eerie to watch this figure handle her so intimately.
Maybe I know him? She wondered. She banished that thought as quickly as it came. Of course I don't. And even if I did, what's the big idea, coming into my house and handling me while I'm sleeping?
The figure crouched down next to her, and she watched with bated breath. He seemed to be speaking to her, but the keyhole camera wasn't supposed to pick up sounds—just video. She swallowed as he leaned forward, touching his face to hers. From the angle, she couldn't tell if he'd kissed her or not, and she touched her lips unconsciously.
As quickly as it had manifested, it was gone, slinking away into the corner of her screen in a pool of smoky tendrils. She watched herself curl up tighter and stick her head under the covers.
She paused the feedback as she sat, utterly dumbfounded. Her mind filled with thoughts about who this could be, what it meant, and what she should do.
Did she go to the police? No—what could they do, after all? Friends? Again, what could be done? She thought for a moment that perhaps she had imagined what had happened, but she dismissed that thought, as well. No, it's there. I saw it.
Who could she tell? No one would believe her. She even struggled to reconcile it, and she'd seen the footage.
By the time she had stopped wracking her brains, her stomach was growling angrily, and her tea had gone cold.
She wasn't sure if she imagined the sound or not—like hissing whispers—as a black mass formed beside her bed. Her pulse climbed rapidly, even as she lay still, staring wide-eyed. A mask—shaped like a barn owl, it seemed—loomed over her menacingly, and she held her breath as she trembled. It was so cold, all of a sudden, and there was that faint, earthy scent of decay again. The figure tilted its head as it watched her, and reached out with a clawed gauntlet. She didn't flinch, too shocked to move, and a thumb drew down the shape of her cheekbone.
"You should be sleeping," the figure rasped in a low, gravelly timbre.
She swallowed. "Why? So you can watch me sleep some more?" She demanded, shocked by the sound of her own voice. He tilted his head again, but without the benefit of a face, she couldn't read him.
"Go to sleep, Em," he demanded.
Emara's heart leapt into her throat as she sat up. "Who are you?" She demanded. "How do you know my name?"
He dissipated into a cloud of smoke and whisked across the room to partially manifest in her open doorway.
"A ghost," he finally said, looking over his shoulder.
"Wait—" Emara called after him, but he was already gone. An eerie sense of familiarity washed over her, and she swallowed. Why did you call me Em?
Emara had already sat up in her bed when he arrived the next night. He manifested next to her, as if he were resigned to her insistence, and waited. She regarded him with a critical eye for a long minute, and then wrapped her arms around her knees.
"Who are you?" She asked again, quietly. "I feel like I know you. Something about you is… familiar, and you know my name. But, I don't know yours."
A long minute passed in silence while she watched him, and waited. He reached out to stroke her hair, brushing a thumb over her brow.
"I told you, I'm a ghost," he replied.
Emara grabbed his wrist—Jesus, you're cold—and yanked him towards her. "I don't believe in ghosts," she lied.
He took his hand from her and thumbed over the plump swell of her lips. "Yes, you do," he replied. The strange familiarity with which he handled her made her fluster. It was so, so familiar, but every part of her screamed that who she thought it might be couldn't possibly. He's dead. You know that.
She didn't push him away, and heat flooded her cheeks as warmth bloomed out in her chest. "Please," she whispered. "Please, tell me who you are…"
He leaned down so that his mask was barely inches from her face, and she could feel the cold rolling off him in waves.
"A ghost," he hissed.
Emara had a moment where her heart squeezed with anxiety, but then, she began to laugh. "Are you trying to scare me?" She asked. He wrapped his hand around her throat, and she gasped in shock at the cold of his grip. She grabbed his forearm, but didn't try to struggle. Again, the strange familiarity with which he handled her made her feel warm, and her skin burned beneath his touch.
"Are you scared?" He whispered. She shook her head, and she heard him hmph behind his mask. His hand loosened and drew down, the metal of his gauntlet scraping lightly over the shape of her collarbones. "Maybe you should be."
Silence hung between them as they stared each other down.
"Who are you?" She whispered again. He leaned forward so his mask was pressed into the curve of her throat, and the intimacy of the gesture sent a wave of heat down her spine, even as the cold that emanated from him shocked her.
"A ghost," he hissed again, and vanished into a plume of tendrilous smoke.
She sat up in her bed, and listened—slow, heavy footfalls. Was it him, again? That strange, masked wraith who kept coming to her? She slipped out from under the covers, and headed towards the door of her room—she'd gotten into the habit of leaving it open, now. She strained to listen, but didn't hear anything else. Pulling her dress robe from the hook on her door, she shrugged it on and tied it closed as she crept down the short hall towards her living room.
There, at the mantle, he stood with his back facing her. She watched him for a minute while he seemed to regard the spread of photographs lain out there. She held her breath as he reached out, and picked up a particular photo. She knew which one it was from where she stood—it was her favourite, and sat in the center of the mantle.
Why's he interested in a photo of me with Gabe? She wondered. She closed some of the distance between them, her arms crossed over her belly.
"Hey."
In an instant, he dissipated and reformed, towering over her with a low, angry growl. She didn't step back or flinch, but looked up at his looming figure for a minute, and then with slow, deliberate steps, moved around him, towards the photo frame that he had unceremoniously dropped.
Brushing aside shards of glass and plastic, she stayed crouched as she looked for a long time at the photo, thumbing delicately over the shape of Gabe's face in the picture.
"You looking for a girlfriend?" She asked, finally. The sarcasm in her voice was palpable, but her voice still wavered. She stood, and offered the photo in his direction. He stood still, regarding her over his shoulder for a long minute. When it became clear he wouldn't take it, she took it back and looked at it again.
Her expression became distant, filled with a longing ache as she swallowed around a lump in her throat. "It's my husband," she murmured.
"Well… my almost-husband," she added, after a moment. "I lost him before I actually got the chance to be his wife. But I wanted to be, more than anything…" Her voice shrank until it was nothing more than a whisper, and she tried again to swallow around the hard lump.
Embarrassed and angry, she laughed out a sob. "I don't know why I'm telling you this… I don't even know who you are…"
Don't you? Another long, tense moment of silence hung between them as she gazed at the photo once again. When she finally relinquished her attention, her hand fell to her side with the photo clutched in her fingers, and she looked up at the man who stood in front of her.
A ghost… His voice echoed through her mind again, and she narrowed her eyes at him. It can't be you, can it? They told me you died. You were dead. I grieved you. She winced—did I really?
A ghost. The condition, his shape, the way he touched her… The inflection of his voice, the timbre… Her grip on the photo tightened, and a painful tightness bloomed out in her chest.
She swallowed, and drew in a breath. "Is it you, Gabriel?" She felt foolish for asking—of course it's not him. He's dead. A beat of silence. But then why does he seem to know me so intimately?
The man in front of her didn't speak. He only growled—once. If it's not you, why don't you say so? The silence—the growl—were his answer.
"Gabe…" she whispered his name like it was a prayer. He didn't move, or speak, but only regarded her, and she wondered what his face might be able to tell her.
Finally, the dam within her cracked, and she started to cry. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she sank to her knees on the floor, and sobbed.
Above her, the wraith watched the scene unfold, and though his heart only beat occasionally, he could feel it thrumming in his chest. He wondered how she had figured him out so easily—but then, he hadn't exactly tried to hide it.
She started to babble suddenly, talking about how much she'd missed him, and asking him where he'd been these last years. They told me you died in the explosion at Zurich—his chest grew tight—why didn't you come to me sooner?
"Please, Gabe… answer me," she pleaded, her chest heaving with sobs. Thick, tense silence hung between them while she wept, wiping feebly at her eyes as he stood over her, watching, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Minutes passed, though it felt like hours to him as his heart thrummed and squeezed—he hated to see her cry. She looked up at him after her breaths had evened out, her expression pleading.
"Please, let me see you. Let me see your face, Gabriel. I have to know if it's you…"
Tendrilous smoke billowed out around him, but he didn't move, and Emara only waited.
"I'm not who you think I am," he finally rasped.
Emara laughed dryly as she rolled her eyes, then shook her head. "Then prove me wrong," she demanded. "Your flair for the dramatic certainly hasn't changed. You certainly seem like you're still you."
I'm not, he seemed to say with his tense posture, but he didn't refute her again.
She stood slowly, and could see the smoke tendrils billowing around him even more intensely. She moved with agonizing slowness, crossing the small space between them, and each step seemed to make the smoke billow harder. She reached for him, and he stayed still. Her brow furrowed with apprehensive hopefulness as she closed the last of the distance.
At the slightest pressure of her fingers against his mask, he vanished and was gone. Emara drew in a heaving breath as she crumpled to her knees, left with nothing but a painful ache in her chest.
She waited on her sofa the next night, hoping he might come back.
He did.
The lights were off, and the curtains open to let the dull light of the moon illuminate her surroundings. She heard him before she saw him, manifesting behind the sofa, and stood to round out from her seat. He stood before her, and after a moment, she approached him with cautious, slow steps. She pressed her hand into his chassis, and he remained still—she wondered if he was watching her beneath the darkness of his mask. Her fingers kneaded into him, and he let out a stilted growl.
She closed the distance between them, and put her arms around his broad torso. He was cold, but being close to him like that felt so familiar that she nearly sobbed. She buried her face into his chest, trembling, but he remained still.
"Hold me, please, Gabe," she murmured, the dam within her cracking once more. "Just for a minute."
There was a pause, and her heart sank—maybe it really isn't him—then, he shifted, and his thick arms wrapped around her. She nearly sobbed, but endured, squeezing him a little tighter. After a time, she stepped back, letting her arms fall to her sides as she looked up at him.
"Will you let me see you? Please?" She whispered. A long moment of tense silence hung between them.
Finally, he shifted, reaching a clawed hand up towards his face. She reached forward and caught his wrist, and he stopped.
"Can I?"
"You don't know how," he gritted, carefully batting her hands away. She clasped her hands together, wringing them fretfully as she watched. He drew his hood back, then reached for a clasp that let out a click, then a hiss, and finally lowered it down.
She held her breath as he pressed it into her hands.
There he was. His skin was grey, mottled in some parts with inconsistent cell decay. Black sclera and red irises stared back at her, black smoke wisping off his skin.
His expression looked angry, and bitter—she couldn't tell why. The mask clattered to the ground as she reached up, taking his face in her hands. He startled, and grabbed her wrists gruffly—but he didn't shove her away. After a moment, he let himself close his eyes. Holding her fast, he turned his face into the warmth of her palm. The soft kiss he left was barely there, but his grip on her wrists slackened before he let go.
"Hey," she called to him, and he turned his gaze back on her. She turned her hand over, drawing her knuckles down his cheek. "Does it hurt?" She asked.
"No," he rasped. Something in his expression looked dazed and far off as her touch drew over his face—his cheeks, his temple and brow, the bridge of his nose. As she slid the pad of her thumb over the shape of his lips, they pursed and he pressed a soft kiss against the digit.
He was startled by the sound of his exhale as she took her hands away from his face—the loss of the warmth of her touch seemed nearly too much to bear. He swallowed as he regarded her, and she looked pensive, then beckoned him down.
He knew this song and dance—they'd done it countless times before, over the years, and so he leaned down to hear what he thought was a secret. She pushed up on her toes to catch his mouth in a soft kiss, and he recoiled, stepping back.
"I'm sorry—" she blurted.
"Why?" He demanded. She looked away from him, flustered and overwhelmed as pain bloomed out in her chest. When she finally looked back at him, her eyes were wet with tears.
"Because I love you, Gabriel."
He balked. "Look at me," he snapped, indignant.
"I am," she replied, tears rolling down her cheeks. He regarded her for a long time, her expression filled with hurt, but also with longing—the same longing she'd always had in her eyes, even all those years ago, when he was less monster and more man.
He reached forward to brush his knuckles over her cheek. It was cold, and made uncomfortable by the metal of his gauntlets, but she still closed her eyes as she leaned into his touch.
"You don't know what I've become," he muttered.
She opened her eyes as she turned her gaze up at him, sharp and unrelenting. "I don't need to," she whispered. "I never did. You know that."
He exhaled a gravelly sigh, and closed the distance between them. He kissed her—not eager, but not impassive, either. Willing—as was she.
It felt different than it used to, but he blamed himself for that. Her lips were soft against his chapped ones, but the warmth of her filled him with yearning. Before he'd realised it, he'd caught her about the waist, the claws of his gauntlets digging into her skin, tearing the fabric of her shirt.
He paused for breath, leaning his forehead against hers. A sensation of being overwhelmed traveled through him, and he closed his eyes.
I want you. He recoiled, letting go of her to take step back.
She let out a soft cry of despair. "Gabe, don't go. Please," she whispered, reaching for him. The inhuman growl that emanated from his chest made her pause, but her expression was riddled with anxiousness. He reached forward and drew his knuckles over her cheek again, then down along her jaw. He caught her chin, and leaned in to press a tender kiss against her forehead.
Collecting his mask from the floor, he slipped it back into place with a low, hissing click.
She reached for him. "Gabriel, please—"
He caught her wrist, and raised a clawed finger to his mask as a gesture of silence. "Wait for me," he rasped.
A moment later, he was gone.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! If you liked my writing, please leave me a review to let me know! If you've ever wanted to make a writer's day, there's no better way to do it—it feeds the beast, lets me know people are enjoying my work, and helps motivate me to continue writing! ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭❤️