Winter River wasn't exactly known for its threatening rain, but today must've been the day where the precipitation made itself known. It threw itself down into the grass, creating a muddy soup in which a pair of jeaned legs furiously rushed through. Once the owner of said legs was at the doorstep of the Deetz household, he removed his hood and ran a hand through his brown hair before politely knocking upon the door. He rocked back and forth on his heels, awaiting his approval for entry.

To his luck—and desire, as well—Charles Deetz had answered the door. His left hand had a grip on the knob while his right was holding onto a pair of binoculars; that was a bit odd, for there seemed to be no birds or wildlife outside because of the rain. Even so, the boy managed to keep a smile on his face before saying: "Hello, Mister Deetz. Is Lydia home at the moment?"

Nodding, Charles called out to his daughter. "Lydia, Thomas is here!"

Charles liked seeing his daughter interact with someone other than him or Delia. Back in New York, Lydia always claimed that she was too different to see the other children, and she was, really. That still bothered Charles. But now, here in the countryside, Lydia finally found someone that was tolerable to speak with. It was a shame that when school started up in the fall, Thomas and Lydia would have to go their separate ways; she was going to a local school for girls, while he would be going to a quaint high school just outside of Winter River.

Upstairs, a door opened and a feminine voice could be heard. "I'm up here. He can come up."

Nodding to Lydia's father, Thomas shoved his hands into the pockets of his father's old school sweatshirt and walked upstairs, trying to adjust his glasses with his nose while doing so. Upon getting to the second floor, he walked into Lydia's room and closed the door behind him. He then took his normal seat which was sitting backwards on the chair by her desk, while she was sitting cross-legged on her bed. They exchanged curt nods in greeting.

"I'm glad you're here. I actually had a few things to ask you—they regard your parents."

"Oh, yeah"—he nodded—"sure."

Lydia wasn't sure, but she hesitated for a moment before asking: "What were they like?"

Thomas stared up at Lydia's ceiling, as if the answers were plastered upon it. "Ah, my parents . . ." He mused, looking as though his brain was going through various flashbacks. "Well, we'll start with my dad—Adam. Oh man, Dad . . . He was great. I remember as a toddler, he would carry me on his shoulders to the attic. There, he was building a miniature model of the entire town. It was pretty impressive, but my two or three-year-old brain couldn't exactly comprehend it much. I do remember that he said that it would be completed before I move out, and now that I think about it, I think it is completed.

"I also remember Dad teaching me how to ride my bike. I don't remember much, but I do remember that he got teary-eyed when I actually started making my way down our driveway." He glanced towards the floor. "I also remember him promising that he'd teach me how to drive, but . . . Well, that day would never come."

Ironically, it was a fatal car accident that had killed his parents. His father had told him that he and his mother were going to head over to the small hardware store that they owned. If he had known that on the way back, his father would swerve out of the way to avoid hitting one of the neighbor's cats, only to crash into the bridge and plummet to their deaths in the river, then he probably would've said much more then "Okay, have fun," before continuing to read. It wasn't long before he heard frantic knocking and then saw many of the townsfolk outside of his front door, breathing heavily as if they had just run a mile. It was those old neighbors that would give him the devastating news that would most likely change his life forever.

Lydia understood. Her real mother had died in a car accident, but she wasn't behind the wheel, rather a drunkard was and she wasn't paying attention while crossing the street. For a moment, she thought that Thomas was lucky to not have an annoying stepmother like Delia, but after everything that he said about Jane over the past two weeks, she quickly took her thoughts back. To change the topic, she finally spoke up. "And what about your mother?"

"Oh, Mom . . . Well, my mother's name is Barbara." Thomas smiled. "A lot of people said that I looked like her—minus the glasses." At the mentioning of his glasses, he took them off and wiped them on his drying sweatshirt. "She was really everything that you'd expect in a mother: kind, caring, pretty . . . I really liked as a kid when she would hide little notes in my lunches. She continued to do so in middle school, and I had to sneak them out so the other kids wouldn't laugh at me. . . . Although, to be honest, I never really did find myself sitting next to other kids often." Thomas looked up to Lydia, frowning. "I guess that's why I loved my parents so much; they weren't just my parents, but they were my best friends. Without them, I don't know if I'd ever have a true friend, really."

By now, Lydia's eyes grew wide, but with a hint of sympathy. For a split second, they shifted to two figures that were nervously shuffling about in the corner while holding onto each other before they went back to Thomas. Slowly, a small smile appeared on her face. "I'll be your friend."

"Really?"

"Of course. You seem like someone I can get along with."


"Oh, Adam, she did it."

"Barbara, I told you. Lydia seems like a trustworthy girl, and I had a feeling that Thomas would like her."

Adam and Barbara Maitland had met Lydia about a week ago. After being confronted under their sheets, the two had taken Lydia to the attic, where Adam had shown her his model of the town. Of course, the dead couple had also asked her many questions in regard to their son, after also admitting that they were the smudges in her one photograph and that they had watched her as she took various photos of the house before meeting their son.

After telling them that she had been inviting him over from time to time just to talk, the ghastly couple had asked her to try to make nice with him. They already knew that their son wasn't very social as it is, and the fact that there were no other children nearby didn't help much. Lydia told them that she was already beginning to like him and that their friendship would blossom on its own, but that she would make it happen soon.

Well, today seemed to be the day where it finally happened.

"Oh, just think about it!" The woman softly cried. "Lydia will be able to give messages to Thomas for us! I miss him so much, and look, he's wearing your old sweatshirt—"

"Barbara, we can't do that."

"Adam . . ."

"Do you want to get in trouble? I'm okay with Lydia knowing about us because she can see us, but I don't think that any other mortal should know about us. I don't want to break some rule of the Afterlife and have myself become"—he made various gesticulations, thinking of the word—"a whatchamacallit of the Afterlife."

"But Adam, he's our son. Don't you ever want to see him again?"

"Yes, honey, I do. I just want to be careful for now. Don't worry, when the time is right for us to finally reunite with him, we will. I promise." For reassurance, he gave her cheek a light peck. "Now, c'mon. We might as well head upstairs." He slowly glided between Lydia and Thomas, making sure that his son wouldn't get suspicious.

Barbara, on the other hand, didn't exactly do the same thing. Instead of getting past them, she gave Thomas a small kiss on his forehead before exiting.


Rubbing the middle of his forehead, Thomas frowned in confusion. "Is it cold in here to you?"

"No?"


Adam made his way into the attic first and Barbara was right on his heels. When he walked down the three, small steps that led to the general area, he heard a small cry for help before a series of crunching. Narrowing his eyebrows, he turned back to his wife. "Did you hear something?"

She shook her head. "No; nothing."