Chapter Two: Mourning After Birth
Matt wakes at some ungodly hour to the sound of crackling electricity, light blinking into his room from the hallway, blinking steadily—on, off, on, off again as he staggers to his door, heartbeat frozen in its tracks at the figure standing motionless at the top of the stairs. Jonah, clad in the nightshirt Matt had laid out for him. He moves, stepping down on the first step. The house groans, a deep rumbling. Matt just watches, gooseflesh raising all over as the medium descends, one step at a time, stiff. Matt simply watches, eyes wide and tired as the flashing lights continue, a wobble in the teen's step prompting Matt to lurch forward, a hand outstretched. But the medium continues, eerily regaining his balance. He makes it all the way down the stairs, out of sight, before Matt follows, calling for him.
"Jonah? Hey, kid?"
A few steps behind, keeping his distance, he watches as Jonah slowly makes his way through the kitchen. He stops dead in his tracks as the door to the basement yawns open with a creak, all on its own, allowing the reincarnation passage. Matt's heart pounds in his ears as he stands at the top of the basement stairs, watching Jonah wind his way down into the basement, lit from beyond by a warm sort of glow. He calls for Jonah again, hesitant, the apprehension in his voice apparent as the kid doesn't respond at all, back ramrod straight as he takes the stairs a step at a time. Matt's careful to keep his distance, watching as Jonah's bare feet meet concrete, padding away. The door to the mortuary is open, the smoked glass reflective, the lights inside almost beckoning. Jonah just keeps on going, walking directly over the remains of the ritual, crushing scattered offerings, treading over crystals and metal without a flinch. An eerie, sickening feeling settles into Matt's bones, hands clenched into fists as Jonah walks directly to the crematory. A deep sound, metal and grating, echoes through the small space as the furnace, too, opens on its own. Jonah pauses, seemingly peering inside, neck and head bending to the side stiffly.
"Jonah?"
The figure just stands there, unmoving, head still tilted. Minutes pass like this, stretching still and foreboding. Matt eventually approaches the teen, hand shaking as he reaches out, touching the shoulder of the raised dead, earning no reaction. Leaning in front of the medium, he realizes Jonah's eyes are closed, his face slack, simply standing in front of the small space he died in, alone and on fire, screaming for help, begging for it, from anyone or anything. Matt can smell it almost, the sickly sweet smell of burned flesh, ozone.
He grips the teen's shoulders with both hands, applying light pressure, trying to move the kid, but he doesn't budge. Matt grips him harder, pushing and pulling, but the vessel seems to be rooted to the floor, fixated on the space Jonah's original body died in.
After a few moments of consideration, and a sigh, Matt turns and approaches the remains of the rite he performed just a few hours ago. Taking up a piece of chalk, he draws a sigil on his right palm. He returns and gently presses the mark to the vessel's forward, muttering quietly. The body seems to flinch, hard, and it suddenly turns, walking itself out of the mortuary and back up the stairs with wobbling, stilted steps.
Jonah pauses on the landing, as if unsure, so Matt pushes him gently in the direction of the room with the birds, getting him all the way to the bed, where gentle pressure causes the teen to sit.
"Okay, Jonah. Can you lay down, for me? It'll be more comfortable, sleeping in a bed."
Jonah sways just a bit before listing over on his side, feet still on the floor. The second his head hits the pillow, the lights go back out, the buzzing sound of electricity abating. Lit only from the clear, still-full moon outside, Matt watches the medium, making sure he's not going to get back up. Satisfied, he leaves basically fleeing from the room, careful to shut Jonah's door behind him. He gets back into his own bed, covered in cold sweat. He stares at the wall for what feels like hours, wide awake, too unsettled to sleep. Had Jonah just been sleep walking, or was he compelled, drawn to linger exactly where his remains had been resting for the last seventy years? When Matt eventually drifts back up to sleep, he dreams of the mortuary, dark and cold and empty, with bright blue eyes staring out of the furnace, a blackened figure hunched and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting for him.
Jonah wakes to the sound of birds and sunlight streaming in. He sits up groggily, his mouth feeling dry. Head in his hands, he runs his fingers along his unburned features, so alien now. He feels like he'd almost forgotten them. Was he alive? How did this happen? Did Matthew do this? A million questions buzz in the medium's skull, and the boy groans. Looking around the room, everything is real and unchanged. Solid, tangible. Absolutely real. The wooden floor feels cold under his feet as Jonah stands shakily, his messy black bangs falling into his eyes. He glances around, staggering to the wall on which a calendar hangs. Days are already checked off. April thirtieth, in the year two-thousand and five. Jonah's vision swims. The year of our Lord two-thousand and five? Who would've ever thought. How absolutely unbelievable. Jonah had weirdly guessed at first that it was still the eighties, but he should've known time passed since then. Matthew looked older, after all; the man's face holds slight wrinkles now, though he still has freckles, as Jonah can recall. He is still covered in scars, Latin written, carved, plainly into his face in tiny fine writing. Jonah could remember carving such fine Latin onto corpses. He gags slightly.
Everything is so much brighter than he remembers. He watches dust motes swirl gently in the light cast from the window, and he raises a hand to his face to stare at his own fingertips in awe, rotating his wrist to study his almond nails. A God-damned miracle. Drawing his knees underneath him, he stands once again, tottering like a toddler, to his bedroom window. He parts the curtains to look outside, looking out on the lush trees and lawn of the familiar back yard. His window is directly above the shed in the backyard, somehow still intact and standing. Craning his neck, Jonah catches the faintest glimpse of a pant leg, a foot clad in a black, white laced shoe on the back step. It has to be Matthew, and it's about time the two of them had words. A gossip, a gad, a beat session. My God, that's Matthew down there. Matthew, alive and most likely in his thirties. What in the blue hell?
Jonah staggers over to the white-painted wardrobe, opening it gingerly to reveal clothing. Familiar clothing. His confusion only mounts as his hands find familiar textures and patterns. Here is a wool sweater, knitted finely; here is a white cotton dress shirt, buttoned with a dart collar. Here are boots, both working and dress, a casual set of spectators, a pair of canvas high-tops meant for sport. What kind of alternate reality is this? He remembers Matthew, Peter, and Billy dressed far differently than this; even the Reverend, though comparatively old-fashioned, had been dressed more modernly than such, and if Jonah could guess, styles have changed even more since the eighties. But in these familiar cuts and shapes, Jonah finds a semblance of normalcy and comfort. He selects a pair of brown wool trousers, with buttons at the hips for his suspenders, and a solid button-down of soft cotton in a pale lavender. He looks around for a moment, opening the chest of drawers to find more things; drawers, socks, undershirts, bow-ties. Jonah's mouth quirks into a small smile. Getting dressed takes a lot longer than he expected it to, as his joints (living and breathing, actual body aches? An actual body?) seem stiff and unyielding. Jonah eventually dresses himself, pleased to find the underclothes are familiar—a white linen undershirt and drawers, loose around the thigh, fitted around the hips with a triangular, double-layered panel of cotton, done up with five little buttons. It takes precious minutes to work on a pair of woolen socks, and he fumbles for a very long time lacing a nice pair of brown leather ankle-boots, slightly shorter than he's used to. Lastly, he buttons a waistcoat of gray corduroy, finer than anything he would've owned in life. But this is life now, Jonah guesses. He looks around for a mirror to tie his bow-tie in front of, and is slightly unsettled to find there are none in the room. Smart of Matthew, Jonah thinks. A little too aware, apt.
"Wake up," Jonah whispers, pinching the thin skin of his wrist between his long nails. No, still asleep. How old am I? He wonders. Nineteen if he had to guess, considering he died at that age. Thank Christ he died after most of his growing was completed.
The trip down the stairs takes a little while too, and Jonah curses more than he would like to admit. Simply why, why, were his limbs refusing to cooperate?
Matt's knee keeps bouncing and he's doing his best to calm down. He's on his third cig, and Matt pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. This simply couldn't be fucking real. Did last night even really happen? Jonah had asked to be alone, he didn't even want to be around Matt. The guilt was eating him alive; he hadn't even asked the ghost permission to bring him back to life. Matt couldn't even imagine being ripped out of death and thrust back into life, feeling so painfully human again. Every movement of the teen had screamed pain, and Matt wonders for the eleven-thousandth time that morning if he's an awful human being.
The sound of the back door creaking open startles Matt so badly he drops his cigarette. "Shit," he mumbles, snatching it back up before turning with wide eyes to the boy standing in the doorway. Matt's mouth goes dry, eyes wide, and his mind quiets for the first time since it struck midnight the night before.
Jonah stands in the doorway, looking way too much like himself in a soft blue bow-tie. Oh hell, the kid is handsome. Considering Matt had only seen him not-burned-up in old photographs, he feels ridiculously unprepared to see Jonah so alive and looking like an entirely real, well-dressed twenties teenager.
The two live boys stare at each other for a long moment. Jonah studies Matthew's round brown eyes, deep and warm and full of fear and worry. He was handsomer than he remembered, but Jonah assumes he had matured quite a lot since Jonah had last seen him. He'd turned out quite the sheik. Matthews's dirty-blonde hair had darkened to an ashy brown, though still curly, falling thick and lush to his shoulders. Though his face is so scarred, he seems healthy. He's grown a mustache that suits him. He seems taller and plumper, more muscular than Jonah remembered.
The color surrounding Matt is easily the most startling change. When Matthew was a teen, Jonah remembered his aura being a muddy, foreboding mixture of black, brown, and varying shades of red. This mixture of colors is what initially drew Jonah to the sick boy in the first place—Jonah's aura had been these same colors around the time of his death. It spoke of pain, anger, grief, and exhaustion, feelings Jonah understood all too well.
The soft cloud of color surrounding Matthew now is vastly different, a swirling mix of forest green and indigo, shot through with silver. It's startling, and honestly, quite rare. Jonah is unsurprised, however. It made sense that Matthew would be one of the few to have a mixed aura.
Matt shifts awkwardly under the medium's intense stare. The boy hasn't spoken yet and has simply been studying Matt, his gaze searing, almost painful as they track around Matt's form, most often resting in the middle of Matt's forehead, unfocused.
"Hello," Matt utters lowly, still trapped under the intense gaze. The moment breaks as Jonah steps forward, walking awkwardly over to sit next to Matt on the stoop. Matt freezes, so close to the reincarnation he can feel the slightest brush of their shoulders. They sit in silence for a while before Jonah's voice, still relatively quiet and rough, breaks the silence.
"I hate to be a bother, but I don't suppose I could bum a cigarette?"
Matt nods dumbly, fishing his pack of Camels from his shirt pocket. Jonah watches, smiling that same little quirky smile. Matt drinks it in, watching the upturning mouth, how the blue eyes light brighter in mirth. My God.
"Camels, huh? They still make them? I smoked Lucky Strikes, when I could afford to purchase pre-rolled. You must make good money."
Matt simply nods again, his shocked fingers numbly plucking a cigarette from the carton, handing it to the teen beside him. Jonah rather deftly takes the cig between his lips in a fluid motion, his head swiveling from side to side. He takes the cigarette between two long fingers again.
"Do you have any matches?"
Fuck, did Matt feel dumb. He hands his lighter to the boy, who stares at the modern contraption momentarily before Matt snatches it back, catching the gear with his thumb, bringing the flame up as Jonah expertly places the filter to his lips and drags in, letting Matt light his cigarette for him. Jonah takes a long, deep drag, eyes fluttering closed. His head tilts back slightly, and Matt stares as Jonah exhales smoke through his nose.
"Damn," the ninety-nine-year-old teen utters. "That's really, really nice. Thank you. It's been a long time."
"Yeah. Yeah, I bet it has."
The two smoke in silence for a while. Jonah takes the lighter from Matt and fiddles with it, repeating Matt's motions a few times before catching the drift and figuring out how to use the lighter. Once his cig burns down, Matt offers Jonah another cigarette. Jonah accepts it and lights his own this time, but not before lighting Matt's for him, a common courtesy that causes Matt's eyebrows to raise.
"Real sorry I can't pay you back for these, I haven't any money."
Matt laughs, a quick, barking laugh. Jonah startles, and that makes Matt laugh harder. Soon he's guffawing, and Jonah's little quirky smile grows bigger, full blown, Matt rapt to every detail. Matt revels in details, he has since the fire. He looks at Jonah's exposed white teeth, takes in the bell-like, rapid fire laughter. Jonah slaps his knee, in mirth, bouncing like a grandfather. A hoot and a holler, as Matt's mom would say.
As the laughter subsides, and silence threatens to loom again, Matt speaks.
"I bet we have a lot to talk about, huh?"
Jonah turns to look at him, leveling him with a gaze so intense it could decimate a city. He's blowing smoke through his nose again, it comes out of his mouth as he speaks.
"Yes, Matthew. We have an awful lot to talk about."
Matthew. The first time Matt has ever heard his name aloud, from Jonah's mouth. As he lives and breathes.
The kitchen looks remarkably like Jonah remembers. The white-tiled floor still has black, diamond-shaped tiles separating every four, the wooden walls still glossy. The windows are still wide and framed with white, filmy curtains. Jonah has folded his long legs into a high-backed chair, and a table just as small as his and his father's had been. Only two chairs, and in these small details, the teenaged medium feels sadness. There are differences. A large icebox sits in the corner, larger than memory and emitting a strange electronic hum. Strange appliances can be seen on the counters, and yet the large enamel wash tub his mother had invested in still sits alone in a corner.
Matthew has busied himself with an appliance, white with a glass sort of pitcher involved, with a little white cotton-esque basket placed in a holding container above. Soon, the familiar aroma of coffee fills the small space. Jonah approaches the man and boldly reaches into Matthew's shirt pocket, fishing forth the little paper box of cigarettes and the strange clicking thing that makes fire. Jonah downs his coffee, lights his own cig, and flicks his ash into the empty mug.
"So just what exactly have you done to me? How is it that I can breathe, have a heartbeat? What kind of...what kind of black magic have you dirtied your hands with, Matthew? Some goofed-up hoodoo?"
Matthew has the decency to blush at least, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. He reaches for the carton and Jonah offers the cigarettes and lighter back to him, their fingers brushing. The room seems to jolt, an electric shock jumping invisible between them. Both men flinch. Matt lights a cigarette as well, and begins.
"I want to start by saying I'm sorry. I tried contacting you first, Jonah, I promise. I've been here for a month already and tried reaching you every night, and you never answered. I figured it wouldn't hurt to try. I've been perfecting the ritual for years, it's based upon early Gaelic inscriptions from what we assume to be a spellbook from the fifteenth century. Here are the rules of your existence, what I already know: you are alive in a sense. You have measurable vitals. You must still sleep, eat, and rest. However, your existence has boundaries. You can't stray too far from your remains, which I imagine are still down in the basement from the ritual last night. You can't tread on hallowed ground. Your soul is most likely damned, and your lifespan is irrevocably connected to mine, as I used my blood to resurrect you."
Jonah nods impassively, a thin smile growing across his face.
"Sounds like hoodoo to me. I was already damned." At this, one of his thin hands gestures uselessly. Matt gives a small laugh. "Father has already made that so. Essentially, I live as if a poppet to you."
Matt shrugs uncomfortably and winces.
"I figured we had nothing to lose."
Jonah exhales smoke through his nose, his strange little eerie smile growing.
"Do you know how this feels? The feeling of smoke in my lungs, of breath traveling, of blood pounding? I have a nicotine buzz, for God's sake."
Matt doesn't know how to respond, his headache growing worse, the guilt eating him alive. He begins to speak, Jonah interrupting.
"I suppose I should thank you."
The medium stands, leans forward again. He extends a hand, which Matt shakes uncertaintly. The electricity and connection between the two is undeniable. Matt feels lightheaded, hands shaking, and Jonah's heart is pounding, tangible in the thin wrist Matt brushes with his thumb. The texture of Matt's scarring is oddly comforting, his hand so much larger than the medium's. As if pulled, as if magnets, Matt stands, drawing closer, stepping forward, opening. Jonah's head comes to rest on Matt's chest, listening intently to the strong heartbeat pumping blood between the two of them. As naturally as breathing, Matt's arms encircle the medium. Time seems to slow, vanish as the two live men embrace in the kitchen of Hell House. Jonah's head tucks underneath the cancer survivor's chin, and Matt's grip on him tightens protectively.
"How remarkable," the medium whispers, "to be alive again. May I ask why?"
The embrace breaks, with Matt looking down at their fingers, still interlocked, having morphed from a handshake into something more. He shakes his head, his eyes finding the electric blue of his dreams, those damnable eyes that have haunted his every waking thought since Matt began dying at seventeen.
"I just couldn't imagine living without you."
Jonah does not respond. The professor of the supernatural feels lost again. Matt wonders who is truly at the other's mercy. He contemplates where his studies would turn to now, having unlocked the art of raising the dead. Perhaps now, immortality, to spare Jonah from dying again.
Jonah clears his throat, laughs. He brings a hand to his forehead, thumping the smooth skin with the heel of his palm, as if contemplating an impossible thought. The hand Matt had been holding, too long to be just friendly now, withdraws, and Jonah hides his face in his hands, standing in the kitchen of his youth seventy something years after his death. Silence seems to stretch and wane as time begins to flow again.
"So," Jonah's voice is still so alien to the both of them, "what's for breakfast?"
Matt laughs, and Jonah's hands fall from his face, expression brightening, and the spell is truly broken.
"Okay, so. I wasn't sure what foods you liked, so I have the basics. We have eggs, bacon, pancakes, and oatmeal. I also have apples, bananas, and cantaloupe. I have tea if you want something other than coffee, and other foods that aren't breakfast related."
Matt is crouched in front of the large, electrical icebox. Jonah is peering curiously over the older-looking man's shoulder, into the contents of the fridge. One of his thin hands is resting on Matt's shoulder for balance. Matt wonders if the headache he seems to constantly have around the resurrected medium will ever abate; chances are slim, as merely the casual touch of the teen makes Matt feel as if he's crawling up a wall.
The strange sort of domesticity of it all was something Matt hadn't considered. The two of them have to live together now. What a God-damned novelty.
"Breakfast," says Jonah simply, his narrow shoulders shrugging, "how amusing."
Matt can't help but smile, looking over his shoulder at the teen. Something in Jonah's gut seems to flip. He had never really seen Matt smile before, considering all of their past interactions involved Jonah haunting, scaring, and scarring the man. Jonah feels nauseous just looking at the benign showcase of teeth, framed handsomely by a mustache Jonah is itching to grease into a handlebar. Can you imagine?
"What of the aforementioned foods do you want for breakfast?
Jonah's hand falls away from Matt's shoulder, and the man's smile immediately softens into a resting face. Jonah self consciously crosses his arms over his chest, taking a step back.
"All of it?"
The smile returns.
"Sure thing, boss."
Considering that the medium had not wanted to interact with Matt at all the night before, Matt is surprised when, instead of going off somewhere and waiting for the food to be ready, Jonah had sat himself squarely at the table to watch. And watch he did, with his evanescent gaze boring holes into the back of Matt's skull.
Matthew finishes up cooking and begins laying out a feast for the boy; on a white china plate is two strips of bacon, two eggs, two pancakes. A bowl of oatmeal stands nearby, as does another smaller plate with apples, bananas, and cantaloupe as promised. His coffee has been refilled, and a silent mug of black tea is present next to it. Matt sits the opposite of Jonah with a similar spread of food, the two of them separated by jugs of maple syrup and milk.
Matt lifts his coffee impassively, amused when Jonah hastily does the same.
"Cheers, kid." The two men chink their mugs as Jonah bristles.
"Kid? I would've been something akin to ninety-nine in this year."
Matt doesn't respond, as he instead begins tearing into his food. Yolk is visible in the man's mustache, a strip of bacon held in his hand, and Jonah recoils slightly in disgust.
"You're an animal."
"Hey, kid, I'm starving. I'm weak from blood loss, bereft of energy after bringing your ungrateful ass back to life. Dig in, you look starved."
Jonah raises his fork, gently prodding an egg. Yolk oozes forth, and a sweet sort of fascinated expression brightens the boy's face. Matt's chewing has slowed, and it finally dawns on the two of them: this is the first time Jonah has eaten in seventy years. Jonah delicately cuts the egg in half, staring blankly as it runs, his eyes still ridiculously wide. Matt stops eating entirely, watching the spectacle as Jonah cuts identical pieces of pancake, egg, and bacon, layering them together. When satisfied, he stabs a fork through the whole affair, pausing before taking a bite. Matt would bet his doctorate in paranormal studies that Jonah is trying his best to remember what food tastes like.
Eyes closed, Jonah takes a bite; his Adam's apple bobs and it's over, his searing eyes opening to reveal a ravenous stare. The kid seems almost shocked.
"Good?" Matt asks.
"Yeah." Jonah replies. "Pretty damn good."
And then he's ripping it apart. Matt sips his coffee in respective silence as the kid hoovers up everything in sight. Matt intently observes every detail, watching every shake and sigh. Jonah is rocking slightly in his chair, back and forth, back and forth, sinking his teeth into slices of apple, taking in the texture of a pancake. At one point, he bites into a cube of melon only to slap his knee and groan in pleasure. Matt will never, ever take eating for granted again, watching the way Jonah is so entirely enveloped in the experience. He relishes every single bite, eyes closed most of the time. Once the plate is clear and the fruit gone, the medium starts in on the oatmeal and pauses, a food Matt would've considered an unremarkable.
"What is it, Jonah?"
A soft, lone tear slowly travels down Jonah's face, and he's shaking his head repeatedly.
"It's just unreal." His voice is a whisper, rough and sad. Jonah is staring into his oatmeal with a strange expression, looking altogether wet and vulnerable. "I used to have oatmeal for breakfast every day in life. I found it such a chore. Can you imagine? Finding eating a chore? I've tasted only dust for decades!"
Jonah has truly begun crying now, unable to speak, and Matthew squeezes his hand reassuringly before handing him a napkin. As Jonah blows his nose, (so much snot and tears in this kid, Matt is just astounded he has anything left) Matt pours maple syrup over the oatmeal, plunking a spoon back into the whole affair.
"Well, I'm glad you like it, eat up. I hate leftovers."
And Jonah does just that, practically vacuuming up the hyper-sweet oatmeal in a few large bites. He's looking less sad now, happily munching the stodgy oats. Matt lights a cigarette, and pushes his mostly-untouched plate of food towards the teen. Jonah barely hesitates before clearing Matt's plate as well, single-handedly devouring a total of four pancakes, four slices of bacon, half a carton of eggs, two bowls of oatmeal, two apples, two bananas, and half a melon. Matt watches in awe and wonders where the fuck it all goes. Hopefully the boy gains some weight soon, as he's still looking a few pounds shy of being a skeleton. He looks satisfied though, that's for sure. He leans back in his chair, both arms crossed over his stomach, knees spread. His eyes are half closed and there's syrup on his chin. Matt offers him a cigarette, and Jonah moves as if he's a rather large and lazy cat, slowly leaning forward, effort written on his face. He lets Matthew light his cigarette with the interesting lighter again.
"Well," Matthew begins, "now that you're fed and happy, I have to go into town for a little while. I have to send off some letters and packages and pick up a few things. While I'm gone, feel free to do whatever you want except try to leave the house. Do not go past the back stoop and don't go out the front at all, in case anyone sees you. I already have a shit reputation, and the townsfolk see you, the jig will be up. Otherwise, you're welcome to anything in the house since it's yours."
Matthew stands to leave, and Jonah catches his wrist as he walks past. Their heartbeats match in mere seconds, and goosebumps raise on both of them. Jonah stares up at Matt blankly. He seems to be struggling on what to say. Matt waits patiently, hyper aware of the burning sensation of the ghost's touch. He wonders if Jonah remembers what it had felt like when they both lived in the same body.
"Just...just promise me you'll eat something. I spent too long watching you waste away. So make sure you eat too."
Matt simply nods and leaves with a "see you later," a satchel slung across his shoulders. He leaves his cigs on the table.
What Jonah had wanted to say was more akin to "I'll miss you," or "please don't leave." But the old-fashioned resurrected teenager found both inappropriate.
In reality, Matt could've waited to run errands, but wanted to give Jonah a chance to be alone. It had to be absolutely suffocating to be trapped in a house with the person you're blood-bound to, so he figured the kid could use some space. There's no telling what he could be up to. The thought brings an amused smile to Matt's scarred face. Matt needed to be alone too, as the second he was in the car he pulled his cellphone out of his bag. He didn't quite want Jonah exposed to that kind of outside technology yet.
"You've reached Wendy Reynolds, leave a message, yeah? Hey, Wends. Give me a call back when you can, okay? Make sure you call my cell and not the home phone. Everything's cool. Love you, bye."
Love you, bye. What Matt should've said when he was leaving. But "love you, bye," wouldn't have been appropriate.