It all felt like a fever dream. I sat there, in the same chair that I just wanted to read in peacefully a moment ago. The book I had opened was right next to it on the table. The dust on the couch hasn’t swept off at all. Like noone was actually lying on it.

I was getting crazy, or at the very least crazier, like mother, like Philip. Some say that mental illnesses do run in the blood. My blood may just be a little faster, more potent.

I decided that that wasn’t real, it really shouldn’t be. Superare c'mon now. I picked up the other book I prepared on the table and though my heart sank with every sentence I read. I felt I made the right choice.

Days gone by and I still didn’t touch anything in Philips room. I wanted it to stay as it was for as long as possible. It made me think that he may come back sometimes, that he is just out on a stroll, that everything was ok.

But I couldn’t get drunk on that idea, I knew better.

I started hefting the books from the library into the attic. At least the ones that were stacked on the floor. I could craft another bookcase for them, but that would take time. One thing I had too much of. Couldn’t waste that.

I hefted another box of books, when something caught my eye. It seemed to be just a normal box, like any other there. But appearances deceive, it was full with my late fathers possessions. Philip didn’t want me scurrying around there. He was continuously taking care of it. Like my father might come back someday. Like I take care of his room.

I didn’t want to end up like Philip. Alone, occupied by the deaths of my family members. But I definitely understood the sentiment of keeping their things clean, fresh, alive. A little of them staying there. That is the whole reason why I stayed in this house after all.

I put the books down and walked over to the compendium of my dad's memory. Other than the jacket, there were my father's favorite books, which assured me that we had a wildly different taste, some pictures of him, even of my mom. On a few they were together, smiling, and my mother's belly was positively bursting at the seams. Made me wonder if we would have been a happy family, if they were here. At the same time, it was chilling, knowing how quickly things must have turned sour, they seemed genuinely happy then. I also found fathers dagger. The namesake of our family. Philip used to say, that his great-great-great-grandfather was gifted this dagger by some noble, earning a surname with it. Could have been a little more original if you ask me, but I won't complain. Then I found a journal. I never knew that dad had a diary, didn’t seem the kind to write about his feelings, at least from the stories Philip told.

I was tempted to open it, look through it. I didn’t think that it would be insolent of me to do so, I was his son after all, who else should have the privilege, but I got scared, thinking of all the things that might be waiting for me there. I decided to leave it, for now.

I will get back to it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I walked out of the attic with a heavier heart then I came in with. My mouth felt sore and I had to cough from the dust around. I've never been better.

Today, I saw my mother again. While I was reading, she appeared outside and started to walk around the garden, singing. Of course she only walked where I could see her from the window, like always. I closed the book and watched on. This was the closest I could ever get to her. Although I would probably get medicated to death if anyone knew what was going on in my head. A glass half-full type of situation.

I tried speaking to her a couple times, but that just cut the moment short. No interaction. Number one rule. The delusions seem to crumble once I try that, at least the ones with my mother do.

I leaned my head on the wall, looking out at my dancing mother, slowly she dissipated. Leaving with a cheer, as always.

Maybe I should try going out sometimes. Could do with some good old human to human contact. But the others in the town don’t really see me as a sane person, which I don’t take personally, I don’t see myself as one either.

Even then, fresh air is important. I clothed myself in the better clothes I had, put on big hard boots and set out. Books, phantasms and a lonely creaking house are good company, but men need variety in their life.

I didn't bother locking the house. It could have been a mansion compared to the other wooden abodes around, but everyone "knew" it was haunted. A surprisingly big amount of myths were told about the house, some even told me, too intoxicated to know I was its sole resident.

My favorite was about a demoness living there, subjugating all the males to act to her bidding. It often became uncomfortably sexual, as every story told here did. The simple men can think nothing but forking when drunk. But thankfully there was one good story teller in the village. Meijen. A young man, actually going to school and learning about languages and history. One of the smarter folk.

He reads stories in the tavern sometimes and its surprising how many drunks can act calmly and listen, when someone weaves the story as Meijen does. He could be talking about a normal day, but make it seem dramatic, happy or hysterical.

I took a gamble and entered the tavern. After I ordered a bear and got used to the glances again, I sat down at the table in the corner. It was like I was the towns executioner, I always had my spot, away from the others. I really didn’t mind.

It took two mugs before the man appeared. In his stylish pink and yellow coat, similarly colored trousers and a rose interwoven to his long brown hair. He liked to stand out, although it made him look like an exotic bird.

After taking a deep bow, he straightened himself and started to perform his story.

As stupid as the plot and characters sometimes were, his presentation really was everything. Even some of those that passed out managed to open their eyes to watch the scenery.

Today, it was a story about bloodlust, about a man burned to a crisp, not yet dead. Who managed to find his family's murderers and deliver them justice. It ended in tragedy, with the character getting lost in his bloodlust, becoming something less than human, but more than the dead. Meijen even acted out the brutal killings, shredding red cloth out of his jacket, imitating blood. I liked his stunts.

Then suddenly, the tavern doors opened at a swipe from his hand from the stage. A woman came in, a beautiful one, she had long blonde hair, wore a jacket of blue and red stripes, held a lyre and hummed a soothing melody. She matched Meijen incredibly well.

"Hear ye, hear ye! For a song of the sun, has come down to our town! Let us sing let us dance! Let the fun of all commence!" Meijen introduced the woman.

Fun, my cue, I should leave.

The pretty bard flashed a concerned smile when I brushed past her, but she started with her song. The tavern behind me fell even more silent then before.