[6. TELL ABOUT AN EXPERIENCE YOU’VE HAD WITH DEATH.]

One of the old ladies that worked in the community garden, Greta, she died of a heart attack when I was like twelve. I might have been a bit shell-shocked. I definitely didn’t know how to react. It was the first time I knew someone who died.

I have a hard time believing in an afterlife. It’s hard to believe in anything like heaven when ghosts are everywhere. But, Greta, she never showed up as a ghost, so maybe there is one--an afterlife, I mean. Only . . . what decides whether a person’s ghost sticks around or leaves to someplace else? And what does it say about me now that I’m dead?

~~~

I shiver. Was that . . . the creepies memories? A revolving lantern, life-flashing-before-your-eyes sort of thing? It was freaking horrible. Why did I see it? Was it because of that ink stuff that force-fed itself to me? Whatever it was, I don’t want to go through it again.

I stand up and stretch, trying to put the whole thing out of my mind. Weirdly enough, despite being mentally exhausted, I’m not all that tired. I actually feel more energetic than I did when I first woke up in this freezing wasteland. And, now that I think about it, my leg doesn’t hurt anymore. I take a look at it.

I’m . . . not sure how to comment on this. The gaping hole in my leg is gone. Heck, even the tear in my basketball shorts is gone, like the whole thing was just my imagination. It’s kind of unnerving.

Do ghosts have super regeneration? Why are my clothes included? Are they part of my body, then, since I died in them? Can I even change clothes? And what was it that sparked the healing? I was definitely leaking . . . something, so it’s not automatic--probably. Was it just something that takes time? Or was it--

No. Not the ink. No way, Jose, don’t even suggest it. I don’t even want to think about it. I can still taste the saltiness of that flying ink stuff in my mouth. I pick up a handful of snow and stuff it in my mouth, trying to clean the taste out.

Let’s put that train of thought aside for now. The only way to figure it out is through experimentation, and I’m not exactly keen on repeating another fight like that, and who’s to say the ink’ll come out even if I do break another creepy. What should I do now though? I’m I supposed to just try and survive? What is this? Some type of survival game? I’m not into that. But what else can I do? I don’t really have any goals at the moment. Even the one I do have seems kind of impossible at the moment (you know, getting back home).

Stupid survival sandbox it is. What are the things required for survival again? Water, food, shelter? Do ghosts even need food?

Sigh. I rub my face. Um. Yeah. Shelter. Let’s do shelter, first. That should be pretty easy. I mean I just have to choose from one of the possibly haunted houses. I’ve got five to pick from. Not picking isn’t really an answer. Who knows what else could be wandering around. It’s cold out and it’s getting really dark--or not. I frown, looking at the sky. It’s actually pretty bright out. Why? I could have sworn when I was running from Jerkface that it was almost night while blizzarding. Now it’s like it’s midday without a single breeze.

Should I even ask at this point? I feel like this place is messing with my sense of what’s normal. Well whatever, another thing to think of later. I really need to sleep. My mind is starting to go fuzzy. So, which creepy house should I haunt for the day? Should I risk a house I haven’t been in? How likely is it that something else will come chasing out after me the moment I enter another house? Mm. I’m not sure that I wanna test my awful luck. Well, the only other option--as much as I hate it--would be to stay at Jerkface’s house. Disturbing. But judging from the memory I just saw, it’s not likely that another creepy would be haunting the place. I have the feeling that Jerkface would’ve chased off anything that tried. It’s his haunt, after all, the place where he died resenting the world. I can’t imagine wanting to share my brooding spot with anyone else.

Um . . . yeah, let’s go with that, then. But first, let’s find a weapon in case things decide to go even more south (considering my luck lately, it inevitably will). I hate to even think this--It’s just too gross--deep breath: the scythes seem like a pretty good idea use as a . . . sword, or whatever. I walk over and pick them up, avoiding looking at the rest of the corpse. It’s okay. These aren’t body parts. These aren’t body parts. They’re definitely not dismembered arms or anything like that. They’re just blades broken off, uh, farming equipment, or something. Yeah. That’s what they are. I work hard to keep the bile from coming up my throat and trudge through the snow once more, holding the scythes awkwardly in both hands. They’re unwieldy. I’ll have to figure out how to attach them to proper handles sometime. Right now, the remaining . . . arm is too short to grab properly. I’m stuck half holding onto the actual blades.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The door to the house is still open when I reach it. I pause. Hesitantly, I enter the house once more. Nothing’s changed. There’s still the strange chair squatting in the middle of the empty room, all covered in the disturbing layer of frost. The same oppressive atmosphere still hangs around the corners of the room. It’s still creepy. My grip on the scythes tighten. I almost cut myself.

For a second, I’m scared to look at the archway, scared of seeing a freakishly tall creepy standing there again. But no, nothing’s there. It’s gone. Instead, a lonely feeling coalesces around the chair. It speaks of pain and sadness and despair. I am reminded of the man tied to the chair, forced to watch as his wife is cooked and eaten in front of him. A lump forms in my throat. Slowly, I bow in the direction on the chair, tears dripping down my face. I don’t know why I did it. Those painful emotions I’m swallowed up in, they make it feel like the right thing to do. Immediately, the dark feeling vanishes from the house.The frost that was on every surface creeps away too. It’s just an empty house now. I sit there just letting the tension drain out of me, letting my thoughts wander.

Anyway, I should set about exploring Jerkface’s house. Can I really still call him Jerkface after all this?

I’ve decided. He really was a jerk to me. His horrid past doesn’t mean I should forgive him for trying to kill me. I’m not being petty. Calling him Jerkface is a really light punishment for that. Ahem, yeah.

The house is weirder than I thought it would be. I mean, I did see it in Jerkface’s memories, but it was more of a glimpse. It’s like the whole thing is set up backwards or something. Maybe the door I came in is actually a back door. It connects to the empty room with the chair in the middle. It’s not that big of a room and it’s got a dirt floor, so maybe it’s like an entryway or dirt room or something. I move the chair to a side wall. It freaks me out still to have it in the middle of the room. If I stay here for any amount of time longer than a day, I think I’ll get rid of it. It’s strangely traumatic.

Walking through the tall entryway into the kitchen, I have to take a step up. The kitchen is raised up on a floor of wooden boards. Weird, but okay. The kitchen room is divided in half, with the kitchen in front of me and a sort of living area further in on the left. They’re separated by a counter that almost cuts the room in half. The counter’s topped by a thin slab of grey stone. I knock on it. Slate maybe? I put the scythes on top of it. They’re really tiring to carry around. They keep slipping from my fingers. I’m taking a slight risk, not carrying them with me, but they’re in reach no matter where I go in the room, and I have pretty good instinct for danger. It should be alright.

I look around. Underneath the counter are a bunch of drawers and cabinets. The drawers don’t have rollers, so they’re a bit hard to tug open. Not much is in them, moldy rags and rotten wooden spoons (no forks, though) and rusting metal knives (a few look strangely bright). The pots and pans in the cabinets don’t look much better, but I bet I could clean them up pretty nice, the ceramic plates and cups as well, though quite a few of them have cracked.

There’s an iron hand pump that pours into a big wooden basin on stilts on the wall connected to the counter. A sink to wash dishes. It’s pretty nice actually. The inside’s lined with metal, and there’s a pipe leading from a hole in the bottom that looks like it leads outside. No garbage disposal, sadly, but then again, nothing here looks all that modern. I’m impressed, though. I wasn’t expecting any indoor plumbing. I try the pump. Water squirts out into the sink, icy cold. Surprising. I thought water would be frozen in the pipes with the weather like it is. Still, it’s a pleasant surprise.

Next to the sink is a large wooden box with a hinged lid. Looking inside, I see some nasty looking clumps of black ice. I scrunch up my nose. A fridge, I guess, or rather an ice box. I’ll have to clean it out sometime and refill it with snow from outside. It’s disgusting as it is right now. Not that I have any food to go in it. I’m not even sure where to start looking for food. My stomach grumbles. I guess ghosts can get hungry. Huh.

There’s some tall cabinets next it the ice box with doors reaching almost to the ceiling. I peek in them. They have glass and clay jars and paper wrapped packages and quite a few small porcelain pots. I open one up. It’s got a black powder inside. I take a light sniff. Pepper? I sniff another one. Cumin? Oh are they all spices? Nice. They look like they’re in pretty decent shape all things considered. I’m surprised the moisture hasn’t gotten to them, but maybe the wax seal along the bottom of the porcelain lids helped a bit. So this is the pantry. I’ll have to look though it to see what’s usable.

I close the door and go look at the clay stove that squats along the right hand wall. Reminds me of a kiln actually, or maybe a pizza oven with its pear shape. A metal pipe extends to through the ceiling to let out the smoke. Next to the oven is an old broom with a straw head and also a stack of wood, partially rotten, but I could probably still use some of them. We didn’t have a fireplace in out apartment, but I could probably figure out how to light a fire. Me and Dad went camping a few times a while back. He’s horrible with anything other than cars, so I was the one who had to figure out how to light the campfire. The one time he tried it, he almost burned the campsite down. I’m surprised we weren’t banned from the place.

I shake myself out of my memories, swallowing the lump in my throat. It’s hard not knowing if I’ll ever be able to see him again.