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45th of Spring, 518
The tea was growing cold in Madeira's hands, and her legs had long fallen asleep across the edge of the wooden chair, but she did not move. Beside her a tall young Akalak man fidgeted in his own chair, his eyes constantly flicking to the slanted beam of sunlight that fell through the skylight. They both faced a large bay window in the spacious sitting room that looked out over the harbor, watching the white capped waves far below as they waited.
"And this happens every day?" Madeira broke the silence.
"Every day."
"Same time?"
"Yes, ma'am."
There was another chime of silence. The Akalak cleared his throat and asked if he could make her more tea. She politely declined.
"How long have you owned this house, Reyansh?"
"I've lived here all my life."
"Any deaths in the house during that time?"
"My father, Ebrahim."
"Your family lived here?"
"Just my father and I."
"Mother? Siblings?"
"Never met her, and no."
Another chime. The Akalak tapped his meaty fingers together in an uneven, staccato rhythm, his eyes on the spot of sunlight as it moved slowly across the floor. Then, with a creak of overburdened wood, the Akalak turned in his seat to look into the back corner of the room.
"Here she comes", he said.
A chill set into the room that seemed to rise from the floor like a morning mist. The candles and lanterns set on nearly every flat surface guttered in their holders. Madeira turned, and saw a Konti ghost walking straight down from the ceiling like she was descending a flight of stairs. She was dressed in a long shirt and apron, her legs bare but with wool socks on her feet, like she had just spent a relaxing day in the kitchen. Yet she was emaciated. Her scaled cheeks were hollow, her mouth no more than a dry, open wound across her face. In her sunken face her blue eyes were wide and round like liquid marbles, their gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.
She walked unsteadily but with purpose, with one foot in front of the other like the living did. She strode straight passed the Spiritist and her client like they weren't even there. Then in front of the big window she held her arm, nothing more than skin stretched drum-tight over the bone, out in front of her at waist height with her fingers closed in a loose fist over some invisible object. She tipped her fist, her eyes still fixed straight ahead, as a buzzing echoed from the corners of the room.
The noise was a burrowing thing Madeira could feel all the way behind her eyes and in the roots of her teeth. It took her a long moment to realize the sound was the ghost talking. The voice wasn't emanating from her materialized form, but it was her, whispering with a sound like a cloud of flies over a corpse. Madeira listened hard, and could just make out the words that droned on and on in an inflectionless mantra:
"peoplearenotgoodtoeachotherpeoplearenotgoodtoeachotherpeoplearenotgoodtoeachother"
"And this happens every day?" Madeira broke the silence.
"Every day."
"Same time?"
"Yes, ma'am."
There was another chime of silence. The Akalak cleared his throat and asked if he could make her more tea. She politely declined.
"How long have you owned this house, Reyansh?"
"I've lived here all my life."
"Any deaths in the house during that time?"
"My father, Ebrahim."
"Your family lived here?"
"Just my father and I."
"Mother? Siblings?"
"Never met her, and no."
Another chime. The Akalak tapped his meaty fingers together in an uneven, staccato rhythm, his eyes on the spot of sunlight as it moved slowly across the floor. Then, with a creak of overburdened wood, the Akalak turned in his seat to look into the back corner of the room.
"Here she comes", he said.
A chill set into the room that seemed to rise from the floor like a morning mist. The candles and lanterns set on nearly every flat surface guttered in their holders. Madeira turned, and saw a Konti ghost walking straight down from the ceiling like she was descending a flight of stairs. She was dressed in a long shirt and apron, her legs bare but with wool socks on her feet, like she had just spent a relaxing day in the kitchen. Yet she was emaciated. Her scaled cheeks were hollow, her mouth no more than a dry, open wound across her face. In her sunken face her blue eyes were wide and round like liquid marbles, their gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.
She walked unsteadily but with purpose, with one foot in front of the other like the living did. She strode straight passed the Spiritist and her client like they weren't even there. Then in front of the big window she held her arm, nothing more than skin stretched drum-tight over the bone, out in front of her at waist height with her fingers closed in a loose fist over some invisible object. She tipped her fist, her eyes still fixed straight ahead, as a buzzing echoed from the corners of the room.
The noise was a burrowing thing Madeira could feel all the way behind her eyes and in the roots of her teeth. It took her a long moment to realize the sound was the ghost talking. The voice wasn't emanating from her materialized form, but it was her, whispering with a sound like a cloud of flies over a corpse. Madeira listened hard, and could just make out the words that droned on and on in an inflectionless mantra:
"peoplearenotgoodtoeachotherpeoplearenotgoodtoeachotherpeoplearenotgoodtoeachother"
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