Unusual citizens and their idiosyncrasies - ebook

Prologue

Tenth draft.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but time is slipping away — and I have very little left to tell you everything I’ve seen and heard.

I’m no writer, and I’ve never been much of a storyteller. But if a story exists, it needs to be told. That’s what I believe. It deserves to be shared — at least with a small circle of people, a circle that now includes you.

Right now, I’m sitting at a train station, thinking about all this. People tend to romanticize stations — I’m not sure whether that’s right or wrong. But here I am, sitting on a cold bench, wrapped in an old torn jacket and a pulled-up hood — and for the first time in ages, I have an hour to myself. Enough time to wait for my train… and to replay everything that happened.

Has it always been this way? Or did something go wrong somewhere along the line?

I’d like to say there was one defining event — something that split my life into a _before_ and _after_. But that wouldn’t be true. There was no such moment.

I was born this way. My parents too. And theirs before them. And you as well. It’s all just cause and effect — there’s no such thing as _before_ or _after_.

Still… there was one moment that stands out. The day I met my friends. I suppose that was the turning point. If not for them…

I looked up, watching a woman shuffle past.

If not for them, I wouldn’t be sitting here.

If not for them, this book wouldn’t exist.

Don’t let the gloomy beginning scare you. This isn’t a story about ghosts. And I won’t remain one until the end.

It isn’t even truly about me — it’s about friendship, and the strange secrets this world keeps hidden.Chapter 1

I’m dead.

That’s the first thought. My body won’t move — something heavy seems to press down on my chest. Around me — dampness, dust, and silence. With effort, I sit up, look around, and try to remember at least _something._

Is this my room? Why did I die? And, really, where does that certainty even come from — that I _am_ dead? Ridiculous. It must be just some insane dream — a person can’t just wake up and find himself dead.

I stood up. Darkness flashed before my eyes, and I sat down again. Great start. After a few deep breaths, I tried once more — this time I managed to stay on my feet. Better.

Step by step, I made my way to the desk, sat down, and rubbed my temples, trying to ease the headache. From outside came the hum of car engines, the distant slam of shop doors. Through the thick curtains, thin rays of noon sunlight broke into the room.

I remembered neither yesterday nor, it seemed, the whole week before that. But now, that didn’t bother me much. Only one thought haunted me — and, I admit, terrified me: my body was dead.

I don’t know which part of the brain controls the instinct for self-preservation, but it chose the worst possible time to kick in. Along with the conviction that I had died came the fear of death itself.

Paradoxical, isn’t it? To fear dying when you’re already dead.

Alright then. I need to prove to myself that it isn’t true.

I looked around the room: a pen and books on the table, a tall wardrobe about two meters high opposite me. Clothes scattered everywhere. Heavy dark curtains hanging from ceiling to floor, tightly drawn across the window.

Memory loss could be explained by the fact of death — but only half my mind accepted that. The other half stubbornly insisted: _I’m alive. And I have to prove it._

Step by step, I approached the window. Sunlight struck my eyes, making me squint and turn away.

Maybe it really is a dream? I carefully lifted a cup from the table.

Alright — I can lift objects. That means I’m alive, right? Now I just need to talk to someone.

Bits of memory began to return. I remembered a friend — a redheaded guy with freckles. And also — that I lived in Britain. My parents were far away, living abroad for years now. It all felt natural, as if it had always been that way. Good, I thought with relief — at least _something._

But soon I realized I didn’t understand where I actually was. No, logically I knew — I was in my room. But what house was this? Where was it located?

I stared at the floor, straining to remember anything. Twenty minutes passed — in vain. Total amnesia.

Maybe I really just fell out of bed? There was only one way to find out.

Gathering strength, I hobbled toward the hallway — then, swaying, straight to the front door. A small vestibule greeted me. At the far end — a heavy iron door, which I managed to open with some effort. Beyond it — a beautiful spiral staircase, like those found in lighthouses. And then I was outside.

The November sun hid behind clouds; rain was about to fall.

That’s when it hit me — the realization of death. A cyclist rode straight through me. “So I really am dead,” I thought calmly, as a chill ran down my spine. But fear didn’t freeze me. As I descended the stairs, the intrusive thought slowly turned into an almost familiar reality — like a bad dream. I accepted the fact of death as a given.

Though strange: I could lift a cup, but not stop a bicycle.

For a minute, I stood in the middle of the street, letting passersby walk _through_ me, thinking about what to do next. Maybe it really _was_ a dream. Or maybe I’d truly gone mad — and needed a psychiatrist.

From above, a crow cawed loudly from a lamppost. It was staring right at me.

“You can see me! Someone can actually see me!” I exclaimed, then hesitated. “Wait — how can you see me? Too bad crows can’t talk.”

The bird kept cawing, then flew up and landed on another lamppost a bit farther away. It cawed again, never taking its eyes off me. It seemed to be calling me.

At first, I brushed off the thought, but then I realized — what else was I supposed to do? Just stand here, in the middle of the street? I looked at it once more. The crow didn’t look away.

Alright then. I followed it.

As I drew closer, it flew ahead again — from one lamppost to the next — and so it went, until we reached a narrow, unlit alley. There it descended to the ground and kept cawing, urging me to follow.

We must have walked like that for half an hour. I could barely keep up. The streets looked familiar — as if I’d been here before. Maybe then, I thought, my memory would finally come back.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked the crow now and then. But there was no answer. People still passed straight through me; I felt no weather — no cold, no warmth. And yet, it was strangely comforting, as if that’s exactly how things were meant to be.

At last, it stopped by an old, restored building. I came closer — ten meters, maybe — and at that moment, it simply took off and vanished into the sky.

Gasping for breath, I stood there, stunned, staring after her. She just flew away? I’d been chasing that stupid crow for nearly an hour — through God knows where — and she just took off. Stupid bird. I’d pluck every last feather off her if I could.

Now what? I had no idea where I even was. My gaze caught on a door to my right — wait, I knew this place. One of my friends lived here — Patrick, the red-haired guy.

I looked up once more at the gloomy sky, where the crow had vanished. “Alright then. Thanks,” I said silently. I knew she couldn’t hear my gratitude, but somehow it made me feel calmer.

This is all so weird, I thought.

The door to the building wasn’t locked. I started climbing the stairs, trying to figure out which door was his. A fancy metal one — no. A plain white door with cracked paint — also no. An old wooden one… maybe. Yes, that was it. I remembered it by the little Christmas bell that hung there all year round, waiting for its moment.

Should I knock? Or maybe… try to go through it? I touched the door with my hand — no, that didn’t work. So I knocked. Patrick’s probably asleep at this hour, I thought, or out wandering somewhere.

A minute later, I knocked again. Then started banging, until I heard an irritated mumble from the other side.

“Coming…” a hoarse voice grumbled. “Who’s there?!”

“It’s me, Jake!” I shouted back.

“I said, who’s there?!”

Of course — he couldn’t hear me. Who can hear a ghost?

Still, Patrick carefully opened the door.

The first thing I saw was his left hand — holding a baseball bat.

He stepped out onto the landing and shouted:

“Who the hell’s there?!”

“It’s me, Patrick, it’s me…” I said helplessly.

“Damn kids,” Patrick muttered, lowering the bat.

“One day I’ll catch them,” he whispered, and turned to go back inside.

“No doubt about it,” I blurted, slipping right through him before the door closed.

The apartment smelled of fried meat and spices. It looked a bit like mine — only brighter, cleaner.

“Who’s there, honey?” came a woman’s voice from another room.

“Just kids messing around again. Everything’s fine, Mom,” Patrick replied.

“And you needed a bat for that?”

The red-haired boy scratched the back of his head, looked at the bat in confusion, and set it aside.

“Yeah…” he muttered and walked further inside.

I didn’t really remember his mother — or rather, I remembered _that_ she existed, but not _her_ specifically.

I followed the voice into the room she was in.

A woman around forty or forty-five sat there, chestnut hair, fine wrinkles tracing her face. She rocked gently in a chair, yarn in her hands, watching some program on TV. Her face seemed so familiar — like I was on the verge of remembering her — but I couldn’t.

Alright, focus. I had to find Patrick. The joy of remembering at least something filled me completely. And finding my friend — that made it even stronger. I slipped silently into his room. Clothes, books, papers with scribbles — all scattered across the floor.

Patrick didn’t care much about the state of his room, and his mother had long given up fighting him over it.

The walls hadn’t been painted in years, yellowed in spots; cobwebs had gathered near the ceiling. The room reminded me of my own — suddenly it was clear why we were friends.

I recalled he’d always been into the exact sciences — nothing else could capture his attention the same way. That memory came to me because I found him at his desk, nervously writing something on a sheet of paper. As I moved closer, I saw equations — physics formulas. He didn’t look much like his mother: red hair, a face full of freckles, brown eyes, chubby cheeks with dimples — and that constant slouch. The full package. He was scribbling furiously.

“Patrick,” I said quietly.

He turned sharply, frowning.

“Patrick!” I shouted this time — but he just scratched his ear and went back to his desk.

I tried a few more times. Nothing.

I could’ve picked up something and thrown it, but he’d probably think it was a poltergeist — and by tomorrow, he and his mom would be halfway out of the city.

I said his name again, softly — and, oh God, he turned around again.

“Patrick, can you hear me?” I asked.

He frowned even deeper.

“What the hell…?” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and quiet.

It was obvious he could _barely_ hear me — fragments, maybe. Then I decided to take a risk.

I reached for his pen. I had to do it quickly and carefully, so he wouldn’t panic or scream. The last thing I needed was his mom coming in.

After a second of hesitation, I snatched up his pen and began to write:

“Don’t be afraid. It’s Jake. I’m dead. I’m a ghost.”

Patrick turned to the desk, his face frozen — not just confused, but trembling with a nervous shiver.

For a moment he just sat there, breathing quietly, staring at the words. I thought I should add more:

“It’s really me. Don’t be scared. I’m dead. I don’t know how. I won’t hurt you.”

He sat for another minute.

“Was that you talking?” he whispered, barely moving his lips.

“Yes… yes,” I said twice, slowly.

“I can hear you… How did you die?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I wrote on the paper. “I lost my memory. I don’t remember anyone but you. Not even my parents.”

“Do you remember what month and year it is?” he asked quietly.

Oh no. What if I’d died fifty years ago — and this was Patrick’s _son_?

A chill ran down my spine.

“Are you Patrick’s son?” I wrote.

“What?! No, it’s me — Patrick. It’s 2025. I just asked,” he said.

Relief washed over me. After a few seconds of silence, he slowly turned in his chair.

“Where are you?” he asked timidly.

“Right in front of you,” I said softly.

Patrick crossed himself three times and mumbled a strange little prayer — probably something he made up on the spot:

_God, oh God, please help me,_

_Keep all ghosts away from me._

_God, oh God, please stay near,_

_Let me live another year._

Strangely enough, I didn’t disappear.

“Your prayer won’t help,” I said calmly.

“Get out, devil! I know you’re not Jake, and I’m not afraid of you, you damn poltergeist!” Patrick’s face twisted in anger.

“How can I prove it’s really me?” I asked — but he couldn’t hear me, so I wrote it down instead.

Patrick scratched his head, uncertain.

“Write something,” he said after a pause. “Something only you and I would know.”

“I’ve lost my memory,” I wrote. “I don’t remember anything. But I can talk — you can recognize my voice.”

“The devil can mimic voices,” Patrick replied.

“Oh, come on, Patrick! If I were the devil, I’d have killed you already — why would I pretend to be Jake?”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Alright then. If you don’t remember anything, how did you find me?”

“A crow led me here,” I whispered, realizing how absurd that sounded.

“Uh-huh.” Patrick nodded slowly.

“It’s true!” I said bitterly.

“So… where were you buried?” Patrick continued his interrogation.

“I don’t know. I woke up — I think — in my own room.”

Patrick’s skeptical expression didn’t change. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You don’t?” I asked quietly.

“I’m not sure.” He rubbed his chin. “I just think… the devil could come up with something smarter than a crow.”

Patrick coughed into his fist.

“Alright, let’s say I believe you.” He grimaced. “What do you want from me?”

“Tell me everything about me,” I wrote. “I don’t remember anything.”

He told me what little he knew — what I already suspected.

That we were schoolmates, sixteen years old, living somewhere in Britain. He knew nothing about my parents — I’d never told him anything about them. We’d had an ordinary, boring teenage life… until the night I was killed.

My death had happened over six months ago. They’d buried me in the city cemetery. I didn’t have many relatives, so only our class had come to the funeral.

My legs gave way, and I sank down on the nearest bed. I thought it had happened yesterday — maybe a few days ago. But six months…

“Who killed me?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. No one does,” Patrick said quietly. “We were at Tommy’s party, in his flat. You went off with some guy into another room — you know how it was, no one paid much attention.

When we realized you’d been gone too long, we went to check. You were lying there, dead — your arms crossed on your chest. And that guy… was gone.”

I listened, trying to recall even the tiniest detail — but I couldn’t remember the guy, the party, or even that night at all.

Patrick went on: “We called an ambulance. Mill tried to do CPR, but… nothing worked. The doctors said your heart just stopped — no clear reason. Happens sometimes, they said. But we didn’t buy it. We tried to find that guy, to learn anything — who he was, how he even got to the party. But it’s like he vanished into thin air. Hell, no one could even remember what he was wearing.”

Sitting on the bed, I leaned forward, locking my hands behind my head. A guy. A party. Cardiac arrest.

I repeated his words over and over in my mind, searching for some glimpse of memory — but saw nothing. Only darkness.

“Hey, you still here?” Patrick asked.

I stood up and wrote on the paper: “Yeah, sorry. Got lost in thought. Please believe me — it’s really me. And I need your help. I don’t want to stay like this.”

Patrick sat there, staring silently at the note. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let’s say I do believe you. What now?”

I wanted to return to my body as soon as possible — if that was even possible. But my body was buried. Probably already decomposing.

Patrick was thinking, his gaze fixed somewhere near me — not quite at me, but close enough. Then he asked: “Dude… do you see other ghosts?”

“Not yet — and I really hope I won’t,” I wrote. I meant it. The last thing I wanted was to meet another spirit. Who knew what that could bring.

Patrick stood up. “Let me take a picture of you. They say ghosts show up in photos.”

Before I could object, he grabbed his phone from the desk, turned on the camera, and snapped a photo.

A faint shiver ran through me — goosebumps, even.

“Nope. Nothing,” he said. “Here, look.”

He showed me the picture — nothing there. But I wanted to try again.

“Try once more,” I whispered.

He took a few more shots. Each time, the same strange tingling washed over me — and each time, I wasn’t there.

“Record a video,” I said.

“What?” He hadn’t heard me.

“Video,” I repeated calmly. “Record a video.”

“Oh — you want a video? Alright. Recording now.”

A faint tremor began running through me — constant, yet shifting. It grew stronger, then faded, like waves rolling in and out of the sea. I tried to catch the feeling, to hold it at its strongest point. I could control it — at least for a while — and I tried to push it further.

“Holy crap, Jake — your silhouette’s there!” Patrick shouted.

I pushed harder, trying to make the tremor stronger, but it drained me fast. Within seconds I gave up and let it fade away completely.

“That’s enough,” I whispered.

“Alright. Want to see it?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. Show me.”

He raised his phone and played the recording. For the first minute, there was nothing — just an empty room. And then, out of nowhere, a faint outline began to appear. It was me — barely visible, just a shadow, a black contour.

“Jake, this is bloody awesome!” Patrick exclaimed.

“I’m not so sure,” I said quietly.

After all, I was dead.

His brief smile disappeared.

“Let’s call Mill. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

“Who’s Mill?”

“He’s our friend — you probably don’t remember.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Yes,” Patrick said firmly. “We can trust him.”

“Alright. Just… don’t tell him I’m here yet. Ask him to meet us first — we’ll explain everything then.”

“Got it.” Patrick pulled out his phone and dialed.

After a few rings, a rough male voice answered, music blaring faintly in the background.

“Hope you’re calling to give me back the fifty quid you borrowed last week,” Mill said dryly.

“Uh, not exactly. Mill, we need to meet — it’s urgent.”

“What happened this time? Just tell me.” His voice came through between bursts of static and chewing noises.

“I can’t say over the phone. You wouldn’t believe it. It’s about Jake.”

“You found the bastard who did it?!” Mill shouted after a second’s silence.

“No. Something better. Are you free now? We’ll come over.”

“We? Who’s _we_?”

“I mean — me. Just me,” Patrick stammered.

“Alright. I’ll be waiting.” Mill hung up.

Patrick lowered the phone. “Done. So… shall we go?”

“Yeah,” I said, moving toward the door — but Patrick stopped me.

“Wait. Just a second, if you don’t mind.”

He rushed back to his desk and sat down.

I realized that the fragments of memory I had about this boy were right — nothing in the world mattered more to Patrick than the exact sciences. At school he’d always been top of the class in that field — though you couldn’t say the same about the humanities. If he had to choose between saving someone’s life or solving an unsolvable equation, he’d pick the equation without a second thought. So when an actual living ghost stood at his door, one he could _talk_ to, Patrick chose physics.

I accepted that all I could do was wait, so I fell back onto the bed and waited. As I lay there, my thoughts began to sink deeper and deeper into the depths of my mind, trying to stir up any shards of memory — though, truth be told, there were none.

_Maybe my parents know something,_ I thought. _Why weren’t they at the funeral?_ They probably didn’t know anything at all. _Maybe someone else missed me. Maybe I had a girlfriend?_ Unlikely. If I could remember Patrick, I would’ve remembered her too. _Or maybe Patrick…_

“You here?” Patrick’s voice broke my thoughts.

I stood up, grabbed a pen and a few sheets of paper from the table, and lifted them to let him know I was there — ready to go.

Patrick squinted.

“Let me carry those. A floating pen and papers might look a bit suspicious.”

I handed them to him.Chapter 2

We stepped out of the house and started down the street. It felt as if my senses had sharpened — the sun was setting the horizon on fire, and the sky blushed in shades of pink. Patrick walked ahead of me.

I realized I couldn’t remember the way to Mill’s place — or even Mill himself.

I kind of liked this city. Hundreds of cafés and little shops, a restless evening life bubbling everywhere.

What struck me as strange was that I hadn’t seen a single dog or cat around. I wanted to ask Patrick where they all were, but decided to wait until we reached Mill’s — with all this noise, he wouldn’t hear me anyway.

We turned onto a quieter street, caught a tram, and rode it all the way to the last stop.

“What city is this?” I asked.

“This,” Patrick said, spreading his arms theatrically, “is our beloved rainy London. Best place on Earth, if you ask me.”

“Where are all the dogs and cats?”

“Uh…” Patrick scratched the back of his head. “Honestly, no idea. Maybe they caught them all and… ate them?”

_Wow,_ I thought.

“When did people start eating dogs and cats?”

He grinned. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

“How much farther do we have to go?”

“At least thirty minutes, give or take.”

People passing by gave us odd looks — a boy wandering alone, talking to himself — but the curiosity that had overwhelmed me was far stronger.

“Do you feel thirsty?” Patrick asked.

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“So, what do you feel?”

I hesitated. It felt like… nothing.

“Nothing, really. I’m a ghost, remember?” I paused. “Though sometimes it’s hard to breathe.”

“Maybe it wasn’t heart failure,” Patrick said, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe it was suffocation?”

I touched my neck.

“I’d rather not think about that.”

We walked another couple of kilometres before we finally left the city behind. I never imagined Mill lived so far out — and that he travelled all this way every single day… if he ever actually made it.

We walked another couple of kilometres before the city finally faded behind us.

I could never have imagined that Mill lived this far out — or that he made this long, miserable trip into the city every single day… _if he ever actually did._

A chill crept over me when I realized I couldn’t remember anything — and now, apparently, couldn’t _feel_ anything either. Of course, I hadn’t felt much before, but hearing it said out loud somehow made the emptiness twice as heavy.

We reached the right building, and Patrick began ringing the doorbell of the flat until someone finally opened. It was an old stone house, cool inside. I noticed, to my surprise, that I could still feel a bit of cold — and the faint smell of damp.

Cheap paintings hung on the walls — the kind you buy in an underpass — as if to prove the place wasn’t abandoned yet, still clinging to its quiet life along with its residents.

“This house could really use a renovation,” Patrick muttered. “Otherwise, this heap’s gonna collapse soon.

By the way, you still here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said twice.

“Good. Just making sure I haven’t gone completely mad.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If anyone’s going mad, it’ll be me first.”

Patrick gave a nervous laugh. “Right. You’re the ghost, but I’m the one hearing voices.”

We climbed up to the third floor, and Patrick knocked.

A boy with light blond hair, unusually pale skin, and a grin that stretched from ear to ear opened the door.

“Patrick! Come in, man — great to see you!” he said, pulling Patrick into a tight hug.

“Hello, hello, I’m coming in, coming in,” Patrick beamed and stepped inside.

We entered the hallway. The look of the place outside perfectly matched the flats inside — old and worn. You could see the tenants’ shy attempts to make it look alive: little figurines, keepsakes from trips abroad, cheap market prints pinned to the walls. It was modest, cluttered… but warm in its own way.

“How’ve you been?” Mill asked while Patrick was taking off his shoes.

“Great. I’ve got good news,” Patrick puffed. “You said your parents went on vacation, right?”

“Yeah — and they’ll be gone for another two weeks, so…” Mill grinned broadly. “The apartment’s all mine.”

“Perfect,” Patrick straightened up. “Let’s go to your room — I’ve got something to show you.”

“Oh, not your physics stuff again?” Mill glanced at the papers in Patrick’s hands and rolled his eyes.

“This time — no physics,” Patrick sighed.

We walked into Mill’s room. He jumped onto his chair, almost knocking it over, then kicked another one toward Patrick to sit on.

“You said this has something to do with Jake. So, what is it?” Mill’s curiosity was clearly growing.

“Well… he’s here,” Patrick said quietly.

“What? What do you mean _here_?”

“It’ll be easier to show you.” Patrick placed a sheet of paper and a pen on the desk. “Jake, write something.”

I picked up the pen and wrote, _Hi Mill, it’s Jake._

Mill’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Holy crap, dude — that’s insane! How are you doing this?” he stared at Patrick.

“It’s not me. It’s really Jake,” Patrick said calmly.

“Oh, come on, don’t mess with me. What’s the trick?” Mill snapped.

“Hello, Mill,” I said.

He froze, staring at the empty spot where I stood.

“What… what is that?”

I picked up the pen again and wrote: _I’m a ghost._

“What the hell?!” Mill shot up from his chair, his eyes darting around the room.

“Mill, take it easy,” Patrick said, raising his hands to calm him down.

_Mill, it’s okay,_ I wrote on the page.

Mill snatched the paper and tore it in half.

“It’s the devil,” he muttered, trembling. “Or a poltergeist.”

“Noooo,” Patrick drew out the word. “I checked — it’s definitely Jake.”

“How did you ‘check’?”

Patrick hesitated.

“Well… I asked him some leading questions.”

“Like what?”

“It’s Jake. Period.”

“But how?!” Mill wouldn’t give up. “Ghosts don’t exist!”

“Then I’m just a voice in your head,” I said.

Yeah… probably shouldn’t have said that.

Mill stared even harder, completely frozen.

I picked up the torn pieces of paper and wrote:

_Mill, I was joking. We need your help. I’m dead — and I’ve lost my memory. Patrick, tell him._

Patrick started explaining everything from the beginning, emphasizing that he’d even read a prayer — and it hadn’t helped.

Slowly, Mill began to understand what was going on. To prove it, Patrick showed him a video of me on his phone.

“It’s definitely Jake. Our Jake — not some evil ghost pretending to be him, not Jake’s demonic twin — just the regular, ordinary Jake.”

It was strange how fiercely Patrick defended me. I was really lucky to have him.

“Damn… that’s wild,” Mill finally said after Patrick’s long explanation. “So, do you see any other ghosts?”

“Not yet,” I answered.

“I already asked that,” Patrick muttered. “Too bad, though, right? Maybe my grandma buried some gold bars in the yard and forgot to tell anyone.”

“So that’s a no?” Mill asked.

Patrick heard me, but Mill didn’t. That’s when I realized — the longer someone stayed near me, the easier it became for them to hear my voice. I tried adjusting my tone — quieter, louder, whispering sometimes — testing which volume would reach Mill.

“Not a single one,” I repeated calmly.

“What about at the cemetery?” Mill wouldn’t let it go.

“We haven’t been there. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to go,” I said.

“Why not?!” they both shouted in unison.

“I don’t want to become some kind of messenger between worlds — helping ghosts finish their unfinished business. That never ends well in movies.”

“Jake’s right,” Mill said, leaning back in his chair. “But, you know, we _could_ find some help there. Maybe they’d know what to do with… cases like yours.”

I hesitated. The idea of going to a cemetery didn’t exactly thrill me.

“Who else can talk to ghosts, besides ghosts?” Patrick asked.

“Well, I don’t know… wizards, psychics, frauds, witches, you and me,” Mill started listing.

“Wait — that’s it!” Patrick jumped up. “Jake, your aunt!”

“What?” I froze.

“Yeah — your aunt! She’s like… I don’t know, a witch or a fortune teller.”

“What aunt?” Patrick clearly forgot that I remembered nothing.

“Your aunt. You used to tell us about her — she reads tarot cards.”

“Patrick,” I said, “need I remind you I don’t remember _anything_?”

“Right, damn, sorry. But if you _did_ remember, she could probably help us.”

“That’s not even necessary,” Mill cut in. “My sister remembers her. She went to her once for a card reading.”

“You have a sister?” I asked.

Patrick and Mill exchanged smiles. I felt like I was meeting them for the first time all over again.

“Yeah. She’s with our parents right now. I’ll text them, but I’m not sure when they’ll reply — it’s night over there,” Mill said, glancing at Patrick and then at me. “So we’ll have to wait at least till evening. What do we do meanwhile?”

“Hide and seek?” I grinned.

“No. Definitely not,” Patrick said flatly. “Playing hide and seek with a ghost is _way_ too creepy.”

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to sleep,” Mill said and collapsed onto his bed. “I was up all night working. Need some rest if we’re planning to do anything later.”

“I don’t know, Jake — what do you want to do? We could watch a movie, or play chess, if you still remember how.”

I did remember, but all I really wanted was to stop being a ghost as soon as possible. It felt like the longer I stayed this way, the smaller my chances of ever changing back.

Still, I agreed to play chess, and we sat down to the board.

“You okay?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I said.

We spent the whole afternoon in that old house with its cracked walls and cold drafts sneaking from every corner. After losing several dozen games, Patrick finally declared I was boring company and retreated to “solve his equations.”

I stayed alone with the chessboard and its pieces. Maybe I was a pawn in this life too… or at least a queen. I didn’t want to be either — and especially not a ghost. Though, I had to admit, it came with a few perks: no one could see me. I wasn’t planning to rob banks or steal, so that advantage didn’t last long in my mind. I could sneak up on people silently, but I didn’t want to scare anyone either. Well… maybe just once. Maybe Mill, while he was asleep.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a message notification — someone had texted Mill. I rushed to his room. Patrick was already there.

“Oh-ho-ho, look at this!” Patrick laughed in mock excitement. “Our boy’s in love! Who is she?”

He jumped back from the bed, holding up Mill’s phone like evidence.

“Give it back!” Mill shouted, leaping at him. “It’s not yours!”

“Jake, catch! Where are you?” Patrick yelled, dodging Mill’s attacks.

“Here!” I said.

Patrick tossed the phone toward my voice. It slid across the floor, and I caught it just in time.

I’ll admit, I was dying to know who she was and what they’d been texting about, but respect for my friend outweighed curiosity. I held the phone out toward the onrushing Mill.

“Here, take it,” I said.

But Mill couldn’t stop in time. With a loud, “Damn you!” he crashed straight into me, and we both fell to the floor.

He grabbed his phone, got up, and stared down at me, breathing hard.

“That was… weird,” he said between gasps. “Lying on thin air. Sorry, Jake.” He reached out his hand.

I took it — and suddenly, it hit me.

“Wait. People outside walk right through me… so how did _you_ touch me?”

Mill looked at me, puzzled.

“I don’t know. _You’re_ the ghost — you should know.”

“Who _is_ she?” Patrick asked, running over with a teasing grin.

“None of your business, you two idiots.”

“Can I be your best man at the wedding?” Patrick laughed.

“I’ll hire security to make sure you don’t even get near the place,” Mill muttered.

“Alright, alright, I’m just kidding.”

Patrick flopped onto Mill’s bed, folding his legs under him.

“Erica? Maybe Erica?” he said, half to himself, half to me. “No, too pretty for him.”

“Shut up,” Mill snapped and showed us his phone. “My parents texted back.”

We both jumped off the bed and hurried to him.

“Well? What did they say?” we asked at once.

“Nothing much — they’re fine.”

“And about Jake’s aunt?”

“Hold on, I’ll ask,” Mill said irritably, his fingers tapping across the keyboard.

After a couple of minutes of silence, he spoke again.

“Yeah — my sister remembers her. She’s got her address written down: Forty-Four Vody Street, apartment eleven.”

“What kind of name is _Vody Street_?” I asked.

“How should I know? You think I name the streets? It’s all those stupid liberals,” Mill said.

“He has no idea what liberals are,” Patrick explained, glancing at me. “He just likes saying it.”

“Anyway, is it far?” I asked.

“There’s no such street in our city,” Mill replied.

“That’s because,” Patrick said, “your aunt lives in Liverpool.”

A heavy silence fell.

“I’m going there,” I said finally. “I’m going to find my aunt.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Mill.

“Damn,” Patrick sighed. “I promised my mum I’d spend the holidays with her.”

He looked torn — clearly wanting to come, but knowing he couldn’t.

“The holidays are almost over anyway,” Mill said. “And come on — how often do you get a chance to travel with a ghost?”

“Yeah, yeah… you’re right,” Patrick admitted. “But I still need to call her first. Can I use your landline?”

“Are you kidding? Of course you can,” Patrick said, then disappeared into the kitchen.

“So, Jake,” Mill turned to me. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my grandma buried the family gold, would you?”

“What? No, why would I?”

“Then you’re going without a ticket,” Mill smirked.

“Fine by me,” I said with a grin.

Mill sat down at the desk and opened his laptop.

“We’ll take the night express — we’ll be there by morning. You don’t want to warn your aunt you’re coming?”

“Good idea, but I don’t have her number.”

“I already asked Nika — she doesn’t have it either.” (That was Mill’s sister.)

“Maybe she has her own website,” I suggested.

“Maybe… I’ll check,” Mill murmured thoughtfully and started searching. A few minutes later he turned the screen toward me. “Well, that wasn’t hard. Shall we call?”

I looked at the website. In the centre was a picture of Aunt Laura. The rest of the page was filled with strange runes, magical symbols, and a black cat in the lower-left corner staring directly at the visitor.

“Let’s do it. What should we say?” I asked.

“What do you mean? Just tell her you’re here — she’ll be _thrilled_,” Mill chuckled, pulling out his phone. The line rang a few times.

“Hello, is this Laura?”

“Yes, hello,” came a calm woman’s voice. “What do you need?”

“Uh… this is Mill,” he stammered. “I’m a friend of Jake — your nephew.”

“Ah, Mill. Hello. I was expecting your call. You may come,” she said, her tone perfectly even.

Mill froze, staring at the phone.

“Alright, thank you — we’ll arrive tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”

“The sooner, the better, dear Mill,” Aunt Laura said — and hung up.

Mill slowly lowered the phone.

“Whoa… she really _knows_ something,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Something mystical. How did she _know_ we’d call?”

I hesitated, a strange chill running through me.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

Mill glanced at the monitor.

“Jake, we missed you — really missed you. Your death… it shocked everyone.”

“I understand,” I said. I didn’t remember anyone, and being dead made it hard to miss people anyway. “Can’t wait to get my human form back.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“I’m in, guys!” Patrick called cheerfully from the kitchen as he came back, looking pleased with himself.

“Perfect. Our train leaves at eleven from the main station. I’ll grab some snacks,” Mill said, snatching up his backpack and darting toward the kitchen. “We’re in for some marvellous days, marvellous!” he shouted from the hallway.

There was nothing Mill loved more than traveling — and nothing he hated more than boredom and doing nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Patrick said, turning to me. “We’ll get you your body back. I hope.” He hesitated at that last part.

By ten o’clock we left Mill’s apartment, carrying food and a bunch of pills he insisted on bringing.

“It’s better to have them than not to,” he said wisely, adding, “All genius things are simple,” and finally, “At least no one’s gonna die.”

Activated charcoal doesn’t exactly guarantee survival, but if he believed it did — fine by me.

We walked down a deserted street. A soft warm wind brushed against my face — I could feel it too. Evening was settling over the city. Small corner shops were already closed, their windows dark. We moved quickly, crossing several streets.

Up ahead, a silhouette appeared — someone walking slowly in the same direction.

“Guys, I think that’s Emma,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Mill confirmed.

“Who’s Emma?” I asked.

“We go to school together,” Mill replied.

“Mmm…” Patrick groaned. “Not really in the mood to see anyone.”

“Come on, there’s no other way. Let’s go,” Mill said.

We caught up quickly. It was a girl about our age, walking with a spring in her step and humming something to herself. She wore an old dress, her brown hair fell past her shoulders, and she was about as tall as us. I noticed her hazel eyes and the way her earrings glimmered in the streetlight.

“Hey, guys!” said a familiar voice — one I somehow recognized.

“Hey, Emma!” Patrick shouted.

“Why are you yelling?” she frowned, glancing between the boys. “Where are you off to?”

Mill and Patrick exchanged a glance.

“Well, uh… to an exhibition,” Mill mumbled.

“What kind of exhibition?”

“Famous artists,” Mill said. “I convinced Patrick to come with me.”

“So late?”

“It’s a private one — for true connoisseurs like me. And we’re already late, so… bye!” Mill said, and we hurried away from her.

“An exhibition? That’s the best you could come up with?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“You should’ve thought of something yourself, smart guy,” Mill smacked his lips. “Let’s go, I don’t wanna bump into anyone else.”

I turned around — the silhouette in the distance was fading. The girl looked oddly familiar.

We reached the station. The train was due in fifteen minutes. We sat down on a bench to wait.

“Phew, I’m tired,” Patrick said, stretching. “Why do we have to go to Jake’s aunt instead of her coming to us? He’s the ghost here — she should be the one curious about it.”

“You’ve only walked for forty minutes, that’s nothing,” Mill said.

“Forty-five, actually,” Patrick corrected him with mock seriousness.

The station was almost empty at this late hour. Massive columns, built a century ago, held up the ceiling. Stone patterns and marble faces stared down from the walls. I remembered how, as kids, we used to come here and draw moustaches on them — “juvenile vandals,” the station guards called us.

“They really knew how to build beauty back then,” Mill said. “Now it’s all minimalism and modern stuff. I don’t like it.”

“It’s not worse, just different,” Patrick replied. “It’s about taste — and how society evolves.”

“Don’t you think the station feels kind of… empty?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Mill looked around. “Yeah, but maybe that’s better — not so stuffy without all the people.”

“Hey again, guys,” came a familiar girl’s voice from behind us. We turned — it was Emma.

“Hi,” Patrick and Mill exchanged another look.

“You’re going to that exhibition… by any chance in Liverpool?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Yeah, Liverpool exactly. You following us?” Patrick asked.

“For your soul,” she said, giving him a sharp look. “I’m going there too. Let’s go together,” she said and sat down beside us.

“That’ll be nice — three’s more fun,” Mill said, swallowing hard.

Before she could start asking about the exhibition and the guys’ knowledge of modern art, I hoped one of them would come up with a way to change the subject.

“How’s your vacation going?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, not bad. I haven’t left the house for the past two weeks,” Emma said. “Yesterday my parents insisted I should ‘socialize,’ go somewhere, and — as they put it — finally make a damn mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” Mill asked.

“You know… the kind that gives you precious experience — teaches you how to live this life _the right way_.”

“Ahh,” Mill drawled. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“Well, I ran into you guys. Does that count as a mistake?” Emma shot Mill a sideways look.

“Uh, well…” The guys stared at her blankly. “No, why would it?”

“What are you even doing here?” she pressed, eyes still fixed on them.

“Waiting for the train. We already told you,” Patrick said, not sounding very convincing.

“Don’t lie. What exhibition of famous artists? You couldn’t even hold a paintbrush at five — since when are you into art?”

“I don’t have to paint to appreciate art — Van Gogh, for example,” Mill shot back.

“Sure, you don’t. But you’ve _never_ been interested in him. Name three of his most famous paintings. I’m counting to ten.” She began counting.

“One.”

“‘Starry Night’…” Mill hesitated. It was clear her countdown was getting on his nerves.

“Two,” Emma said louder. “Three!” — even louder.

“Fine, you win,” I said, glancing at Mill. “Then we’ll take the stance of every guilty American suspect.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’ll stay silent,” Mill said, folding his arms across his chest and staring straight ahead.

The guys burst out laughing.

“All right, you stay silent,” Emma said. “Patrick, what about you?”

“Oh, I’ll stand in solidarity with my colleague — and keep quiet too.”

“And you’ll stay silent all the way to Liverpool?”

“It’s a long ride, but we’ll manage,” Mill said, stretching his legs and throwing his arms behind his head.

A whistle echoed in the distance — our train was approaching. We stood up and walked toward the edge of the platform.

“What’s your carriage number?”

“Ninth,” Mill replied.

“Well then, see you soon. I’m in the first,” the girl said and walked away.

We found our seats in the ninth carriage. I took the one by the window — didn’t want any passerby deciding to sit next to me. It was a regular open coach: three seats on each side, covered in neat blue fabric that had been washed too many times and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.

Up front, a man was snoring softly, his head resting against the window. A few other passengers sat absorbed in their phones, music leaking quietly from their headphones. The trip promised to be calm.

The train jerked forward. The old speaker crackled: “The train is departing…”

“So, what do you think of her?” I asked.

“She’s endlessly curious,” Patrick whispered.

“Can we trust her?”

“I don’t know, Jake. Feels like the fewer people know about you, the better.”

“What about you, Mill?”

“I think,” Mill said, “if we’re already going to your aunt to bring her into this, and you two weren’t afraid to tell me everything, then nothing bad will happen if one more person knows. You know, the more heads think about a problem, the better for us.” He paused and glanced at us. “And besides, if anyone wakes me up, we’ll have one more ghost among us. Good night.”

He turned toward the window, closed his eyes, and soon drifted off.

***

I couldn’t sleep the entire trip — I’m not even sure ghosts are supposed to sleep. The motion of the train kept rocking me back and forth, lulling me one moment and shaking me awake the next. I got up and decided to take a walk. The carriage swayed gently from side to side; people slept peacefully in their seats.

Outside, the scenery kept changing — the sun hadn’t risen yet, but its first rays were already cutting through the horizon, blending with the fading stars. It was mesmerizing. Mist rolled over the wide fields, covering them like a blanket. I sat down at an empty table seat, leaning on my elbow, and watched the quiet beauty of our world — until I heard the sound of the inter-carriage doors sliding open.

With a loud clang, they closed behind a young man in a hooded sweatshirt, his face marked with a spider tattoo. His gray hoodie was filthy, and he smelled like garbage. He staggered down the aisle, swaying with the train, his eyes darting from one passenger to another — sizing them up, judging their clothes, their state, and probably what they had in their pockets. Then his gaze landed on my friends — and I knew exactly what was about to happen.

In two quick steps, I was beside him. He reached for Mill’s pocket — where Mill’s phone was.

“You really want to do this?” I said.

The guy froze, straightened up sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes narrowed as he glanced around the carriage, trying to locate where the voice had come from.

He stood there for a moment, then shook his head, as if trying to chase away a thought that didn’t belong — and bent toward Mill again.

“You sure you want to do this?” I said again.

The guy straightened up, more nervous this time, and glanced around the carriage. He stepped toward the seats ahead and peered over them — no one there.

“Guys, wake up,” I said, trying to touch one of them, but it was useless: my voice was too quiet, and my touch too weak.

“What the hell…” the man muttered under his breath.

Just then, the inter-carriage door creaked open, and Emma appeared in the doorway, staring right at him. He snorted, turned sharply, and hurried off toward the exit.

Thank God — she had perfect timing.

Emma walked up to the guys and, seeing they were still asleep, sat down on the seat beside us.