Perception

by Eliza Lainn

  The sound of a key sliding into a lock sounded behind them. They both whirled, their eyes fixed on the front door, as Stella stepped through. She slipped out of her coat, stowing it on the coat rack beside the door.

  "Shit."

  She kicked off her tennis shoes and strolled to the kitchen.

  Cyril flew to her side, grabbing at her shoulders. She shivered, freezing as she did. "Stella? Stella, I need you to leave the apartment. Right now!"

  She shrugged it off and headed for the refrigerator.

  Oliver shouted. "Get down!"

  It smacked into Cyril's shoulder as he dropped, sending a spasm of fire shooting through his arm.

  "Oh God," Oliver whispered, coming to Cyril's side.

  Cyril looked at his shoulder. Like he'd been slashed by a claw or talon. The faint aura that made up his outline pulsed red. Like he had a body. Like it'd been injured.

  "I'm fine," he said, rising to one knee. Then he noticed Oliver wasn't looking at him.

  He followed his gaze. Stella was leaning against the refrigerator.

  Coldness spiked through him. "What happened?"

  "It touched her."

  "It did what?" Cyril snapped, rising quickly to his feet. He hovered just at Stella's shoulder, looking for any of the red slash marks on her while being careful not to touch her.

  "Dizzy," she mumbled, bracing her head against the refrigerator door. Her eyes fluttered shut as her lips noiselessly began counting.

  Oliver stared at her, dumbstruck. "It bumped into her. Knocked her over..."

  Another snarl came from beyond the kitchen wall, where Bronte's bathroom would be.

  That jolted Oliver from his shock. "Get her out of here," he hissed, flying through the wall after it.

  Cyril whipped around to Stella. "You need to leave, Stella. You need to leave right now."

  Stella pushed off from the refrigerator. She opened the door, stared inside for a moment, and pulled out a bottle of water.

  A thousand thoughts floated through Cyril's mind. He could possess the television and try to communicate that way. But only if she turned it on. He thought she heard him sometimes, especially in the early mornings, just when she awoke, but he wasn't sure, wasn't positive if she did. And she didn't seem to hear him now. There were the shivers. But he didn't know how to use those to guide her out of the apartment.

  She headed for the living room just as Oliver exploded through the kitchen wall. He was on something, his arms wrapped around it as he bucked wildly through the air. They flew into Stella's bedroom once more, disappearing through the wall.

  Stella moved back to the coat rack and Cyril thought, for a glorious moment, she was leaving again. But she plucked her phone from her purse and made to head for her bedroom.

  "No," he mumbled, moving to stand in front of her.

  She walked through him, shivered, and kept walking.

  "No, no, no, no." He flew in front of her, trying to block her path. He walked backward in front of her, his hands up, trying to grab her shoulders.

  She continued shivering but didn't stop walking. If anything, she took determined, sure steps.

  They were almost at her door. He could hear Oliver swearing behind him, could hear something snarling, teeth clacking. It'd been growing louder since it'd first appeared. He thought he could hear words underneath the snarls.

  Was it getting stronger? Is that what the louder sounds meant? That it was getting stronger–able to touch them, and beyond them to the real, physical world where Stella was?

  Stella reached out for her doorknob.

  "Stella, stop!" he shouted, squaring himself in front of her.

  Her hand touched his torso.

  They both froze for a second before Stella snatched her hand back. Eyes wide, she stared at the spot where she'd touched Cyril's body.

  Cyril looked down at where her hand had touched him. "Dear Lord," he murmured.

  Her head snapped up like she heard him.

  She backed away a few steps, her eyes widening. She cradled her hand to her chest. "What the hell?"

  Cyril lunged forward, trying to grab her shoulders again.

  His hands didn't pass through her flesh this time. They connected. His palms rested on her shoulders. He could feel his hands touching, his fingers curving to fit the shape of her shoulders.

  She stiffened but didn't back away, didn't pull back.

  "Stella? Stella, can you hear me? I need you to hear me right now."

  "I–some?"

  Her eyes searched straight ahead. Cyril had never been this close to her before. He and Oliver both had tried to keep their distance, and aside from the occasional brush of contact, they generally had. This was the closest he'd been to her.

  He could see her eyes. He'd never realized how blue they were before.

  "You need to leave the apartment. Right now. You need to go. It isn't safe."

  She shook her head. "I-I don't know what you want. It's like static. Garbled and hard to make out. I don't know what you're saying...only...only that you are speaking."

  "Cyril!" Oliver shouted from Stella's room.

  He looked over his shoulder. Then turned back to Stella. "Leave. Get out. Go."

  She didn't move. Her eyes stared straight ahead, searching. But not seeing. She couldn't see him. Could barely hear him.

  Teeth gnashed on empty air behind him. Oliver cursed.

  Cyril looked around for something, anything he could use to communicate.

  His eyes fell on his hands. Still lying on her shoulders. Still connecting.

  He pushed gently.

  Stella stumbled back a step.

  Cyril pushed again, his fingers tightening, willing her to understand.

  She took a few more steps backward, her feet tripping over themselves from the unexpected push coming from in front of her. Her head snapped around, looking behind her. "The door? You want me to leave?"

  Cyril tightened his grip, hoping she'd understand.

  Unexpected anger flashed across her eyes. "Seriously? You're a 'get out' kind of ghost? Angry and spiteful and don't want anyone in your property, huh? Well I hate to break it to you, but I pay $500 a month to stay here and I'm not about to get kicked out by-"

  The invisible thing howled. A loud, terrifying sound that chilled Cyril to his very center. If he had blood, it would have turned cold. It was angry and primal and awful, all in one.

  Oliver shouted for him.

  But Cyril could only stare down at Stella. Her rapid breathing, her wide eyes, her panicked expression.

  She'd heard it too.

  "Nope," she mumbled, spinning on her heel. It broke Cyril's connection with her and his hands floated through her as she dashed for the door.

  Chapter Three

  My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I stared through the windshield, up to the third story window on the end. My window. My apartment.

  I had picked out the curtains in those windows. I'd color coordinated them with the rest of the apartment. Bronte and I had spent nearly a week debating about what color to get, what fabric, what kind of curtain rod to put up. I'd felt so proud as I installed them. It'd been an adult thing to do: getting curtains for your windows.

  There wasn't, however, anything adult about hiding in your car while ghosts fought in your apartment.

  Or maybe it was. I didn't have much precedent to work with here. But I didn't feel grown up. I felt like hiding under the covers.

  Only my blankets were in the haunted apartment. Where a supernatural death match was happening, judging from the growling I'd heard. And the gentle push that had warned me to leave.

  God, that hadn't sounded human. Hadn't even sounded animalistic, truthfully. But like something in between. Or maybe something completely different altogether–something new and terrifying and presently in the vicinity of my very comforting Doctor Who blanket.

  I'd never been so immediately afraid, hearing a sound before. But I'd cycled through all the clichés in less
than a second: frozen body, spine tingling, hair standing up on the back of my neck, goose bumps rising.

  Someone rapped their knuckles against the passenger side window and I screamed. A full-blown, Gothic heroine scream.

  Bronte's brows knit in concern and she mimed for me to unlock the door.

  My hands shook as I did.

  "What happened?" She climbed into the passenger seat, pushing aside my discarded scarf as she did. "Everything ok? What are you doing down here?"

  "We can't go up into the apartment." My voice shook, confusing the words. I lowered my voice and whispered it again. "We cannot go up into that apartment."

  She glanced out and up through the windshield. "Is someone in there or something?"

  "Or something."

  She cast me a curious look. "Have you called 911?"

  "No. They wouldn't–no."

  "Are they–is it maintenance up there? Did they spook you like when they fixed the dead bolt?"

  I shook my head.

  Frowning, she gave me a minute to answer. When I didn't, her hand moved toward the door handle.

  "No!" I shouted, lunging across the seat. I yanked the door shut and slammed down on the lock button. "You cannot go up there."

  She let out an exasperated sigh. "You aren't making sense, Stella. If maintenance is up in the apartment, I'm sure they won't mind if we go up there. We do live there, and pay for it, and–what?"

  I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and leaned back into the seat. "It's haunted."

  "It's what?"

  My eyes flew open and I jammed a finger in the direction of our apartment. "There's something up there Bronte. You remember the other night? When we talked about the shivers and you kept thinking you'd see me in the corner of your eye? I didn't tell you then but sometimes I hear stuff. Voices."

  "It is an apartment," she reasoned, "so thin walls?"

  "Not thin walls. I know when I'm hearing a voice through thin walls. These voices are close. Like in-the-same-room-close. Ghost-close."

  Her eyes widened initially. Then her mind caught up and I could see the decision form behind those eyes that she wasn't going to believe it–not without a fight. Skepticism stole over her face. "That's absurd."

  "There is something in that apartment. More than one, actually."

  She rolled her eyes. "Now you're just being difficult, Stella." She reached for the handle again.

  I lunged but she had an arm up, blocking me from reaching the door. She pushed it open and then, still fighting me off, retreated through her opening.

  She bolted across the lawn as I flew out of the car after her. She'd always been the more in-shape of the two of us, so she beat me up the first flight of the open-air stairs. Then the second.

  I made it to the top of that second flight of stairs just as she burst through the apartment door.

  For a split second I thought of leaving her. Running back down to my car–just abandoning her and everything in that apartment.

  My body moved before my mind finished banishing those thoughts. I ran after her, barreling through the apartment door, nearly plowing into her as she lingered near the door, taking off her winter coat and scarf.

  "See?" she said, draping them on the coat rack. "Nothing's wrong."

  Her voice shook slightly, her eyes darting around. She wasn't convinced either.

  I pressed my back against the closed front door, waiting for something to happen. A chill. A touch. Another inhuman roar.

  But there was nothing but silence.

  Validation made Bronte braver. She strolled into the living room, then the kitchen. "Hello?" she called out saucily, hands on her hips.

  I shushed her angrily. "Don't," I hissed.

  "There's nothing here," she said, spinning around, arms out. "See?

  She shivered.

  We both froze.

  And for a second, neither one of us moved.

  "Charlotte," I finally managed to breathe, "you get your ass back over here this second."

  She didn't move.

  Or couldn't move.

  I couldn't tell from where I stood.

  But she wasn't moving.

  Wide eyes, mouth open slightly. Arms still outstretched from where she'd been spinning.

  Slowly, her head turned to look out at her outstretched right hand. Her fingers curled around something I couldn't see. But there was something there. Something she was molding her hand around.

  I silently swore to myself, the minute I heard growling, I was grabbing her and hauling her out of this apartment. Whether or not I set the building on fire was still up for internal debate.

  "There's something here," she breathed.

  "No shit, Sherlock."

  "It doesn't–I don't think it's mean? It's–it seems friendly."

  "Great, we're being haunted by Casper."

  Her eyes cut to me for a split second. "Quit being snarky."

  "I'm snarky when I'm scared," I snapped. "Call it a defense mechanism. And ok, you've seen what I was talking about, so I think we should leave now. Let's go downstairs and call the Ghostbusters or something."

  "But it's not mean."

  I lowered my voice. "Then it's also not the only thing in here."

  Her head whipped around to face me. "What?"

  "Ok, we might have a friendly ghost on the premises but there's also a nasty one, Bronte. I heard it and it sounded extremely pissed off. Can we please go before it comes back? Please? Bronte just come over here. Please."

  She turned to look back at the invisible thing touching her hand. Tilting her head, she squinted her eyes. "The nasty one? What did it look like?"

  "Look like?"

  "I think I can see a vague outline..."

  I had the sudden urge to throw my hands up. I might have, if I wasn't gripping the door handle behind my back in a vice grip. "Great. Freaking fantastic. You can see it?"

  "Couldn't you?"

  "I heard it, Bronte. Remember? I just said that I heard it and it sounded extremely pissed off. So, I don't know, you might be holding hands with the mean one for all I know."

  She jerked her hand back at that, shuffling back a few steps. Her eyes scanned the space in front of her. "I lost it–I don't–I can't see it anymore."

  "Please, Bronte, can we just leave?"

  She hesitated for a moment before making a decisive nod. "Yes," she said, heading for the door. "Maybe we'd better."

  Chapter Four

  Oliver was still staring at his hand, long after the girls had left. "She touched me."

  "Yes, she did."

  He looked up at Cyril. "And Stella touched you?"

  "Yep."

  His eyes fell back to his hand, staring as though he'd never seen it before. "She touched me."

  Cyril plopped down on the couch beside Oliver. "Yes, and as fascinating as that is, I believe it should be moved to Topic B of tonight's discussion. Topic A, I'm sure you'll agree, should be the thing that breezed through here. The thing that knocked over Stella. That slashed up my shoulder. Made me feel pain. Actual, physical pain. Like I had a body."

  Oliver pulled his eyes away from his hand. "Yes, yes, you're absolutely right. It was—I've never seen anything like it before."

  "What was it?"

  He paused. "It—it was..." his voice trailed off as he searched for the words. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and leaned his head back against the top of the couch. "Horrifying."

  Cyril shrugged and then winced at the pain of the movement. As a ghost, he'd grown accustomed to not having a body. Not feeling cold or heat, the pressure of something underfoot, or the softness of things he'd taken for granted. He'd become used to feeling nothing.

  Yet now that his form ached, old memories were flooding back. Disinfect the wound. Patch it up. Keep it clean, keep it dry.

  He wasn't sure anymore if that was knowledge he'd had when he died, or tips he'd picked up moving through the advancing world unseen. They'd trie
d to patch up his wound, but the cloth had floated right through his shoulder. They could pick things up with concentration, but that was it. It was like applying lotion. Instead of it rubbing on their skin, it just smeared, not being absorbed, for as long as they concentrated. Breaking that concentration had the lotion smacking to the floor through their bodies.

  Cyril settled into the couch, favoring his hurt side. "Can you describe what it looked like?"

  "It might have been human once," Oliver whispered with a shudder. "But it was longer. Like it'd been stretched out on some medieval torture bed. Its knuckles dragged along the floor. And it was easily eight feet tall—maybe more. Everything was sharpened to a point. It's hands, it's head, it's feet." His eyes fell on Cyril's shoulder. "I think that's what got you. Some clawed, morphed thing that might have been a hand once."

  "Anything else?"

  He shook his head. "That's all I saw really. Just the vague outline. I couldn't tell you anything else really, except that it was fast. It crawled on the walls like a spider."

  "You sound convinced that it was human."

  "It was shaped like a human. But it could get down on all fours like a dog, and move just as fast. Mostly though, it was upright. I don't know. You know the feeling—back when you were alive, not now, obviously—but when a person came into the room versus when a dog or a cat did? It felt human."

  "Toward the end, I thought it might have been speaking."

  Oliver studied him. "That would fit with what I'm thinking. It was human."

  "Tortured soul, maybe? Maybe he had been stretched on some medieval torture device?"

  "No," Oliver shook his head, "I don't think so. We don't bear the marks from how we died."

  Cyril's eyes lingered on Oliver's neck. "Then how would it get stretched like that? And sharpened?"

  "I have no idea."

  Cyril looked away. "I suppose all of that is secondary, in any case. My main concern was how it attacked Stella."

  Oliver frowned. "It didn't attack her, per se."

  "It plowed into her," he mumbled, teeth clenched, "which is close enough for me. She felt it. It had an effect on her, and that was an accident because it was trying to reach me. What if it had been aiming for her?"

  "We had an effect too. Their perceptions could be—"