Ghost Stories
Title: Ghost Stories
Word Count: 1188
Notes: tabitha_dornoc's Secret Santa gift at kh_drabble. Posting it here for posterity ♥
Riku lives in a house full of ghosts.
The mansion creaks. Wind slips moaning through the walls. When it rains, the ceilings squelch and weep and Riku catches raindrops in beakers that are cracked and leak onto the floor. Twilight filters smokydark through windows caked with time; in here, it always feels like night. The old man haunts the basement below, footsteps echoing up through the floor one two one two under Riku’s bed like heartbeats. thumpthump. thumpthump.
He doesn’t sleep much anymore.
There’s a little ghost in the corner room at the end of the upstairs hall who smells like vanilla and snow. Out of all the ghosts in the house she’s the quietest, and Riku likes it that way. When the walls begin to sway and the old man moves below, Riku stands like a shadow in her whitewashed room and listens to her fingers breathe color onto paper-swfft, swfft, swfft, just like that. Like waves.
“Your eyes are like the ocean,” she says. Her voice is sweet softcandy.
He smiles vaguely, a habit recalled. “I’ve been told that before.”
“Like...the tide. Just after a storm.” Swfft, swfft, swfft. “Right where it touched down and then left again, and the water is clear and hazy at the same time…” Swfft, swfft, swfft; a little pause. “They change color.” A shift, and he can feel her gaze on him now-on his face, on the slip of fabric set over his eyes. “What color are they now?”
Part of him likes it better when she doesn’t speak at all.
It’s when she does, however, that he comes closest to sleep-later, lying in bed with the waves in his ear and her lullaby voice on his tongue. It tastes like sweet sea air.
Then the old man moves below. The beat of an onerous heart. thumpthump.
Riku grips his chest and winces at the echo that it makes.
In his dreams, Riku is not always Riku. Sometimes he’s a shadow, a slinking black nothing that stinks of stolen hearts. Sometimes he’s a doppelganger, eyes too green, face too tight, smile too crisp and cold. He holds out a blade to a faceless boy who he hates and takes everything from him. Sometimes he bulges large with muscle, the stench of darkness on his skin. That’s when the laughter comes. He opens his mouth and his voice is black and he laughs, shaking with joyless pleasure until there’s nothing left, nothing left of him-and he wakes screaming at something he half understands, Soul Eater gripped in his shaking fists until reality comes flooding back, slowly. He doesn’t sleep again for days.
“What do you see, when you wake up afraid?”
It’s one of those times Riku wishes she’d be quiet. “Where did you learn to be so candid?”
“Someplace warm,” the little ghost says.
The sweetness in her voice hurts. He stalks from the room before doing something he’ll regret.
But when his head is throbbing heavy with the sound of beating blood, Riku somehow finds his way back to the corner room at the end of the hall and the little white ghost who, despite his short tongue, never utters reproach, only sighs and makes soothing sounds with her fingers. Swfft, swfft, swfft.
He dozes. The little chair is not quite big enough to hold him, so he leans, legs sprawling, with his face against the window, and lets the sound of waves wash over him, swfft, swfft, swfft. Wow, Riku, the water sounds great! Come on, let’s go for a swim! I’ll race ya! Riku!
He wakes with a jolt, gasping for air as if he’d drowned. The wavesounds have stopped. “You should focus on your work,” he says, breathing ragged.
He can hear her shifting, sandals brushing the floor. “You look very tired.”
The muscles around his mouth twitch, just slightly; he swallows. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”
“It’s him, isn’t it.”
His stomach drops.
She’s quiet. “I see.”
There’s something in the way she moves-like floating, like a little bird riding the wind. Her footsteps make no sound, but he feels her coming near, the sketchbook gently lain aside. “I can still lock up your heart,” she says, a whisper in the air. “It’s…okay. I’ll take care of you. You can just sleep. And he won’t hurt you anymore.” She stops just a breath from his face; this close, she smells like something new, like wildflowers and citrus, bright as the sun. It stings his eyes. “He’ll sleep, too.” He can feel her reaching out; something in him aches. “And you won’t see him anymore…” her fingers brush the cloth over his eyes, “when you look-”
“I don’t look anymore.”
“But don’t you want to see So-”
“No.” His eyes clench. “No. Not until I can remember him.” Eyelids twitch against cloth, against the imprint of her skin, white and cold. Nothing like summer.
He can feel her tremble as she finally withdraws, hands lilting to the hem of her dress, fingering uselessly. “I’m sorry…” she murmurs. “I-”
“Don’t be.” His head begins to pound. thumpthump. “You should focus on your work.” He stands and leaves her there alone, smelling of wilted flowers.
The mansion is quiet that evening. No beating in the floorboards, no groaning in the walls: a rare silence. He could almost sleep. Instead, Riku lies awake in bed listening to the sound of his own heart, thumpthump, thumpthump, heavy, uneven, and dark.
He almost doesn’t hear it, the little creak-then she’s slipping under the sheets and into his bed, her tiny arms around him, engulfing him in summer scent. “N-Naminé-” is all he can stammer before she’s breathing, “Shhhhh,” into the back of his neck, like waves.
And then they come, a rush of images behind closed eyes: the beach at noon, so bright it blinds; the tree house, with view of the ocean; the paopu tree, two wooden swords crossed at its base. Then it’s her, barefoot in the surf, warm and strong and alive, and everything smells of life, all blooming green life, all sunscreen, surf, and sand and-then a silhouette, backlit by sun-a boy’s silhouette, with spiky hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that glint a cloudless blue-and he calls over the ocean, over the roar of the waves: “Hey, Riku! Come on, Ri-”
“Stop it!”
He tears from her grasp and she cries out. “-ku, let’s go again, I know I’ll beat you this-”
“I said stop it!”
The voice falls silent; the waves recede. At his back, the little ghost breathes, short and hitched. She smells like frost. He shivers.
After a moment, she barely whispers, “I was trying to help you sleep.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
She’s quiet; he can feel her fingers tangling into the sheets, round and round and round. “Don’t you want to remember him?”
It takes a moment for him to answer. “Maybe I don’t.”
They don’t speak. After a moment, the little ghost slips from the room, leaving him alone in the stale dark.
And Riku lies awake, listening to the sound of his heart.
Word Count: 1188
Notes: tabitha_dornoc's Secret Santa gift at kh_drabble. Posting it here for posterity ♥
Riku lives in a house full of ghosts.
The mansion creaks. Wind slips moaning through the walls. When it rains, the ceilings squelch and weep and Riku catches raindrops in beakers that are cracked and leak onto the floor. Twilight filters smokydark through windows caked with time; in here, it always feels like night. The old man haunts the basement below, footsteps echoing up through the floor one two one two under Riku’s bed like heartbeats. thumpthump. thumpthump.
He doesn’t sleep much anymore.
There’s a little ghost in the corner room at the end of the upstairs hall who smells like vanilla and snow. Out of all the ghosts in the house she’s the quietest, and Riku likes it that way. When the walls begin to sway and the old man moves below, Riku stands like a shadow in her whitewashed room and listens to her fingers breathe color onto paper-swfft, swfft, swfft, just like that. Like waves.
“Your eyes are like the ocean,” she says. Her voice is sweet softcandy.
He smiles vaguely, a habit recalled. “I’ve been told that before.”
“Like...the tide. Just after a storm.” Swfft, swfft, swfft. “Right where it touched down and then left again, and the water is clear and hazy at the same time…” Swfft, swfft, swfft; a little pause. “They change color.” A shift, and he can feel her gaze on him now-on his face, on the slip of fabric set over his eyes. “What color are they now?”
Part of him likes it better when she doesn’t speak at all.
It’s when she does, however, that he comes closest to sleep-later, lying in bed with the waves in his ear and her lullaby voice on his tongue. It tastes like sweet sea air.
Then the old man moves below. The beat of an onerous heart. thumpthump.
Riku grips his chest and winces at the echo that it makes.
In his dreams, Riku is not always Riku. Sometimes he’s a shadow, a slinking black nothing that stinks of stolen hearts. Sometimes he’s a doppelganger, eyes too green, face too tight, smile too crisp and cold. He holds out a blade to a faceless boy who he hates and takes everything from him. Sometimes he bulges large with muscle, the stench of darkness on his skin. That’s when the laughter comes. He opens his mouth and his voice is black and he laughs, shaking with joyless pleasure until there’s nothing left, nothing left of him-and he wakes screaming at something he half understands, Soul Eater gripped in his shaking fists until reality comes flooding back, slowly. He doesn’t sleep again for days.
“What do you see, when you wake up afraid?”
It’s one of those times Riku wishes she’d be quiet. “Where did you learn to be so candid?”
“Someplace warm,” the little ghost says.
The sweetness in her voice hurts. He stalks from the room before doing something he’ll regret.
But when his head is throbbing heavy with the sound of beating blood, Riku somehow finds his way back to the corner room at the end of the hall and the little white ghost who, despite his short tongue, never utters reproach, only sighs and makes soothing sounds with her fingers. Swfft, swfft, swfft.
He dozes. The little chair is not quite big enough to hold him, so he leans, legs sprawling, with his face against the window, and lets the sound of waves wash over him, swfft, swfft, swfft. Wow, Riku, the water sounds great! Come on, let’s go for a swim! I’ll race ya! Riku!
He wakes with a jolt, gasping for air as if he’d drowned. The wavesounds have stopped. “You should focus on your work,” he says, breathing ragged.
He can hear her shifting, sandals brushing the floor. “You look very tired.”
The muscles around his mouth twitch, just slightly; he swallows. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”
“It’s him, isn’t it.”
His stomach drops.
She’s quiet. “I see.”
There’s something in the way she moves-like floating, like a little bird riding the wind. Her footsteps make no sound, but he feels her coming near, the sketchbook gently lain aside. “I can still lock up your heart,” she says, a whisper in the air. “It’s…okay. I’ll take care of you. You can just sleep. And he won’t hurt you anymore.” She stops just a breath from his face; this close, she smells like something new, like wildflowers and citrus, bright as the sun. It stings his eyes. “He’ll sleep, too.” He can feel her reaching out; something in him aches. “And you won’t see him anymore…” her fingers brush the cloth over his eyes, “when you look-”
“I don’t look anymore.”
“But don’t you want to see So-”
“No.” His eyes clench. “No. Not until I can remember him.” Eyelids twitch against cloth, against the imprint of her skin, white and cold. Nothing like summer.
He can feel her tremble as she finally withdraws, hands lilting to the hem of her dress, fingering uselessly. “I’m sorry…” she murmurs. “I-”
“Don’t be.” His head begins to pound. thumpthump. “You should focus on your work.” He stands and leaves her there alone, smelling of wilted flowers.
The mansion is quiet that evening. No beating in the floorboards, no groaning in the walls: a rare silence. He could almost sleep. Instead, Riku lies awake in bed listening to the sound of his own heart, thumpthump, thumpthump, heavy, uneven, and dark.
He almost doesn’t hear it, the little creak-then she’s slipping under the sheets and into his bed, her tiny arms around him, engulfing him in summer scent. “N-Naminé-” is all he can stammer before she’s breathing, “Shhhhh,” into the back of his neck, like waves.
And then they come, a rush of images behind closed eyes: the beach at noon, so bright it blinds; the tree house, with view of the ocean; the paopu tree, two wooden swords crossed at its base. Then it’s her, barefoot in the surf, warm and strong and alive, and everything smells of life, all blooming green life, all sunscreen, surf, and sand and-then a silhouette, backlit by sun-a boy’s silhouette, with spiky hair the color of chestnuts and eyes that glint a cloudless blue-and he calls over the ocean, over the roar of the waves: “Hey, Riku! Come on, Ri-”
“Stop it!”
He tears from her grasp and she cries out. “-ku, let’s go again, I know I’ll beat you this-”
“I said stop it!”
The voice falls silent; the waves recede. At his back, the little ghost breathes, short and hitched. She smells like frost. He shivers.
After a moment, she barely whispers, “I was trying to help you sleep.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
She’s quiet; he can feel her fingers tangling into the sheets, round and round and round. “Don’t you want to remember him?”
It takes a moment for him to answer. “Maybe I don’t.”
They don’t speak. After a moment, the little ghost slips from the room, leaving him alone in the stale dark.
And Riku lies awake, listening to the sound of his heart.