That’d sounded close, though, like it came from inside the lookout. I waited a few minutes, breathing steadily, but just as I was about to lie back down, I heard something else—much, much closer.
Riiiip.
I scrambled for the bear spray I now kept on the windowsill above my head while I slept and shuffled back into the corner. My eyes darted around the room, looking for movement in the shadows cast by the still-glowing wood-burning stove.
But there was nothing.
No striped tails or mischief-filled little masked faces. One of the positives of living in a small space was there was nowhere for an intruder to hide.
Unless they were a ghost, of course.
Air shifted in the space next to my bed, and a scrap of paper fluttered in front of me, landing in my lap as if dropped out of thin air. It looked like a corner had been torn from the sketch pad lying open on my desk.
Was that the sound I’d heard?
My heart pounded as I reached for it, fingers trembling. I squinted in the low light before flicking on the lantern next to my bed, blinking down in disbelief that there were words—real, tangible words in handwriting that wasn’t my own—scrawled on the note.
Definitely not the raccoon, then.
Hi. I don’t want to startle you again. Can I sit by the fire? I won’t bother you.
My voice caught when I tried to respond. I gulped down water from the bottle I also kept on the windowsill next to me, and cleared my throat.What the fuck do I say to a ghost?
“Are you in here?” I asked, throwing my ‘normal person’ card out the window. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
“Yes, but I’ll leave if it bothers you.” The soft reply came from across the room, still empty.
I swore. “Who are you? Why are you here?” I asked, unable to stop the tremble in my voice.
The wood floor creaked under invisible feet, slowly treading closer before they stopped halfway to where I sat in bed.
Suddenly, he appeared.
I sucked in a breath. He was more whole than before. I could see all of him, enough to note that while some parts of his body were see-through, others appeared solid. He wasn’t as tall or imposing as I’d remembered. In fact, if I stood up, I was certain I’d be taller. Broader.
He was just as handsome as I remembered, though. Not in a well-groomed, perfectly symmetrical kind of way, but more like, I could look at him for a very long time, maybe even sketch him, and never quite capture him fully.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, gesturing to the wooden desk chair.
I nodded dumbly.
He scooted it across the floor so it was in front of the fire and sat with a heavy sigh. “Thank you.”
There was somuchin those words I wasn’t sure I’d ever parse it all, but they had me releasing the deep breath I held. I pushed the comforter off my lap—thankfully, I’d worn sleep shorts to bed—and turned to lean back against the windowsill, facing him.
He wore a vintage, brown leather flight jacket with a Sherpa collar over a white shirt and faded blue jeans. His hiking boots looked worn, the laces undone and frayed.
“What’s your name?” I asked again. It was less of an accusation this time.
He didn’t look up. The orange glow behind the stove glass made his eyes look like honeyed whiskey. “Charlie.”
Charlie, I mouthed. Yes, he looked like a Charlie.
My scalp prickled. “Is that short for Charles? Charles Randolph?” I asked, holding my breath again.
For a reason I couldn’t give if my life depended on it, I didn’t want Charlie to be Charles Randolph. Maybe it was purely self-preservation—I had invited him to sit, after all.
He looked up. “Yeah,” he said, eyes curious and warmer than I’d expect from someone who’d probably murdered a bunch of people. “How’d you know?”
