Why had she wanted me to come into the study? What else was here that she wanted me to see?
I stood, gathering my candle from the desk, and turned toward the door—only to stop short.
Dr. Ambrose’s wife drifted into the room, moving with that same eerie grace I had witnessed on the stairs. Shewore the same simple dress, and I noticed now, as my candle haloed around her, that it was a deep shade of plum, similar to my own work gowns.
I glanced up at her face and braced myself, but it remained missing—smooth and blank.
She glided through the room, unmoved by my presence, passing me without acknowledgment. I stepped out of her path as she approached the desk, lifting my candle to watch.
She sat—though sat was not exactly accurate. She hovered over the chair, her form not quite solid enough to make contact with the furniture. Her posture suggested she was settling in for work, getting comfortable for a long night of research.
A strange sensation shot through me, pressing against my skull like a headache building. My vision tunnelled, the edges going soft while the ghost remained in sharp focus.
I had been here before, some irrational part of my mind whispered. I had watched this exact scene unfold. I was nearly certain of it, though I had no explanation for how I knew.
I pushed the thought away, focusing on the spirit as she began to… write.
Or at least, that is what it appeared she was doing. Her hand slid across the desk surface, fingers curled as though gripping a pen and forming letters, but there was nothing in her translucent fingers and no parchment on the desk. It seemed she was recording something that existedonly in memory or spirit or whatever realm she now inhabited.
I circled to the front of the desk, squinting in the dim light, trying to get a closer look at what she was doing. I raised my hand cautiously and waved it directly in front of where her face should have been.
She did not react at all. She did not pause in her invisible writing or acknowledge my presence in any way. She simply kept working, her hand moving steadily across imaginary parchment.
After a long moment, she finished. Her hand stilled, and she appeared to read over what she had written with satisfaction. Then she stood, her movements suggesting she was opening one of the desk drawers, but the drawer did not actually open. Her hand passed straight through the solid wood.
She mimed placing something inside—her invisible journal, perhaps—and then straightened. She reached into her skirt pocket, revealing a small white flower that pulsed with a yellow-green glow. She stared down at it, stroking the delicate petals with tenderness.
The reaction inside my skull was immediate and violent.
My companion slammed forward with such force I staggered, my vision narrowing to a single point of focus—the flower, nothing but the flower, everything else in the room dissolving into irrelevance. A wave of desperate, aching need crashed through me. It felt like starvation, likesuffocation, like every vital thing my body required for survival had been condensed into that single glowing bloom.
My hand shot out before I could stop it, fingers grasping for the phantom flower with movements I did not control. They passed through her translucent hand, through the spectral petals, touching nothing but cold air.
The scream that tore through my skull was raw. Grief and fury and longing twisted together into something that felt like it would split my skull apart from the inside. I stumbled backward, my palms pressing hard against my temples, trying to contain the pressure building behind my eyes.
Rage flooded my chest, spreading outward through my limbs with searing heat, burning away every thought except one primal demand.
Take it, claim it, make it mine again.
My feet moved without permission. I lurched forward, my hand sweeping out again and again, striking at her wispy palm with increasing desperation. Each failed attempt brought fresh waves of anguish.
Give it to me!the voice shrieked inside my mind.Give it back to me! MINE! IT’S MINE!
The ghost tilted her head, unbothered by the voice’s outrage, and replaced the flower in her pocket. She turned then, and moved toward the greenhouse door, fading with each step until she had vanished completely by the time she crossed the threshold.
I stood there gasping, my chest heaving, my hands still outstretched toward empty air. The voice continued itsassault inside my mind until there was no distinction to where it ended and I began.
I shook my head sharply, trying to clear the chaos, and ran to the greenhouse door on unsteady legs. I pressed my face against the cold glass, searching for any trace of her presence.
It was dark and still inside, showing no sign of spectral activity.
She was gone. The flower with her.
My companion withdrew, disappearing into whatever depth it normally occupied, leaving a trail of rage and grief behind in its wake—emotions so vivid that tears burned in my eyes.
I gathered my candle, my shoulders sagging with a defeat that was not entirely my own. I made my way back upstairs with heavy steps, exhaustion and disappointment weighing on me in equal measure—though I could not say for certain which belonged to me and which belonged to the thing living inside my skull.
When I reached my room, I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the bed.
