Bitter Sweet

It was at lunch when he first noticed the tips of his fingers had turned black.

He’d thought at first they were smudges of ink or pencil, but they wouldn’t wash off. And then his eyes caught the matching stains on his face. Telltales of where he’d brushed his hair out of his eyes or wiped food from his lips, and what he’d most feared. He was infected.

Apparently his family has known before he did. Or at least somebody had, because he came into his room to find it was bare, his bearings packed into a small suitcase in the hand of someone in a hazmat suit. That was all he remembered when he awoke. It seemed that the room hadn’t been empty after all—it’d been full of gas.

He awoke atop layers of quilts. They were his quilts. But this wasn’t his room.

The suitcase was on the floor. The smell of death and disease was in the air, and the smell of ghosts, though none were here at the moment. A ticking sound came from a clock on the wall.

tick

tick

tick

He left the room and walked around the halls, trying to get a feel for the space he was in. He learned this way that it was dusty and yawning, filled in only with a few larger rooms with couches and kitchens with long, smooth tables. And lots of long hallways filled with doors. Lots of them.

He couldn’t go into any of them, though. He couldn’t even get close. As he walked down the halls he could feel the strange push exuding from the doorframes, a push that strengthened when he came closer until it was like an invisible wall. The only doors he could open were into empty bathrooms. He could hear slight movements from behind the others, seeming to suggest there were people inside them. But it was a few days before anyone came out. The hands on the clock on his wall spun.

tick

tick

tick

The one that finally did come out was Clay. He seemed friendly, unlike most of the others, who stayed in their rooms most of the time, only coming out to talk amongst themselves, or not at all. The general consensus seemed to be that they were in a quarantine ward, of sorts. Details, however, were unknown, and speculations were unhelpful.

Clay was helpful, though. Clay told him a lot of useful things about living here. Three types of areas, Baths, Bedrooms, and Commons. Baths, one person at a time. Commons, free range. The ghosts can’t hurt you, no matter what they want you to think. No windows except for the one at the end of the third hall. All you can see in it is black. The kitchen with the checkered tiles has the best food.

And, most importantly, the night you dream of a soft black shadow is the one before your last. The shadow is death drawing near.

When Clay wasn’t there, he was very lonely. Most everyone else there had at least someone they knew, an infected friend or family member. Sometimes there were whole groups, communities even, swallowed up by an outbreak.

Not his, though. Thanks to his swift quarantining, an outbreak had been effectively nipped in the bud. His community was lucky. His family was lucky. His friends were lucky.

A ticking sound came from the clock on his wall.

tick

tick

tick

He wasn’t lucky, though. He was just alone.

The ghosts couldn’t hurt him. He knew that, Clay had told him. But they were still there, and for a while they had scared him. Something about the way they rushed around like cold wind, or the way the air never seemed perfectly still. Now, though, he was only used to them. In the morning, when he got up to brush his teeth, ghosts gurgled in the drain, rising up like mist and smelling of algae and grimy copper. He mopped up the condensation with a towel and spit out his toothpaste.

At lunch, when he brushed crumbs off the table, a ghost crawled out from under the sink. Its body was bent and flattened, and its long, bony arms and fingers pecked at the bits that had fallen. He decided to have cereal instead of toast.

At dinner, when he looked in the cupboard, ghosts swirled up from the flour sack. Pale grains floated up like chalkdust and smeared powdery white fingerprints on the cabinet door. He used the flour anyway.

When he creaked up the stairs to bed, a witch ghost peered from under the steps. She had pruney, knobbled fingers like twigs and chipped yellow nails, and that was all you saw of her. She wasn’t really a ghost—not exactly. You could make deals with her. He shut the door to his room and burrowed under the quilts.

Through it all, the hands on the clock on his wall spun, around and around.

tick

tick

tick

You could make deals with her. He remembered this waking up from a strange dream that morning.

The darkness of his room slowly came into focus. Fragments of his dream lingered and floated around him like cobwebs. There had been a person floating above him. They had been thin and shadowy, clouded around the edges, and seemed to envelope him like heavy fog. He rolled over and closed his eyes again, listening to the ticking of the clock.

tick

tick

tick

He suddenly remembered something Clay had told him.

The night you dream of a soft black shadow is the one before your last. The shadow is death drawing near.

His eyes snapped back open. He staggered out of bed and looked at the clock. It was early. No one would be awake yet. He quietly padded down the stairs.

He held two things from the kitchen in his hands. “Witch,” he said, “I’m not ready to die yet. Let me live just one more day.”

The witch didn’t peer at him like she usually did, and instead sat calmly, shrouded in the shade of the steps as if she had been waiting for him.

“And what do you have to give in return?”

He handed her his things. “I have here a glass goblet and the last can of peaches.”

She took them and turned them over in her wrinkled hands. “These things are fine, but they are not enough. Not to stave off death. There is something else you must do for me.”

“I will do it.”

“Do you know of the cupboard in the kitchen downstairs? The one with all the black...jams?”

“I know of it.” No one ever touched that cupboard. Everyone knew that whatever was in those jars wasn’t jam, even if it was sticky and sweet.

“Go to that cupboard and eat a jar of the jam. Then you shall live another day.”

So he went to the cupboard, and ate a jar of the jam with a spoon. The last few bites were especially hard. The stuff was even blacker than the darkest shadows, and as he swallowed the last mouthful he felt lightheaded.

Tired from being up so early, he creaked back up the stairs and fell back asleep, remembering nothing of what had transpired when he awoke. The hands on the clock on his wall spun.

tick

tick

tick

Until he again woke up from a strange dream the next morning.

Once more he stood before the witch. He held a jar of things from his suitcase in his hands.

“Witch,” he said, “I’m still not ready to die yet. Let me live just one more day.”

“And what do you have to give in return?”

He handed her the jar. “I have here my baby teeth, saved from when I was little.”

She took it and turned it over in her wrinkled hands. “These will be useful, but they are not enough. Not to stave off death, and for a second time, no less. There is something else you must do for me.”

“I will do it.”

“Do you know of the cupboard in the kitchen downstairs? The one with all the black jams?”

“I know of it.”

“Go to that cupboard and eat five jars of the jam. Then you shall live another day.”

So he went to the cupboard, and ate five jars of the jam, some on slices of bread before he ran out. The last jar was especially hard. The stuff seemed to glow, if black can glow, and by the end his skin felt numb.

Tired from being up so early, he creaked back up the stairs and fell back asleep, remembering nothing of what had transpired when he awoke. The hands on the clock on his wall spun.

tick

tick

tick

Until he again woke up from a strange dream the next morning.

Thrice more he stood before the witch. He held something from the Commons in his hands.

“Witch,” he said, “I’m still not ready to die yet. Let me live just one more day.”

“And what do you have to give in return?”

He handed her the thing. “I have here a dried-up rose from a vase on the mantelpiece. They say it was of a lover who died of grief.”

She took it and turned it over in her wrinkled hands. “This is valuable, but it is not enough. Not to stave off death. and for the third time, no less. There is something else you must do for me.”

“I will do it.”

“Do you know of the cupboard in the kitchen downstairs? The one with all the black jams?”

“I know of it.”

“Go to that cupboard and eat ten jars of the jam. Then you shall live another day.”

So he went to the cupboard, and ate ten jars of the jam, slathered on anything he could find. The last few jars, unexpectedly, were easier. The stuff was sticky and oozing, and by the end he couldn’t feel anything at all, not the chair he was sitting on nor the table under his elbows.

Clay got up early the next morning, thinking of making some pancakes. He opened the cupboard and reached for the flour, fanning away the dust the ghosts stirred up as they whispered in his ears.

Strange. There seemed to be one more ghost than usual.