Winterfield Ghosts - Chapter 1.1

The night air is chilly - when I breathe in I feel a pinch in my throat and when I breathe out there are puffs of steam in the air. 

Even though I'm wearing the thickest (and only, although I don't like to dwell on it) coat I own, I'm cold. Two sweaters under it and a cap on my head didn't help either. I rub my palms together, hoping to create at least some warmth. It's a shame, I didn't take proper gloves - the fingers of these on my hands have been cut off. 

I tap my foot in frustration and can't help but look at my watch every few seconds. Of course, I'm used to the fact that Casmine is always and everywhere late, but it would be nice if she was at least once where she was needed, exactly when she was needed. 

She probably just stayed home for longer, I think. Or she got tangled somewhere along the way. Another plausible possibility is that she is chit-chating with one of the many people she knows. "You know, not everyone is always alone," Cas tells me sometimes, "...some people do have friends."

I never told her that she is my only friend, but she definitely put pieces together. Maybe she is always late, but not dump. 

There is another possibility, but I refuse to think about it. Even so, I can't completely silence the quiet voice from the depths of my brain that keeps repeating more and more persistently: She should have been here a long time ago. She should have been here a long time ago.She. Should. Have. Been. Here. Long. Time. Ago.

But when the watch - with its frayed strap that is barely holding on - tells me that I've been waiting for over half an hour, frustration slowly but surely begins to mix with something else. She should have been here by now, I think, and this time it's not the voice of the subconscious. I grit my teeth and start pacing in place.

The tufts of grass are already covered in frost, and they sometimes glisten faintly in the moonlight. My steps break the omnipresent silence. Blood roars in my ears and every single breath accompanied by a sting in my throat comes loud, loud, loud.

I've never been to the northwest meadow during the day, but I'm guessing that it must be pretty nice here in the sunshine. Maybe even soothing.

Thanks to the vast pastures undulating across the whole hill, bordered only by a stream, forest and scrub, it undoubtedly gave the impression of a place where couples in love go for long walks, hold hands, stare into each other's eyes like crazy and laugh for hours about things only they understand.

But I know the night meadow very well.

If you were to close your eyes and listen, you would realize that the stream is very, very far away and that its murmur sounds unnaturally quiet rather than soothing. 

That the owls don't hoot here, that the crowns of the trees only quietly creak and that you can't hear the screeching of nocturnal creatures climbing out of their dens and nests. You would realize that the northwest meadow gives you a strange sense of unease.

Maybe you'd put it down to the silence, the fact that the forest seemed so much closer at night like this, or the feeling that you're never completely alone.

I would like to say that the chills running down my spine were only caused by a poor-quality coat... But I know what this is really about.

Something is just not quite right in the northwest meadow. You simply ignore it during the day, but like this, when you're here alone and at night, you suddenly realize that you'd rather be somewhere - anywhere -  else. 

For example, at home, by the fireplace, in which the flames crackle, filling the entire room with pleasant warm light and warming heat.

Maybe you'd still be at the table after a long family feast, eating the last of the juicy roast meat with herbs, swaying your leg to the music and listening to a lively conversation between your grandmother and uncle, rolling your eyes at the screams of your younger siblings.

Or in a warm and comfortable bed, covered with a soft blanket, looking through the window at the stars that twinkle faintly in the night sky.

You might have been there, but I certainly wasn't. And I like to tell myself - and to everyone who asks me about it from time to time - I always say: I have more important things to attend to.

Things is not the correct name. Work. The task.

Mission.

And this is very difficult to achieve when your co-worker is extremely late and you cannot get rid of the anxiety that fills every thought, which is now unavoidable. Casmine should have been here a long time ago. 

And I have no idea what to do. Think, Ditz, think…

Going back to the village is nonsense. Cas always takes a different path, so we would most likely miss each other. Someone would just notice me. Being seen in this case means questions, and questions always mean trouble. Coming up with excuses and explanations has always been Cas's game. And. Cas. Is. Still. Not. Here.

I can taste the iron taste of blood on my tongue. I never completely got rid of the bad habit of biting my lip when I don't know what to do with myself. Casmine always reminds me to stop.

Casmine is on every anchor hunt.

Casmine is still not here.

Casmine was supposed to be here.

Ghost hunting is a job for two and I'm currently alone. In the middle of the night, too far from the village. In a meadow where we know the undead congregate. And Casmine…

...my train of thought is interrupted by a cold palm that grips my shoulder.