One
The weight of the darkness is crushing in the house, and the ghosts carefully life me up through an open window and place me down gently. Their spirits hover around me, muffling any sound I create, hiding me behind their invisible bodies. A perfect assassin. It’s easy to find the target. The ghosts smell the life from the bedroom, leading me to the right place. I try not to look at the target, but it’s inevitable, and I know he will be another face to add to my nightmares. His sharply cut white-blond hair is short around his ears but grows long at the top of his head, giving his already pale skin a deathly glow. I almost snort. How ironic. Behind me, a ghost rustles and comes up next to me. It’s a ghost of a jet black hound, and he sniffs the air with suspicion, baring his teeth although he cannot make sound. His head snaps towards me and me eyes me, nodding in the direction of the target. No, I shake my head and wave the large dog away. This is not a job for him. The hound will make a mess, and the client specifically requested for a clean death. I’m waving the dog away, but as I do another ghost steps forward and walks through my arm. I bite down on my lip as a wave of pain rushes through my arm, so cold that it burns and so hot that it’s freezing. This is only the pain that ghosts cause without trying to, and I can only imagine the torture that they can cause upon living beings when they try. The woman looks down on me and smiles, sarcastically apologizing for the pain. Like the hound, she cannot speak or make noise, but they don’t need words or noises to communicate with me. I know exactly what they mean.
Droy, I mouth, nearly spitting at her, but she simply smiles wider. Droy, meaning “thief” in the old tongue. There is no way for me to know their names, but I give them the names that I do to point out their roles. Thief, because she is the one who can steal souls. Take them from being so that they are very much alive, but just empty shells without words, personality, nothing. She accepts the insult with pride, but I know she despises me for what I can do. For the fact that I can control her. Make her do something. She enjoys missions though, with a bloodlust that I find sickening. I am no longer alive. Why should they be? Her eyes are forever taunting. From her clothing she must have been alive centuries ago, when they wore corsets and lace, but Droy’s innocent image stops at her clothing. She is tall, lean with smooth muscles and sharp features and wavy brown hair that is forever hanging loose around her shoulders.
Noticing my stare at her, she smirks and grabs my wrist, shooting pain through my arm once more. Even people who believe in ghosts are oblivious to what they really are. They aren’t transparent. They can look as solid as a brick by choice, or turn completely invisible, hiding others behind them and rendering the ability to be unseen. They float only when they choose to. They don’t haunt people; they only become ghosts when beckoned. They can pass through walls or people, but can choose to touch, and Droy chooses to touch me for the enjoyment of knowing the sensation hurts me. And yet the pain isn’t something she controls. When a ghost touches a human, the human- and the ghost- experiences a burning, freezing feeling that seems to rattle your bones. I can’t be sure, but I guess that it has something to do with the fact that ghosts and humans are different, and that they are not meant to interact with one another. But even those power ghosts have their limits. They cannot make noise, and they can only be seen by certain people. They cannot change their form, staying the way they looked when they died. And they must obey whoever beckoned them, their Caller. In this case, it is me, and I am the only one I have ever heard to control ghosts. It’s terrible, but still, there are some things that need to be done.
Ghosts have abilities beyond people’s imaginations, even mine. I have seen so many terrible things they can do, and I don’t doubt that it is only a fraction of what they are capable of.
Droy snaps her fingers silently, catching my attention. I blink once, twice. Let’s get this over with, her eyes laugh, and I force myself to breathe. For Droy, this is just another day’s work. Take an innocent’s soul, leave them worse than dead.
Some don’t believe in ghosts. And even the ones who do, they know nothing about what they are capable of. Stories say that they are nightmares, rendering them as fiction. But I know better. Ghosts are real, and they are among us, unseen, unheard.
And they are merciless.
