Archive of Our Own

Jon wishes he had less friends. Maybe, then, he wouldn’t get roped into idiotic situations like the one he’s in now. The only thing less dignified than ghost hunting is pro bono ghost hunting.

This is not a situation that calls for business cards, but he has one out anyways, turning it over and over in his hand while he waits for… something, in front of the door. Jonathan Sims. Ghost Hunter. It sounds stupid even to him, and he’s the one that got the damn cards printed.

The door in front of him is as average as they come, belonging to a rather small, but no less imposing, house. It’s not much to look at, in Jon’s opinion. It’s the kind of place your eyes slide right off of if you’re not focusing, the kind of place you could get lost looking for even if you have directions. It’s plain, Jon thinks, slightly uncharitably. Then again, appearances aren’t everything.

Jon shakes his head, refocusing. He’s wasted enough time. 

Just as he raises his hand to knock on the door, it flies open inwards.

Inside stands a woman, about his height and age. She does not look happy, and so Jon immediately switches into business mode.

“Hello there! My name is Jon–”

“I know,” she interrupts, eyeing him critically. “So, you’re the famous ex, huh?”

Thirty seconds in, and Jon has already lost all professional credibility. “I, uh- I mean–” He starts flipping the business card in his hand again, the other hand unconsciously coming up to grip the strap of his backpack, like his body is already preparing to beat a hasty retreat. “Yes, that’s me. You’re Melanie, I presume?”

She looks at him for another moment, as Jon runs out of straps on his backpack to fiddle with.

She nods, once. It’s a sharp gesture. He doesn’t know if it’s directed at him or his question. She turns to head into the house and, not wanting to waste anymore time standing on the front stoop, Jon follows.

She hasn’t gone very far, and he finds her in the entryway, rooting through some basket on a small table. There is a suitcase leaning haphazardly against the opposite wall. Jon doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“This is, uh- this is a really lovely house you have here. The brickwork outside is really- really rustic.” Jon cringes, regretting pretty much every choice he’s made in his life up until this point. “Is it just you living here, or–”

Melanie, having evidently found what she was looking for, looks up from the basket and shoves a single key towards him. “Here. This goes to the front door and the door between the house and the garden”—she gestures down the hallway—“I’ve set up an air mattress in the living room for you.” Irritation flashes across her face. “My flatmate has vacated. Temporarily, hopefully,” she says, seemingly more to herself than to him. “I’m staying at Georgie’s, so you should have the place to yourself to do–” She narrows her eyes. “Whatever it is that you do.”

Jon blinks, surprised, and takes the key. “Oh, well, that’s not really necessary. I don’t mind–”

She waves him off. “It’s for my sake, not yours.” She looks over her shoulder, briefly, at the hallway behind her, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “It hasn’t been much fun living here.”

Jon nods. “I understand.” He peers around Melanie, looking down the hall. It’s not exactly outwardly sinister, but, again, appearances aren’t everything. “Georgie, uh, briefed me on the situation a bit, but do you mind if I check a few things, just to clarify?”

Jon gets the feeling that Melanie definitely does mind, but she nods anyways. “Sure.”

Jon pulls a pencil out from behind his ear, and an already half used notebook from his pocket. “So, from what Georgie told me, the haunting here has mostly manifested in strange noises and power failures, right?”

Melanie eyes Jon skeptically. “Right.”

Jon jots down some notes, and looks back up. “Except for the time something threw a book at your head.”

“It was three books, actually, but yes. And the doors.”

Jon nods. “And the doors.”

Melanie shifts on her feet, like she’s preparing to sprint from the house and, maybe more importantly, this conversation, as soon as she can. 

Jon obliges. “Well then, I think that’s everything.” Jon holds out his business card, now slightly dented at the edges from his nerves. “Georgie should still have my number, but here’s my card just in case. Call me if you need anything or want an update.”

Melanie takes the card from him. “About how long do you think it will take? To find the ghost and get rid of it.”

Jon finds himself slipping into a well-practiced persona. “Honestly? It depends on the situation. If it’s a spirit, it depends on what it wants. That’ll probably be a week, tops. If it’s something else—” Jon shrugs. “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Melanie gives him that same terse nod from before, grabs her suitcase, and moves past him onto the stoop.

She turns around abruptly. “Thanks, by the way,” a sliver of earnestness creeps into her voice. “I, uh– I really appreciate it.”

Jon doesn’t quite know what to do with that. “It’s no problem.” He puts the pencil back behind his ear and shoves the notebook ungracefully back into his pocket. “Besides, I owe Georgie a favor. She gave me your number, so I’ll call you if I have any- any questions about the building.” The building, which he suddenly feels is watching him, somehow. It’s a strange feeling. “Anyways, enjoy your… holiday, I guess?”

Melanie actually laughs at that. It’s loud, and just as sharp as her nod. “Thanks, you too.” And with that, she leaves.

The sound of her suitcase on the sidewalk is audible even after Jon closes the front door. The hall around him feels claustrophobic, a feeling he knows is illogical given its perfectly normal proportions. The wallpaper is a twisting floral pattern, and as Jon reaches out to inspect it, the lights around him flicker and die. A distinct series of thumps comes from somewhere above him.

He sighs, withdrawing his hand and taking out his phone. It’s probably just a bad combination of electrical failure and old pipes. While stumbling blindly forward, struggling to turn on the phone’s flashlight, it occurs to Jon that this could be a long, long week.

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[VOICE] Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3. (pause) Alright. 

[ANOTHER PAUSE. THERE IS ONLY SILENCE.]

[VOICE] (practiced, almost bored) My name is Jonathan Sims. I’m here on behalf of the new residents of this house. I want to- to help you pass over. To help you find closure. I mean you no harm.

[PAUSE. MORE SILENCE.]

[JON] If there are any spirits with me now, please make yourselves known using this tape recorder.

[SILENCE]

[JON] Why have you been stomping around and fiddling with the lights?

[SILENCE] 

[JON] Why did you throw a bo– multiple books at my client?

[SILENCE]

[JON] Well, (still bored) if you ever feel like talking, I’ll be around.

[AUDIBLE THUMP, SOMEWHERE IN THE DISTANCE]

[JON] (pause, voice takes on a note of apprehension) … Alright, then.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

If there’s one thing Jon likes most about his job, it’s the research. He loves learning the history of the locations he finds himself in, who their inhabitants were, and how they came to be the way they are. The kind of research he does is not always easy and rarely ever quick, especially when it involves less-than-famous locations. Still, there’s something calming about taking a long dive into the past; he enjoys submerging himself in other times, other people’s problems.

That said, he’s three days into the week time-frame he gave Melanie when she left, and he’s no closer to figuring out what, if anything, is wrong with her house. He’s going to have to call her with an update soon, and that’s not a conversation he’s looking forward to having.

But as uncommunicative as the “ghosts” of the house have been, its history is speaking plenty.

Last occupied in the 1980’s, 154 Camellia Lane has a fairly average past. Built in 1912, it was occupied pretty much consistently up until its last owners died in 1985. Mary Blackwood, 65, died in her sleep due to undetermined medical complications. She left behind Martin Blackwood, her son, who died at 30 during a carbon monoxide leak not 6 months later.

Jon shudders the first time he sees Mr. Blackwood’s cause of death in the print of his obituary. Freak accidents are the worst kinds of deaths. The living are unprepared to depart, often leaving behind a nasty sort of impression, angry and full of unfinished business.

Jon does not know if he is dealing with the mother, or the son, or both. A little selfishly, Jon hopes it’s the mother. She would probably be easier to appease. Those who make their peace with death are often much less… complicated, after it.

Knowing his luck, though, he’s dealing with none of those options. Jon has never, not once in his whole career, ever been called out to investigate a real, genuine haunting. He’s studied them plenty, sure: how to best communicate with spirits, how to go about dismissing them from this plane of existence, ways to keep yourself safe in case of any supernatural violence. Unfortunately, he found out pretty early on in his career that the majority of “ghosts” were panicked interpretations of perfectly natural phenomena. He’s gotten his hopes up far too many times to get let down like this once again. He goes through the motions of a haunting anyways, more out of habit than belief at this point: checking for cold spots, checking around with a thermal imaging camera, burning some old-looking papers he finds, just in case something supernatural happens. It doesn’t. It never does.

Still, things could be worse. The house is one of the cozier ones he’s had to deal with. The heating works, and it's not a nonsensical maze like some of the older places he’s stayed in. It’s just a house. A strangely suffocating house at times, with walls that seem closer than they really are and carpets that muffle his footsteps, but a house nevertheless. Honestly, he’s just happy to be sleeping on an air mattress, rather than on the floor.

The only room where anything seems out of place is the smaller of the two bedrooms. He has no way of knowing if it was the son or the mother who slept in it, but if he had to make an educated guess, he would say the son. It’s noticeably colder than the rest of the house, even with the window tightly shut. The bed is neatly made, a new addition belonging to Melanie or her roommate, he assumes. The room is mostly devoid of any personal effects, with drawers left haphazardly open in what he assumes was a panicked flight from the house after–

There are three books on the ground and a dent in the wall next to the bed. Opposite the dent are three bookcases, each about half full, built directly into the wall. They are the only pieces of furniture that look at all weathered or old. They came with the house, presumably.

It makes sense, in the dream-logic mathematics that hauntings are said to work on. The bookcases belonged to the house’s former occupant. The books belong to the new resident. The bookcases expelled the books. Forcefully, and with precise aim.

He crouches, examining the books. They’re nothing special, just some nondescript hardcover novels. Nothing in their content would have obviously angered whatever spirits may or may not live here.

He has to admit, he can’t think of any mundane explanation for the books. Even if they were caused by a spirit, and that is a big if, a reaction of this magnitude is still strange, given that every other manifestation in the house is rather benign. It must have been something important, something big. Whatever it was, someone touched a nerve, and whatever lived here lashed out.

“What are you protecting?” Jon says, to the stale air of the house. There is silence.

He drags a finger through the light coating of dust that has already accumulated on one of the books. “What were you scared of?” Jon says, again to the empty room.

The ceiling light flickers and dies.

Jon pauses. If that was an electrical failure, it was certainly well-timed. 

Something about the house intrigues Jon, some quirk in its geometry drawing him in no matter how skeptical he is. With the lights dead and strange shadows playing across the walls, the feeling is only stronger. At least he has a few hours of daylight left. Late-afternoon sunlight slices through the unopened window, illuminating the dust he disturbed, suspended and floating in stale air.

Might as well make that call to Melanie.

Being a ghost isn’t like being a person. In the movies, ghosts are always just like people, only a bit less... there. Martin doesn’t feel like a person at all.

Time doesn’t work quite right, when you’re dead. Or maybe it’s just because nothing has happened for such a long, long time that the days seem to blur and run together.

Even with people in the house, it’s hard to mark the passing of days. Martin has been a thing of formless emotion for so long that trying to think logically and keep track of his environment is an intensely difficult task.

There were new people in the house. That he remembered, sensed, understood. There were new people, and then something happened—did he do something? He can’t remember, but it’s possible—and they left. He doesn’t know how long the visitors stayed for. Maybe hours, maybe years. Again, time went a little bit funny after… after everything.

Martin doesn’t remember dying. Martin doesn’t remember much of anything. Martin is grateful for that.

So he can’t mark time, but he does have a vague sense of what “now” means. There is a man here now. He said his name was Jon, out loud, to the empty (not empty) living room, perched on the edge of an air mattress. Jon. Jon is here, now.

Jon talks to himself, a lot. He also sometimes talks to Martin. Not specifically, but still. He talks to the house.

It’s thrilling, to be acknowledged, believed, even if he knows he can’t be seen. Martin doesn’t know how to communicate, doesn’t have the concentration, the focus for it, but he is a creature of instinct now, and sometimes he feels he must be doing something , just from the way Jon reacts.

Still, Martin doesn’t know how he feels about Jon being here, now. Being alone in the house for so long was awful, still is awful, will be awful, but it was also comfortable. It was easier, in a way. It was what he knew. It’s all he knows, now.

No matter how Martin feels about it—and he doesn’t think he does feel at all, not really. Feeling is a thing people do, and Martin is not a person—Jon has disrupted that easy routine. Even if it’s thrilling, at times, it’s still… hard. Difficult. Uncomfortable.

It’s not the worst thing in the world, though. Jon isn’t as oppressively silent as the empty house, but he’s still fairly quiet. On top of that, he’s interesting to watch, always jotting things down in his notebook and examining seemingly mundane corners of the house like they’re the next rosetta stone.

Martin can’t help but feel a little pride at the fact that he—this house, both of them—might be interesting enough to garner that kind of attention, to warrant sketches and post-it notes and soft incomprehensible mutterings.

Martin can only assume that Jon is here for something. Maybe if he gets it, whatever he wants, he’ll leave, and Martin can return to the easy, unchallenging embrace of the empty house.

Martin thinks, maybe, a long time ago, he might have done something, anything, to try and reach out to a man like Jon. Or really, anyone in the house. He might have felt hopeful.

Martin will find out what Jon wants, and he will give it to him. Then Jon will leave. Then Martin can go back to being alone. Martin doesn’t know how he’ll achieve this, but he’s sure it’ll work itself out somehow.

It starts simply enough. A thump in the dead of night. Lights that flicker on and off. A door, sliding open or shut, slowly, with a high pitched creaking.

At first, the manifestations are scattered and generic enough that Jon doesn’t realize that they’re getting more frequent. It’s only as he’s replacing his second lightbulb of the day that he realizes that maybe something has changed.

So, Jon makes a hypothesis: the house, the ghost, is reacting to him.

And he’s fairly certain it’s a ghost, now; if not from the manifestations themselves, then from their reactive nature. He is excited and scared all at the same time, a strange cocktail of feelings that keeps him up at night thinking of the possibilities this situation contains, the sheer impact it could have.

Jon doesn’t really know how to go about testing this hypothesis, which he’s starting to realize is more of a guess than a line of scientific inquiry. All the tools he has are more communication based than anything else. Normally, he’d hunker down, get some fragments via the tape recorder, take some thermal readings, and scour the premises until some mundane explanation for the haunting presented itself. Fix the problem, explain the situation, get paid, go home. Then again, this house is as far from normal as he’s ever seen.

It gets to Jon, a little more than he’s willing to admit. There’s something about the hallways, their wallpaper or their dimensions, that makes them seem a little smaller, a little narrower, than they should be. Like he’s making his way down the throat of some large creature, laying still but not asleep. Even the light that streams through the windows creates harsh shadows, transforming everyday objects into horrific and grotesque black and white shapes.

The thumps start up again, this time purposeful and timed to moments of quiet so that Jon jumps half a foot in the air when they cut through the stillness.

Jon is being haunted; purposefully, and with intent. It sets his teeth on edge. He never thought he’d be… targeted, like this.

It’s after the bathroom light flickers and dies in the middle of him brushing in his teeth that he decides to update his working theory.

New hypothesis: the ghost is just trying to annoy him into leaving.

Well, tough luck, Mr. Ghost, Jon thinks, because you’ve chosen the wrong ghost hunter to try this move on . Jon is a stubborn bastard, or so he’s been told by quite a few people. Jon digs his teeth into things. Jon isn’t going anywhere.

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[SILENCE]

[SERIES OF LOUD THUMPING NOISES]

[JON] (blearily) Wha— what? (pause, shuffling noise of the tape recorder being picked up)

[SILENCE]

[JON] (quiet) I don’t remember leaving this on. (pause) Did you do this?

[THUMP]

[JON] … I see. Why?

[SILENCE]

[JON] Do you actually want something, or are you just being a nuisance?

[SILENCE]

[JON] (annoyed) Well, if you’re going to be like that, at least let me get a full night’s sleep.

[SILENCE, FOLLOWED BY A MUCH QUIETER THUMP THIS TIME]

[JON] Thank you.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

It takes Jon a surprisingly long time to snap, all things considered.

It’s the one week mark, the time he had given Melanie during their first meeting. Normally, this would be over. Normally, Jon would be on his way home to his small no pets policy flat by now. Instead, Jon is sitting on the floor of the smaller bedroom, one hand on a bookshelf, tape recorder on the floor, feeling increasingly stupid.

It’s not that Jon doesn’t believe he’s dealing with a ghost. He does. It’s just that Jon is frustrated. No matter how he feels about his job, he is good at it. Jon doesn’t like not being able to show his employer results. Jon doesn’t like feeling useless.

This ghost is a stubborn one, but, luckily, Jon is stubborn too.

Jon turns on the tape recorder, and tightens his grip on the wood of the bookshelf.

“If there are any spirits in the room with me, please make yourselves know. My name is Jonathan Sims, and I mean you no harm.”

Silence.

Jon grits his teeth. “Why are you here? What do you need? You can do me the courtesy of telling me that, at least.” He lowers his voice. “I know you’re here.”

There is no response.

Jon is tired, so very tired. “Alright. Be like that. I’m only trying to help.”

Silence.

Jon can feel himself growing more and more agitated. He knows, theoretically, that it’s important to remain as calm and non-threatening as possible in these situations, but he can’t really bring himself to care. He’s been living here a week, being woken up at odd times and playing whack a mole with power failures. He’s earned the right to be annoyed.

“What is it? Are you scared of me, or are you just going out of your way to be as annoying as possible?”

Silence.

“You know what? I shouldn’t have taken this job. I should have just told Georgie that any favors I owe expire within one year of a breakup.”

He laughs, mirthlessly. “Fuck, I should never have taken any of these jobs. I should have gone back to uni instead, said a firm ‘no thank you’ to any ghost-related job offers. What kind of fucking career is ghost hunting? I’m just an electrician with a complex.”

He gestures at the empty room with the hand that isn’t still gripping the bookshelf. “Maybe if I had done any of that I would be ranting to, you know, real people , instead of a ghost that may or may not even be in the room.”

Silence, and then the overhead light slowly begins to flicker.

Jon glares at it, like it’s the wiring and not something far harder to pin down that is causing all his problems. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

The light stabilizes.

Without warning, a book tumbles from one of the shelves above Jon, landing in front of him. Jon immediately scrambles backwards. No other books fall, aimed at him or otherwise.

Slowly, he reaches for the book. The cover art is an aggravating green and yellow mess, with a title that reads Yes!: The Art of Getting What You Want, a how-to-manual by A. M. Smith.

Jon laughs. Jon actually laughs, anxiety and frustration making everything funnier than it probably would be in any other circumstances. He laughs until he’s laying on his back next to the bookcases, book still clutched in one hand.

Then the temperature in the room drops a solid 5 degrees and Jon bolts upright.

There is a shape in the floating dust particles in front of the window; the vaguest outline of a person, illuminated by the dying light of the sunset. Faint, but there, definitely there. A human shaped mass of swirling particles.

Jon opens and closes his mouth. No sound comes out.

He tightens his grip on the book. “You… you’re here.” His voice sounds weak and hoarse in his ears.

The shape flies apart. Not violently, just abruptly losing any coherency or structure.

Jon is silent for a long moment. He reaches up, running a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” he says, quietly. “Alright then.”

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[JON] (sighs) Okay, let’s try this again. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.

[THUMP]

[JON] … Indeed. (pause) I’m Jon. I’m here to help you, I suppose.

[SILENCE]

[JON] Let’s do this the old fashioned way. One thump for yes, two thumps for no. Alright?

[THUMP]

[JON] That’s- excellent. Okay. (pause) Am I speaking to Mary Blackwood?

[THUMP THUMP]

[JON] So I’m speaking to Martin Blackwood, then?

[THUMP]

[JON] I see. (sound of pencil on paper) You’re in the room with me now, then, Mr. Blackwood?

[PAUSE, THUMP]

[JON] Can you make yourself visible, like you did in the bedroom?

[A LONGER PAUSE THIS TIME. THUMP THUMP.]

[JON] … Oh. Is your power- are you- (pause) Is it hard for you to communicate with me?

[THUMP]

[JON] Right then. (sound of pencil on paper) I have an idea of something that might help. One moment.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

When Jon comes back into the room, he’s carrying a small cloth bag that rattles as he moves. He sits at a small table in the corner of the room, his chair creaking loudly in the quiet of the house.

Martin floats over to hover near him.

Is “float” the right word? Floating implies form, something he doesn’t really have. It’s hard to describe space and movement when you don’t have a body. Martin exists near the tape recorder, and then Martin exists near the table.

Martin isn’t good with words anymore. He thinks he used to be. Maybe.

Jon opens the bag, and Martin moves behind him to peer over his shoulder. Jon shivers visibly. Martin notices, immediately moving to the opposite side of the table. He’ll try and figure out a way to be less... abrasive, somehow. 

That’s a task for later, though. Jon clears his throat, looking across the table. He’s not quite looking at Martin—it’s hard to make eye contact with something that isn’t there, and also maybe doesn’t have eyes—but he’s getting closer.

“This is something I have on hand for when a coherent spirit is having difficulty communicating.” A look of anxiety crosses his face briefly. “I’m not a- I’m no medium, so unfortunately this is this best I can do for now.” 

He holds up the bag, shaking it slightly. “They’re Scrabble tiles. You had Scrabble back in the 1980’s right?” Jon pauses to think for a moment, crease forming between his eyes, causing his glasses to droop slightly. He pushes them back up. Martin definitely doesn’t find it endearing. “Anyways, I’ll pour some out on the table, and you should theoretically be able to use your… energy, as it were, to influence what comes out. Basically, you can spell things.”

Martin nods. (Martin can nod now. Martin has something to nod. That’s new.) He made that book fall off the shelf earlier, surely he can do this.

Martin doesn’t know how any of this works, but he’s tired of being silent. He’s tried being alone, tried getting Jon to leave, and clearly neither of those things have worked. Martin wants to talk, however he can.

Jon pulls out his notebook and pencil, opening up to a blank sheet of paper. He also places the tape recorder on the table, turning it on. “Just in case,” he says, a little sheepishly. He looks over his materials, and then back up at the space where he must think Martin is hovering, watching and waiting. “Alright, then. Let’s begin.”

“Mr. Blackwood, are you there?” 

As Jon shakes the bag, Martin focuses on it. Only after Jon upends it onto the table does Martin realize he wasn’t thinking of any specific answer to Jon’s question. He leans forward, trying to read the words upside down

C A L L  M E  M A R T I N  P L E A S E

Martin is glad that ghosts don’t have blood. It means he can’t blush anymore. 

Was that what he had been thinking? Maybe not specifically, but he had certainly been annoyed at being referred to as “Mr. Blackwood”. Martin curses himself and his formless brain.

Jon blinks, slowly. “Al- Alright. Martin, then.”

Martin cannot remember the last time he heard someone say his name. It feels good, really good, to be reminded that you exist.

Something shifts into place, like back in his bedroom, and Jon’s eyes widen in shock and surprise.

Martin looks down—Martin looks —and sees some sort of vague outline himself. Hands on a table. He moves one, just to see if he can. It swirls, moving slowly.

Jon starts blinking again, more rapidly this time. “Oh, you’re- you’re here.”

Where else would I be? He wants to say. I don’t have the busiest social calendar. 

That’s kind of funny. Sarcastic, at least. Was Martin funny, when he was alive? He can’t quite remember. He thinks he might have been.

Jon is still for a long time, before slowly reaching forwards, gathering the scrabble tiles back into their bag. 

When all the tiles are collected, he sits back, absentmindedly shaking the bag and looking at Martin like he’s a puzzle Jon hasn’t quite worked out yet. Maybe he is.

Jon takes a deep breath. “What do you need in order to pass over?”

Martin is ready this time, focusing on the bag and the tiles inside it, and this time the answer is spelled out just as he intends.

D O N T  K N O W  D O N T  R E M E M B E R

Jon tilts his head, considering. “Alright, that’s- that’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” He looks back up at Martin. “I’ll help you figure it out.”

Martin fumbles his concentration for a moment, and the overhead light flickers for a moment.

Jon smiles. It’s a small, shy thing. It feels like a secret, one Martin is happy to keep.

Jon collects the pieces again. “One more and then we’re done.” Martin is disappointed, but he understands. As nice as it is to talk, finally, the amount of energy it takes to have any sort of form, and influence Jon’s tiles, has exhausted him. Part of him is looking forward to being formless again, if only for the rest, but a much larger part of him wants to keep talking, consequences be damned.

Jon shakes the bag of tiles. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Maybe the exhaustion has caught up with him, or maybe he just wasn’t really ready, but when the tiles come to rest on the table, Jon is silent for a long moment.

W H Y  A M  I  H E R E

Jon sighs, absentmindedly rubbing his temples. “That’s- that’s a complicated question.” He takes a deep breath. “Most ghosts, spirits who still reside on this plane, are here for a reason. There’s the trope of ‘unfinished business’ or exacting revenge, but honestly? It could be anything. I, um–” Jon nervously fiddles with the tie on the scrabble bag. “I’ve never, ah, gotten this far before? You’re the first ghost I’ve ever properly communicated with.”

That might explain a few things. Jon continues, still working the tie into a tight knot. “I’m not exactly new at this, I’ve been ghost hunting for years, you’re just, well- most ‘hauntings’ end up having perfectly mundane explanations. I’m sorry you’ve ended up with less experience with the supernatural than ideal, but, well–” He gives a hollow laugh. “I’m here to help nevertheless.”

Martin smiles at that— smiles —and the lights around them flicker once again. Jon nods, like they’ve reached some sort of unspoken agreement. Martin isn’t sure, exactly, what Jon thinks that flickering meant.

Jon stops fiddling with the bag and starts collecting the scattered scrabble pieces. “I know you’re not ready to use the tape recorder yet, but I’ll try to remember to carry it around with me just in case. If you want to communicate with me using it, feel free to turn it on.” He pauses. “I know you know how.”

Something swoops in the place where Martin once had a stomach. He can feel himself fading. The cloudy outlines of his hand swirling and bursting like soap bubbles. He knows he’ll be back, knows that Jon is here to help, but, even so, anxiety spikes through him.

Jon watches him as he fades away, visible form dissolving like foam on the ocean.

When Martin is gone—not gone, still there, just unseen—Jon stares into the empty space he previously occupied and says, quietly, gently, “See you soon.”

Martin thinks he means it.

On the 10th day, Jon finds a photo of Martin.

It’s tucked up in the picture rail of his room (the smaller bedroom, what must be his room). It’s the kind of hiding space you wouldn’t see unless you were lying face up on the floor directly below it. Which Jon definitely wasn’t.

Jon has been running out of places to sit and work through the enigma that is Martin Blackwood. The chair in the living room does horrible things to his back after a while.

It took Jon a long time to process their first conversation. Seeing a ghost, even a featureless one, sitting across from him and answering his questions… it wasn’t something he was prepared for. He’s glad and, frankly, surprised that his scrabble bag plan worked. It was only a bit of a stab in the dark.

In Jon’s head, there are two Martins: One he knows from newspaper clippings and employment records. The other he knows from their conversation. The two are hard to reconcile in his mind, like an image seen from a small but significantly different angle. The first one he knows much more about. Martin Blackwood, dead at 30, no living relatives, highschool dropout, worked a string of uninteresting jobs until he died in his sleep. 

As he’s working off data from an age before social media, he has precious little to go on in terms of what Martin’s personality might have been like. But the other Martin, that vague silhouette of shadows and shifting particles, seems… nice. For a ghost, at least.

Martin has been laying low since their conversation; formless, but not absent. He hasn’t made anymore attempts to talk, via the tape recorder or otherwise. Jon is okay with that, despite the small part of him that still wants to get this job done as quickly as possible. Martin can take his time. He had seen how taxing it was for him to hold his form; towards the end of the interview his movements, small though they were, had become sluggish and uncoordinated, the sharp edges of his silhouette becoming vague and blurry.

So Martin hasn’t been visible or vocal since their encounter, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been… present, in some sense. Jon will complain about archival paywalls and research difficulties, and the lights will sympathetically flicker. Jon will crack a joke under his breath, and a thump or two will sound from above in acknowledgement.

Jon is confident and secure in the knowledge that he is no longer alone in the house. He finds it comforting, rather than frightening. It’s a good feeling, having someone around, even if you can’t always see them.

Jon feels oddly nervous as he struggles to free the photo from where it’s stuck on the picture rail. Excitement, that he would understand. Jon hasn’t been able to find a photo of Martin, no matter how hard he has he has scoured the internet, using both legal and less-than-legal means. Not that he needs a photo, strictly speaking. It might be helpful. It might not be. Nothing to get nervous about, no reason for his stomach to flutter the way it does when he finally gets the thing down, wiping off the layers of accumulated dust and grime. He’s just curious, that’s all.

It’s a polaroid. Faded, black and white, but still in fair condition. The man in it is waving one hand at the camera, the photo’s strange angle making it obvious that he took it himself. The wall behind him is the same one that has a dent in it now, only whenever the photo was taken it was covered in photos and pieces of paper covered in words that blur together in the polaroid.

The man in the photo—Martin, it must be Martin—is smiling, grin almost too big for his face. His hair is curly and sticking up at odd angles. His sweater looks comfortable.

His face is kind and, even though he knows it’s impossible, Jon could swear that it’s emanating a kind of soft glow, one that warms him to his core.

He looks happy. Really, properly, happy.

Jon has no right to feel as fond as he does, looking at an old polaroid of a man he does not know in a house he does not own. He does, though- feel fond, cradling the photo like it’s something unspeakably fragile, unspeakably precious.

“Martin?” His voice sounds soft, too soft. The light above him flickers.

He takes a deep breath and holds out the photo, looking straight ahead even though Martin could be anywhere in the room. “I have- I found a photo of you. You can take a look, if you’d like.” 

“If you think it’ll help,” he quickly adds at the end. “You mentioned having trouble remembering, last time we talked.” 

Martin forms in front of him, silhouette of shadows and floating dust. It’s no less disconcerting and strange, even though he’s prepared for it this time.

Jon sticks his arm out a little further, for emphasis. “It’s okay. Take a look.”

The cloud that is Martin doesn’t so much move as shift closure to Jon’s hand, vague and blurry head bending over the photograph. It’s less cold around Martin this time, or maybe Jon’s just prepared for it. It still makes him shiver.

Martin does not look up, shifting form going still, frozen over the photograph.

Jon can’t help but look away. It feels too intimate, too personal a moment for him to witness. He can’t imagine what he would feel in Martin’s place. So far beyond what you once were, looking back at a long dead version of yourself, like a prehistoric fly trapped in photographic amber.

Jon looks back up, and gasps before he can think to stop himself.

Martin Blackwood, or at least some version of him, stands before Jon. He’s transparent, drained of all color, floating slightly, but undeniably there, still focused on the photo. He looks slightly more tired and a bit older than he does in the polaroid, but it’s him.

Martin looks up, confusion plain on his face (his face) in response to the shock that Jon knows must be written all over his features.

He doesn’t know, Jon realizes. He gestures, somewhat lamely, at his own face with the hand not holding the photograph. “You- You’re, uh- You’re here.”

Martin tilts his head in confusion, before realization breaks across his face. He makes no noise, and Jon can’t read lips, but even he can practically hear Martin’s soft oh in the curve of his mouth (his mouth on his face ). Martin holds up his transparent, fog-like hands, looking at them with nothing short of wonder.

For a long second, neither of them move. Unlike earlier, this time Jon can’t bring himself to look away. This isn’t normal for ghosts, at least in his admittedly limited knowledge of them. It’s not like Martin is corporeal, or even all that easy to see, but still it’s incredibly impressive.

Jon doesn’t know what this means, but Martin looks overjoyed, so whatever it means, it can’t be all that bad.

Martin snaps his gaze back up to Jon, as if only just remembering his presence in the room. A series of emotions Jon can’t quite place flicker across his face, gone before Jon has the chance to figure it out. Wordlessly, emphatically, Martin points down at the floor below them.

Jon is confused. “Down? Like, in the ground.”

Martin rolls his eyes—actually rolls his eyes—and, try as he might, Jon cannot stop a grin from breaking over his face. It’s a privilege, he thinks, to bear witness to this. Not just an impressively coherent ghost, but someone returning to themselves after so long away.

Martin points again, and mouths the word downstairs, carefully and slowly.

Jon nods. “I- I see. I’ll just…” He gestures vaguely at the door. “Go, then?” Martin nods, and disappears down through the floorboards. 

Jon takes that moment, properly and certainly alone, to collect himself. This is more than he bargained for, but he can’t find himself really minding all that much. He doesn’t know what this recent development means in terms of him finding a way to help Martin pass on. Hopefully, Martin taking a more human shape means that he’s beginning to remember his old life. Hopefully, that’ll make it easier for Jon to help. Jon wants to help him, he realizes. It’s an urge, an ache, deep in his being. It’s new.

Jon takes a deep breath, and heads downstairs.

Martin is floating around the living room. He’s pacing, Jon realizes. He’s pacing, in his own ghostly way, moving from one side of the room to the other. He gets the feeling that Martin is looking for something, but Jon doesn’t know what. Whatever it is, it’s making Martin a blur of motion. Jon finds himself studying the way Martin’s form shifts, definitely not solid or tangible but still real, like smoke.

Jon clears his throat, and Martin jerks his head up. He blinks, and gives Jon a hesitant smile.

Jon returns it. “Not used to being seen yet, huh?”

Martin nods, emphatically, and floats closer to Jon. The temperature drops again. He’ll have to start wearing sweaters more often, Jon notes vaguely.

Jon looks around the room. Nothing seems all that out of place. “What was it you were looking for?”

Martin looks around him for a moment. He looks back at Jon, tilting his head, considering. Then he holds up two fingers.

“T- Two?” Jon asks, a little lost. Martin, slightly exasperated now, shakes his hand a little bit. Something clicks into place for Jon, some memory that feels ancient but can’t be more than 10 years old. “Two words? Like charades.”

Martin nods. He mimes holding something in his hand, pressing down with his thumb and miming speech, clearly saying blah, blah, blah.

Jon’s not that dumb. “Tape recorder! You want the tape recorder?”

Martin nods, grinning, and begins moving erratically in a way Jon can only describe as nervous fidgeting. Jon goes to dig the tape recorder out of his bag.

Martin is still shifting in place when Jon gets back. “Alright, here.” He holds it out to Martin.

The record button depresses on its own. It’s amazing how something that once rattled Jon has become so… mundane.

The tape plays, and Jon hears a voice, unmistakable, even though it’s somewhat echoey and covered in a layer of static and ambient mechanical noise.

“Hello?”

Jon starts, jumping back slightly without thinking. 

Martin looks nervous. The tape recorder continues playing. “Can- Can you hear me alright?” It’s intensely disconcerting, seeing the man’s mouth move and hearing the words come out of the machine. “It’s, um, it’s me. Martin.” Martin waves at Jon, a little sheepishly. “Hi?”

Jon, frozen in place, blinks a few more times before speaking. “Oh. You can- Oh.”

“I guess so? That photo helped a lot, I think. To remember, that is. And that thing,” he nods in the direction of the tape recorder. “That makes it easier too.”

Martin is back to looking nervous again. Jon doesn’t want Martin to be nervous, not after such a big accomplishment, and so Jon unfreezes, defensive posture slowly moving into some semblance of normality.

Jon isn’t afraid. He knows that Martin wouldn’t hurt him, doesn’t want to hurt him. If he had wanted to he could have just chucked a book at Jon’s head on the first day and been done with it. Jon isn’t afraid, no, he’s just… unprepared. The communication barrier between them had made things safe, had given Jon the sense of distance he needed. Now Martin is here, in front of him, and it’s… a little too much.

Jon is a little afraid, maybe. Not because Martin is a ghost, but because Martin is… Martin. Because Martin is Martin and Martin is looking at him nervously and oh god, Jon realizes, oh god, I’ve just been staring at him like an idiot this whole time, what do I do, oh god-

Jon takes a deep breath, and gives a little wave that immediately causes him to cringe at his own social ineptitude. “Hi there, nice to- to meet you?”

Martin smiles. It’s a small one this time, but it’s warm, despite the coldness of his presence. “Hi, Jon. It’s nice to meet you too.”

Martin is not used to being seen. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was alive, but it’s definitely been a while. Even then, he wasn’t really... obtrusive.

Back when he was just a featureless cloud, it had been easier. He’d had the safety of vagueness, of blurred lines and shifting form. Now he looks like, well, Martin. Or at least he assumes he does. He still hasn’t managed to find a mirror.

He looks like Martin, and Jon’s standing there, clearly on edge, but looking at him like that, like he’s fascinating, some spiralling optical illusion he can’t tear his eyes away from.

Martin feels much the same way. He’s been able to see Jon this whole time, but seeing someone, and having them see you right back… that’s different.

Martin wants to hide. Martin wants to dissipate into a thousand dust particles and disappear for a while longer. Martin stays where he is.

It hits him all at once that they’ve both been standing there, silently, for an awfully long amount of time. Jon still has his hand up, mind clearly working at a mile a minute behind his eyes.

Martin decides he is going to be brave, and dive in.

“Are Simon & Garfunkel still together?”

Martin fails his dive spectacularly.

Jon blinks, tilting his head. “I, uh, I don’t- I’m not sure?” He looks at Martin— looks —somewhat quizzically. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh!” Martin doesn’t know why his voice sounds so surprised when it comes out of the tape recorder. He asked the question, after all. “It’s just- I don’t know, I- I was wondering, since it’s obviously not 1985 anymore.” He gestures Jon’s… computer, maybe? The thing that’s sitting on the living room table. “Just, I don’t know, it’s something I was curious about?”

Jon nods. “That makes sense. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Martin shakes his head. “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

Jon pauses for a moment, clearly thinking, before his eyes light up. “I could look it up for you, if you want.”

“What do you mean?” Martin says, looking around the room as if the explanation is hidden somewhere between the couch cushions.

“It’s- it’s like-” Jon begins gesturing with his hand, drops them, and sighs, adjusting his glasses. “Sorry, I’m not, uh- I’m not the best with technology?” His voice goes up at the end, like it’s some kind of damning admission.

“Jon,” Martin says, firmly, “I’m a ghost. From the 80’s. I’m in no position to judge.”

Jon’s small smile is back, and it warms Martin in the same way that sunlight does when it passes through him. Jon goes over to the computer at the table, carrying the tape recorder, and gestures for him to follow.

As Jon sits down, Martin hovers behind him. As Jon begins to type, words appear on the screen, so bright they hurt. Martin doesn’t realize how close he is to Jon until he sees him shiver, the motion traveling across his whole body.

Martin instantly floats backwards. “S-Sorry. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to make you, um, uncomfortable. I know it’s–” he gestures at himself. “It’s weird. It’s–” he winces. “It’s spooky. I can stay away, if you–”

“Martin.” Jon holds up a hand. “It’s fine.” Something in his face softens slightly. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Martin drifts back, closer to Jon. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Jon says, voice firm. He shrugs, hands and shoulder coming perilously close to where Martin is hovering (He’s not quite ready for that just yet). “If I do, I’ll just start wearing sweaters.”

Martin smiles at that. The expression still feels strange on his face, like a muscle that’s been cramped for far too long. Jon looks up at him, returning his smile. Jon has really nice eyes. The thought is in his brain before he can stop it. Even if he could, that wouldn’t make it untrue. His eyes are nice. They’re a deep, warm brown. Martin thinks he can even see a fleck or two of gold, if he took a closer–

Martin abruptly realizes he’s staring, and turns his head, fixing his gaze on the computer screen. Get it together, he thinks. You’re not going to be weird about the first and only guy you’ve seen in recent memory. So what if he’s pretty? It’s just an objective observation.

He is pretty, though, if a bit odd. Jon is interesting. And pretty.

Martin firmly re-directs his thoughts.

“So,” he says, voice carefully controlled. “Simon & Garfunkel?”

Jon nods. “Right.” He clicks on something on the screen, and leans back, smiling. 

“Martin, allow me to introduce you to the wonders of Wikipedia.”

Martin disappears for a little while, after that. He only has so much energy. In the same way Jon always needs some alone-time after spending time around other people, Martin also has to recharge. Except, Jon’s version of recharging involves tea and a good book, and Martin’s involves… disappearing altogether.

It’s a strange logic, one Jon tries not to question. He’s been down that road before: if you try to understand, scientifically, the logic of ghosts, it will twist your understanding into knots and leave you questioning the whole of existence. If there’s one thing Jon has learned from his job, it’s this: sometimes, you just have to accept the way things are at face value.

With Martin absent—not absent, but not really present either—Jon throws himself into his research. Ancient curses, the history of the land going back to medieval times, anything and everything. He’s scraping the bottom of the barrel here, he knows that, but he does it anyways. He should have found something by now; Martin is stuck here because he hasn’t.

After a few days, what he hopes is a decent amount of time for a ghost to recharge, Jon reaches out.

He’s back in Martin’s bedroom, tape recorder in hand. This is where Martin has appeared the past few times, so why mess with a good thing?

He sits cross-legged on the ground, back to the bookshelves, and takes a deep breath. “Martin?”

The tape recorder in his hand clicks on, and that same slightly echo-y voice rings out. “Yes Jon?”

“H-Hi.” Nervous again. Why is he nervous? It’s just a ghost. It’s just Martin. Not just, no, Martin isn’t just anything. “I was wondering if you felt up to talking?” Jon runs a hand through his hair, even though he has it pulled back today. “I’ve, um- I’ve hit a bit of a roadblock, in terms of my research. If you’re- If you’ve started remembering, you might be a better source than property records.”

Martin takes a moment to respond, and the mechanical buzz of the tape recorder fills the room.

“Alright.” He says. “I’ll do my best.”

Slowly, Martin materializes, coming into being particle by particle. It’s beautiful , Jon thinks, like falling snow. Jon watches as the particle’s coalesce, becoming Martin-shaped, until the man, transparent and shifting as ever, is sitting crossed legged next to him.

He’s just as cold as he was before, but Jon’s prepared, having dug out the one sweater he stuffed into the bottom of his backpack. It’s a pleasant chill, especially given the otherwise warm weather outside.

Martin holds both his hands up, shaking them slightly. “Tada!”

Jon rolls his eyes, smiling. “Dedicated to showmanship, are we?”

“Hey,” says Martin, crossing his arms. “I’ve been an unthinking formless spirit for 30-odd years. I think I deserve the chance to use my–” he waves his hand. “‘Ghostly powers’, or whatever, to do something cool.”

Jon shuts his mouth immediately, guilt flooding his system. “Christ, I’m sorry Martin, I didn’t think–”

Now it’s Martin’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s ok, Jon, relax. I’m the one who made the joke.”

“Ah.” Jon does not relax. “I see.”

Jon pulls out his notebook. There’s almost no room left, pages covered in names and histories and sketches of the building. Martin leans over, craning his neck to see.

Jon starts a little. Not because Martin is cold, he expects that by now, but because he’s… close. Closer than he was a few days ago, by the computer. Not touching, there’s still still a distance between them, but Jon can see the freckles scattered across his face, faint but distinct, even in their ghostly form. Jon isn’t uncomfortable, just unprepared.

This is all data, he decides. Data about who Martin is as a ghost. Information he can use for… something. Probably. The fact that Martin’s freckles look nice, even in this unnatural state; that’s just data.

Martin, seemingly unaware of Jon’s mild to moderate internal panic, breaks the silence. “What’s this?” He points one transparent finger to a page covered in shapes.

“Oh!” Jon says, suddenly realizing what page he has open. “It’s, um- it’s the floor plan of the house.”

Martin just stares at him, so he continues. “I thought, I don’t know, maybe something about the shape of it could be keeping you here? You know, symbology and all that.” He gestures at the page. “I was seeing how many different ways I could draw it. I was thinking that maybe if I drew it backwards, or upside down, or even just shifted the angle, it would turn into something I recognized.”

“Huh,” Martin says, quietly, examining the page. “Is that something that normally happens in situations like this?”

Jon cringes internally at the situation he’s backed himself into. “N-Not really?”

Martin looks back up, and nods understandingly. “You’re really out of ideas here, aren't you?”

Jon’s gut reaction is indignance, but he squashes his ego in favor of more guilt. “Sorry,” he says, quietly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck (another nervous gesture in a long line of nervous gestures he’s never been able to kick). “I, um- I really am. I should have figured out how to–” He gestures at Martin. “You know, help you leave, by now.”

Martin’s face softens. “It’s okay, Jon. I know you’re- I know you’re trying your best.” He laughs, a self-deprecating thing. “Besides, I haven’t been much help.”

Jon blinks, surprised. “That’s not- Don’t worry about that, Martin. I know that talking like this, being like this, is- well, I know it’s taxing. I know you’re doing what you can.”

Martin smiles again, this time a little wobbly. Jon can see something behind his eyes, but decides to let it go. All in good time.

“Speaking of you helping, though.” Jon flips to a new page of his notebook. “I was wondering if I could ask about, um–” Jon pauses, wracking his mind for the least awkward way to phrase what he needs. “About your history?” He backtracks at the surprise in Martin's eyes. “O-or the history of the house, at least. I know you might not remember a lot, but anything is more helpful than reading another journal article on construction techniques from the early 20th century.”

Jon sort of grumbles the last part, and Martin laughs. Jon fixes him with an indignant glare, and Martin holds up a placating hand. “Alright, Jon. Whatever I can do to help.” He tilts his head slightly, clearly thinking. “I can’t promise how much I’ll remember, though.”

Jon nods. “Whatever you can. It all helps.”

Martin turns so that he’s facing Jon with his side to the bookcase. Jon does the same.

Suddenly, Martin’s face lights up. “Hey, I have an idea. How about we make this a game?”

Jon narrows his eyes. “How do you mean?”

“Well, how about for every question you ask, I get to ask you one? That way it’s not all so–” He gestures vaguely. “One-sided.”

“So… like a conversation then?”

Martin’s face does something strange at that, looking anywhere but Jon. “Yeah. Like a conversation.” He laughs nervously. “I mean, you already know a lot about me. I, um- I’d like to know more about you? If that’s alright.”

Oh, Jon thinks. He hadn’t considered that. It must be awfully awkward for Martin, talking with some who knows so much about him, when Martin only has his name and occupation.

“Okay,” Jon says. “That sounds fair.”

Martin nods, folding his hands in his lap. “Ask away, then.”

“Alright.” Jon pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Do you know why you- why you threw those books at the people living here?”

Martin sighs. “Honestly? Not really. I wasn’t- Hm.” He frowns down at his hands. “It’s- It’s hard to think, as a ghost. Or at least, it was hard. Everything sort of starts to blend together. You don’t make choices, like a person. You just do things. Like a reflex. You know, when someone hits your leg and you kick, without really thinking. You just…” Martin’s voice dies. “You just do. No thought.”

Jon is torn between fascination and sorrow. He nods, scribbling some notes down in his notebook. “Thank you, um- thanks for that.” He begins fiddling with his pencil. “Your turn.”

“Oh! Okay.” Martin returns his focus to Jon. “Where are you from?”

“Er- Bournemouth.”

Martin’s eyes light up. “Oh, cool! That must have been fun.”

Jon gives him a small smile. “It was, at times. I miss it- the ocean, mostly.”

Martin nods, understandingly. “Stuck in London, huh?”

“Sure.” Jon, eager to change the subject, flips to a new page of the notebook. “What did you mean when you said it ‘was’ hard? Is thinking getting easier for you?”

Martin blinks in surprise. “I-I guess? It’s, um, it’s easier, I think, when other people are around.” He gets that distant look in his eyes again. “30 years alone makes things- well, it makes time go a little funny.”

“I can imagine,” Jon says. “That must have been horrible.”

Martin nods. “It was not great. Do you have a favorite animal?” Martin seems just as eager to change the topic as Jon had been earlier.

While the question is unexpected, Jon answers immediately. “Cats.”

Martin looks at him skeptically. “Like… normal house cats?”

Jon nods. “Yeah. They’re smart, and cute. I, uh–” He grimaces. “I used to have one, with my ex. She got it in the breakup.”

A conflicted look crosses Martin’s face. “O-oh. I see.”

“His name is The Admiral. I can show you a photo, at some point, if you’d like?”

Martin nods. “I’d love that.” He sighs, wistfully. “I always wanted some kind of pet, but, well, with my mum…” Martin’s voice drifts off again. “It wasn’t really feasible.”

Jon nods. “Do you have a favorite animal?”

“Is that your question?”

“Well, no, I guess not, but–”

Martin sighs, dramatically, cutting him off. “I guess I’ll tell you for free, even though it is breaking the rules.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.”

Martin grins. “Spiders. They’re so cool, and the mechanics of their webs are fascinating .”

Apparently Jon does a shit job of hiding his disgust, because Martin’s smile immediately transforms into a frown. “Not a fan of spiders?”

“Not particularly, no,” Jon says, diplomatically.

Martin’s smile returns; it’s a teasing one, this time. “Well, I’ll save that lecture for another time, I guess.”

Jon groans, running a hand down his face, and Martin giggles, properly giggles.

Jon flips to a new notebook page. “Why are you alone? That is- why isn’t your mother here with you? She died only a little while before you did.”

Martin’s smile quickly shifts into what Jon can only describe as a well-practiced look of neutrality. His voice is perfectly level when he speaks. “I suppose there was nothing really keeping her here, in the end.”

Jon lets Martin's words hang in the air for a moment. “I see,” he says, voice quiet.

Martin just blinks for a moment, like he’s trying to shake something off. “Anyways!” His cheery voice and expression are back in an instant. He props one arm on his knee, resting his chin on his hand. “What made you decide to be a ghost hunter? Admittedly things have changed, but that wasn’t a typical career move, in my time at least.”

“Ah.” How does Jon explain, briefly, how a series of poor decisions in his 20’s led to a low-paying and genuinely weird job that he will probably never be able to put on any resume. “My, um- that ex that I mentioned earlier had a podcast about the supernatural, and she roped me into doing some of the field work for it one summer. As it turns out, I wasn’t all that bad at it.” In other words, he didn’t mind darkness, dangerous abandoned buildings, sleeping on the ground, and mindless waiting. “I made a few industry connections, one thing led to another, and I had myself a regular job on a commercial ghost hunting crew.”

Jon sighs. This is when things get tricky. “I didn’t really… gel , per se, with the academic life, so when the opportunity came around for me to get my masters, I passed it up.” He laughs, bitterly. “Turns out, no one is willing to hire someone with no references and no MLS for an archival position.” He shrugs. “I ended up quitting the ghost hunting crew I was on. Creative differences. Eventually, I realized that freelance ghost hunting is a lot more lucrative when you make house calls and promise to, you know, remove the ghost. Even if there is no ghost, and you just end up fixing whatever electrical or plumbing issue is plaguing the building. Which is the case, most of the time.” He takes a deep breath. “So here I am.”

“Huh,” says Martin. “I’m sorry to hear that, I guess?” He reaches up a hand to scratch the back of his neck, looking down at the floor. “If it’s any consolation, I- well, in my opinion, you seem like a pretty good ghost hunter.”

Jon laughs, dryly. “Maybe save that until I actually find a way for you to pass on.”

Martin smiles at that, but it seems a little hollow, somehow.

Jon flips to the next page of his journal. He only has one question left, so he asks it: “Do you remember how you died?”

Martin raises his eyebrows, and Jon instantly regrets saying anything. He doesn’t even need to know, not really. He’s just curious. He’s never spoken to a ghost before. He’s never seen one as, well- as thoughtful as Martin. “Sorry, we can, um- we can pretend I didn’t ask that? If it’s too soon.”

Martin shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t really remember, that’s all. It’s all a bit vague. I think…” He pauses, considering. “I think I died in my sleep. I remember going to sleep, better than I remember anything else at least.”

Jon nods. “That’s consistent with my, ah,” Jon tilts his head apologetically. “With my understanding of the situation.” Jon jots remembers dying down in his notebook and looks back up. “Your turn.”

Martin takes a deep and audible breath, resting one hand on the floor next to him, like he’s trying to ground himself. “How did it happen, then? How did I die?”

Jon’s not prepared for this. He’s not exactly known for his tact or bedside manner. “Are you- I mean, are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.” Martin’s voice is steady.

Jon fixes his gaze firmly on the floor. “Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Got you before you could even wake up. I’m- I’m so sorry.”

Martin is silent for a long moment, and Jon starts fiddling with the peeling edge carpet, for lack of any other way to occupy his hands.

“I see,” Martin says, voice quiet. Jon does look up, at that, to find Martin staring hazily off into the distance.

Jon is barely better with ghosts than he is with people, which is to say he’s bad at dealing with both, but Jon cares about Martin. So, for him, he’s willing to try.

Carefully, with all the delicacy he can muster, he reaches out, placing his hand next to Martin’s.

Martin looks up at that, confusion clear on his face. Jon flounders. “I, uh-” Jonathan Sims is not blushing. Jonathan Sims is a professional, and he is not blush- oh God, he is, isn’t he? Why is he blushing? What possible reason could he have for– for–

Martin watches Jon like he’s looking for something, and maybe he is, because slowly, deliberately, he flips his hand over so that it’s resting, palm up, inside Jon’s.

Jon is not sure what he expected to happen. He’s not sure what expected this to feel like.

It feels powerfully cold, stronger than when he’s just sitting near Martin, but Jon can’t seem to find it in himself to mind. There’s no resistance to Martin, physically. His hand moving through Jon’s felt the same as moving through a cold fog.

Jon can’t tear his gaze away from their hands. How many people can say they’ve done this, he thinks. How many people can say they’ve held hands with a ghost?

He still doesn’t look away, even when Martin speaks, voice laced with nerves. “Is this- I mean, are you- is this ok? I can–”

“Martin,” Jon cuts him off, ignoring the slightly hoarse quality of his own voice. “This is- this is fine. Nice, even,” he adds, a little lamely.

“Oh.” Martin blinks. “I see.”

“You turn?” Jon offers up, weakly.

Martin looks at him, searchingly, before offering up the small smile that Jon has, he realizes, really become quite fond of. “Alright. Favorite book?”

Jon grins. “The Haunting of Hill House.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Martin finds that he doesn’t really mind being a ghost, not when Jon’s around.

Cohabitation isn’t something Martin is used to anymore, but it’s not as much trouble to relearn as he would have thought. Now that he and Jon can speak to one another, now that they’re on the same page, now that Martin has realized that the discomfort of being around another person is actually something he should lean into, it’s remarkably easy.

Of course, it’s made easier by the fact that Martin doesn’t sleep, eat, use the facilities, or do… much of anything, really, besides hover aimlessly.

He’s been spending a lot of time watching Jon. It sounds creepy, even to him, but it’s not like he has much else to do, especially when he’s gone formless. He watches Jon work, fingers flying over keys and pencil flying across paper, adjusting his glasses as he examines some odd geometry of the kitchen or measures some strange angle of the hallway. Martin doesn’t know a lot about ghost hunting, ghostly as he is, but it seems to involve a lot of watching, waiting, examining, and recording. 

He reads over Jon’s shoulder, learning about the history of his house and keeping up with whatever beat up paperback Jon is digging into that week. Even when Martin isn’t doing any of that, resting in his room or pacing or hovering silently, it’s just… it’s just nice to know that there’s someone around.

When he’s taken form, though, he’ll find Jon and they’ll talk about whatever he’s researching that day, or he’ll ask Martin seemingly random questions about what it was like living in the house. None of which he has any good answers for, both because he doesn’t remember and because it’s a topic he’s staunchly avoiding.

Martin doesn’t want to think about his life, but it’s not something he can easily avoid. There are records of it everywhere, all around him, following him no matter where he goes in the house. They’re comforting in their familiarity, but painful in what they represent. Martin generally avoids the subject of the past when speaking to Jon, and Jon seems happy enough to follow suit, but its glaring absence in their conversations conveys something that Martin’s certain words could never do justice.

Still, the talking is nice, even if he’s out of practice.

Martin is formless, bored out of his mind, when he catches Jon mumbling angrily at his laptop. What’s on the screen isn’t any website that Martin recognizes.

The tape recorder on the table turns on, and Martin takes form. “What’s that?”

Jon startles, jumping a bit, before twisting in his seat to face Martin. “Christ, give me some warning before you do that.”

Martin winces. “Sorry, still working on that.” He points at the laptop. “What website is that?”

“Ah.” He turns back to face the screen. “I was looking for- that is- I’m tired of only eating microwaved meals and whatever canned nonsense Melanie left behind.” He gestures at the laptop. “I was looking for something I could bake with what I have on hand.”

Martin leans in, squinting at the text. “Banana bread?”

Jon shrugs. “It seems easy enough.” He nods in the direction of the kitchen. “Those bananas are far too ripe to eat as they are, and I’m not a good enough baker to do anything more complex. I know it’s not, well- it’s not fancy and it’s a bit silly but–” Jon continues, self-conscious note in his voice, but Martin is already nodding.

“I can do you one better.” Martin is smiling, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to no matter how many times it happens. “How would you like to use the Blackwood family banana bread recipe?”

“Really? Do you know where I could find it?”

Martin deflates a bit. “It’s probably long gone, even if I could remember where we kept–” he gestures vaguely. “Things like that. But I think I remember most of it? Maybe? I could, I don’t know, tell you the instructions?”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up, but he nods. “Sure, tell me what you can remember and I’ll write it down.”

Everything from then on is a minor catastrophe.

Martin can only remember about ¾ of the recipe, so Jon guesses at the missing instructions and ingredients. That would be fine on its own, but as Jon begins baking and Martin watches, he begins to realize that Jon is a remarkably terrible cook.

“Jon, you’re- the dry ingredients are never going to get incorporated if you’re mixing them like that.”

He’s aiming for constructive criticism, but clearly he’s missed something by the way Jon snaps back at him. “I am trying my best.” He shoots a glare in Martin’s direction, grip tightening on the mixing bowl as if he thinks it’s the thing causing his cooking to fail. 

“I’m sure. It’s just, well, you–”

“Bake the bread yourself, then!” Jon jabs the wooden spoon in Martin’s direction. “Some help you are.” He grumbles.

Martin floats backwards at that, and Jon can clearly feel his absence because he looks up, face clouding with regret.

Martin doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing but clearly it’s something at least mildly alarming because Jon stops mixing and steps towards him.

“I’m sorry, are you okay? I didn’t mean to–”

Martin slips into faux-cheer like it’s his second skin. “It’s fine! Don’t worry.”

“No, it isn’t, I didn’t mean–” He exhales, and then looks up at the ceiling like he’s searching for the words somewhere above him. “I’m- I’m not very good at this. Talking to people.”

“I’m not people, Jon.”

“Okay, maybe, but still, I’m- Just let me know?” The earnestness in his voice hits Martin like a physical force. “If I- if I do something to upset you. Which I will try not to do, for the record.” He adds quickly. “I’m not… it’s been a while. Since I had someone to talk to.”

Martin nods. “I will. A-And same here, for what it’s worth.”

Jon nods, serious and firm, and then looks at the banana bread mix still clutched in his hands. “Care to help me finish this god-awful bread?”

Martin nods, smiling. “Absolutely.”

They finish the bread, and sit side by side on the counter as it bakes. Jon’s on some tirade about emulsifiers when Martin broaches the subject. “You don’t really know how to cook, do you?”

Jon blinks, before fixing his gaze firmly on the opposite wall. “No, not really. Never, ah– never really had anyone to teach me?”

That’s veering a little too close to something important, and Martin can tell. It feels like he’s being given something, some tangible piece of Jon to hold and protect. “I’m sorry.” He offers, because that’s all he can do.

Jon shrugs. “Never enough time to learn when you’re an adult. Everyone expects you to just- to just know these things by then.”

“I could teach you, sometime?” That gets Jon to look at him, questioningly. “I mean, I can’t really say how good of a teacher I’ll be like this, but I can try.” He tilts his head in the direction of the laptop. “It’ll give you a break from that, at least.”

Jon nods, slowly at first but gaining fervency with every second. “That sounds amazing, Martin. Thank you.” He pauses. “How did you learn how to cook, then?”

Martin shrugs. “Self-taught, I suppose. Cookbooks and magazines and the like.” He decides to give Jon a bit of himself in return. “I, um- I had to. When my mum got sick.”

“Oh.” Jon looks like he’s about to say something else, but then the timer dings and Jon rushes to remove the banana bread from the oven.

Once it’s been removed from the pan, Jon cuts himself a slice and hops back onto the counter, fork in hand. He takes a bite, and grimaces. Martin laughs, unable to help himself at the look of disgust on Jon’s face. Jon glares at him, but there’s no heat to it now. Still, Martin covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his obvious amusement.

“That bad?” he asks.

Jon shakes his head. “Worse.”

“Can you describe it for me? Since I can’t try it myself.”

“It’s...” Jon tilts his head, fork held in the air, like Britain's worst food critic. “It’s very bad.”

“Jon.”

“I don’t know how else to describe it!” He huffs.

“Is it too sour? Too sweet? Too dry?”

Jon thinks for a moment. “Yes.”

“Jon.”

“Alight! Alright.” He lets his head drop to the cabinet behind him. “It’s sour. And too salty. And the center is undercooked.”

“See! There we go.”

“The outside is crisp, though. So we have that.”

Martin grins, mirroring Jon and leaning his head against the cabinet, even though it’s not really supporting him, intangible as he is. “I used to make it better than that, I think.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it though!” Jon says, indignantly. “I’m sure it was excellent.”

“Thanks,” Martin’s voice is quiet with sincerity.

Jon gives him an awkward nod, pauses, and takes another bite of the banana bread.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because food is food?”

Martin groans. “You are going to be a horrible student, aren’t you?”

Jon grins, eyes crinkling at the edges. It’s a good look on him, and it thrills Martin just a little to know that it’s an expression he caused.

“Yep, that’s me,” Jon says, popping the p. “Thoroughly horrible.”

“Says the human to the ghost.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “That’s a different kind of horror.”

“Whatever you say.” The thought makes Martin a bit giddy. They’re a pair of horrors trapped together in a haunted house. Like the start of a bad joke. Like the start of a ghost story. The start of something, certainly. Hopefully something good.

Jon has a habit of making mistakes. Maybe that’s just a side effect of being human, but he can’t help but feel like he makes more poor choices per capita than the average person.

They’re not all choices, though. Sometimes, they’re just things that happen, situations he finds himself in without the foggiest idea of how he got from point A to point B.

Like now, how Jon finds himself clutching his own burned hand on the kitchen floor of a haunted house.

Serves him right for being excited about baking.

It’s nothing serious, he’s in no real danger, it’s just… annoying. One more problem for the ever-growing pile of problems he has to deal with now.

Naturally, Martin chooses this exact moment to materialize, sitting opposite him on the floor. It’s different from the slow and almost elegant way he appeared in the bedroom. It’s quick, like something fuzzy and distant sharply sliding back into focus. The tape recorder on the kitchen counter clicks on.

He’s frowning. “What happened?”

Jon shakes his head. “Nothing.” He tilts his head, as if seeing Martin from another angle will clarify his intentions. “Were you watching me?”

Martin blinks, silent, and Jon can’t help but think that, maybe, if he weren’t a ghost, he would be blushing right now.

“No!” Martin all but yelps, voice half an octave higher. “I-I mean, I was in the area, but–” Jon is grinning, despite the pain in his hand, and Martin seems to realize he’s being teased because he stops rambling and just glares.

There’s still a flustered tone in his voice when he continues. “I was in the kitchen for perfectly legitimate reasons.” He redirects, waving a hand at Jon where he’s slumped against the cabinets. “Anyways, are you okay? That looks like it hurts.”

Jon looks down at the reddening mark on his hand. It does, but he’s had worse. He tells Martin as much.

Martin hums, understandingly. “Are you going to treat it?”

Jon shrugs. “Probably not? It’ll be fine.”

Martin is already shaking his head. “You should, though. Even if it’s not bad, it’ll make things better in the long run. Here–” He moves to get up, make a frustrated noise, and sits back down. “Sorry, it’s- I wish I could help, you know.” He waves his hand, passing it up and down, effortlessly, through the floor beneath him. “I can’t do anything.”

Jon nods. “I know. I, um- I appreciate the effort.” He pauses. “It really is fine, though.”

“Can I give you instructions?” Martin’s voice is hopeful and genuine. Jon likes this about him, his stubborn kindness in the face of Jon’s own sometimes stupid but always desperate need to be self-sufficient.

Jon sighs. “Alright, I guess.”

Martin nods, immediately serious. “What you’re going to need to do first is run it under cold water.”

Jon gets to his feet and does as he’s told, turning on the tap. He can feel Martin move to hover behind him, his presence almost as cold as the water on his hand.

After a few moments, he turns off the water and dries off his hand. It still stings, but the cold water definitely helped. He turns around, and takes a step back, pressing himself against the still-wet edge of the sink, because Martin is far closer than he expected. Jon has a clear view of the constellation of freckles covering his face; they really are quite lovely. He can feel his gaze begin to drift involuntarily towards Martin’s lips, so he quickly shifts his focus to the space next Martin’s face instead.

Martin seems to become aware of this closeness at the same time Jon does, because he quickly moves backwards, putting a bit more distance between them. Jon can’t help but feel a little bit disappointed. He squashes the feeling with his thumb. Focus.

“I, um- what now?” He’s a little embarrassed at how wobbly his voice sounds. Focus focus foucfocusfocus.

“Oh, right! Okay. There should be a first-aid kit with a bandage and everything in under the sink in the bathroom upstairs.” He points upwards. “I’ll meet you there, then?”

Jon nods, and Martin floats upwards through the ceiling. Jon can feel a fond smile begin to creep across his face. Martin is equal parts strange and charming. No matter how many times he pushes it down, the fondness comes bubbling up between the cracks of his fingers, growing and spreading like weeds—no, flowers—in sidewalk cracks.

Jon’s not sure what to do with that feeling, that new, shy, and spun glass-delicate emotion. He follows Martin upstairs.

Jon lets Martin into the bathroom—he could’ve entered at any time, couldn’t he?—and immediately starts rifling through the area under the sink. He finds the first aid kit before too long. He turns to Martin in confusion. “Wait, how did you know this would be here? Hasn’t the house been empty for decades?”

Martin is still hovering in the doorway, and a look of confusion crosses his face. “Oh, I- I don’t know? I guess that’s where it used to be, back when I was alive, and we just got lucky that the, um- that the new people living here use the same spot.”

Jon nods. “Are you remembering more, then?”

“Yeah, I think so. Bits and pieces, more than anything concrete.” Martin floats into the bathroom. “Bandage, then?”

“Right.” Jon opens the first-aid kit and takes out a bandage. Leaning over the sink, he begins to wrap it around his hand, covering the angry red burn mark.

Martin is quiet, so much so that Jon is a little surprised to see him standing next to him in the bathroom mirror when he looks back up from his hand. He turns to Martin, showing off his work. “All done. Is it up to your standards?”

Martin gives him an exaggerated look of appraisal before nodding solemnly. “It’s adequate.”

Jon laughs. “Feeling generous, are we?”

“That we are.” Martin reaches out, before stopping himself. “Can I, um- can I give it a look, though?”

Jon doesn’t know why he would need to, but he nods anyways, and holds out his hand, palm up.

Martin does reach out, this time, looking down to examine Jon’s hand. Martin moves one hand under his, as if to lift it, but Martin’s fingers drift into Jon’s wrist without any resistance. It feels cold, as always, but there’s a sharp note of relief where he knows the red mark on his hand resides under all the bandages.

“O-Oh, that’s actually–”

Martin instantly draws his hand away. “Sorry, is that–”

“No, it’s, um- it feels good?” Martin looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “L-Like the cold water. Cold is good for burns, I suppose?”

“Huh,” says Martin, and slowly moves his hand back towards Jon’s. Carefully, like he’s not exactly sure what will happen, he curls his fingers underneath Jon’s hand so that they stick up, ghostly as ever, through his palm. Jon shivers, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Is that, um–” he looks back up at Jon cautiously. “Does that feel good?”

Jon nods. “Yeah, it–” he quiets. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin nods. “Anytime. I’m, um- I’m glad I could do something to help.” He offers Jon a lopsided smile. “Happy to be your personal ghostly ice pack whenever you need it.”

Something about the phrasing of that, the your and the personal makes the tips of Jon’s ears go red. He mumbles a thank you, and looks back down at their hands.

It’s incredible, really, everything that’s happening and the way Jon’s skin looks through Martin’s… whatever Martin is made out of, everything refracted like it's underwater. It’s enthralling, studying the places where their hands meet.

That feeling, that fondness, once again bursts through the carefully placed clouds in Jon’s brain like rays of sunshine. He sneaks a glance at Martin’s face, only to find he’s already watching him, Jon’s own fondness mirrored in his features, the curve of his eyebrow, the quirk of his lips.

Jon looks back down at the place where their hands meet and interlock. What are they becoming, together?

“Martin?”

Jon calls out to him from Martin’s bedroom, a few days after… whatever happened in the bathroom. Not to say that anything did happen, not really. Jon had just looked at him, like that and well- Martin feels like he’s been spinning in circles for days trying to figure out what it all means.

So when Jon calls, Martin comes, making his way to the bedroom and making himself visible.

Jon is sitting on the floor below the room’s single window, wreathed in the sunlight pouring through it, notebook and pencil in hand. He looks gorgeous like this, honestly and truly, and it takes Martin a few extra seconds to take form because he can’t really stay focused on the task.

He does become visible, though. “Hello. You rang?”

Jon looks up. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions? Not about your house or your life, just… general ghostly things.”

Martin moves to sit across from him. “Sure. Any reason for asking?”

Jon shrugs. “General research? I, um- I don’t know when or if I’ll ever get the chance to interview a ghost again.”

Martin nods. “Makes sense. What d’you want to know?”

“What does it feel like? To be a ghost, I mean.” Martin likes Jon like this, unabashedly curious and, if he’s being slightly narcissistic, entirely focused on him. It’s nice and just a tad overwhelming.

Martin tries, he really tries. “It’s… it’s hard to explain, you know? Because, I mean, as much as I look human”—he gestures at himself—“I’m really not. Not anymore, at least. It’s like… it’s like asking a tree what it feels like to be a tree. Hard to explain.”

“Can you maybe try to, I don’t know, translate it into something I could understand?” Jon fiddles nervously with his pencil. “U-Unless- you don’t have to, you know, if it’s too much.”

Martin shakes his head. “It’s fine. For now, at least. I’ll let you know if it gets to be too much.”

“Promise?” The care in Jon’s voice throws him for a loop.

“Promise.” He likes this, being held accountable for keeping track of his own emotions. It feels like something warm and bright in his chest.

“Alright.” Jon schools his face into a teasing attempt at professionalism. “Now, Mr. Blackwood, how does being a ghost make you feel ?”

Martin laughs at that. The sound dies out as he mulls over the question. What does it feel like, to be him? It’s been so long since he’s felt anything else.

“I think… did you ever accidentally find yourself in someplace that’s closed, as a kid? Like, wander into some closed down building or park?”

Jon nods. “You were a wanderer too, huh?”

Martin chuckles. “Yeah. Never, uh- never really had someone bothering to keep track of me, most of the time. But yeah. I wandered off.” Something occurs to Martin. “Were you an only child?”

“Yes. Just, um- Just me and my grandmother, mostly.”

Martin can read in between the lines of that. “What were you like, then? As a kid.”

Jon snorts. “Unruly, precocious, annoying, pretentious- the list goes on.”

Martin tsks at that, Jon’s deflection and self-deprecation tugging at a closed-off part of his brain. “You were a kid , Jon. You couldn’t have been that bad.”

“I was a menace! Walking off alone all the time, far too curious for my own good.” Jon pauses. “What were you like, then?”

Martin lets out a long sigh, thinking. “Quiet, mostly? Shy. Kind, though. I think I always tried to be kind.”

Jon nods. “That makes sense. I mean- I can see that.” Jon starts fiddling with his pencil again, and Martin realizes that he hasn’t been writing any of this down. “You’re kind now, too, you know.”

Martin smiles, desperate not to show the emotion he can feel building inside him. “Thanks. I think you’re kind, too.”

Jon scoffs, and Martin plows ahead. “I mean it! Maybe you’re not very good at it, but– but you try . Which is more than can be said for some people, honestly.”

Jon makes a noise that sounds more like acquiescence than agreement. “Regardless, I bet you were nicer than I was as a kid.”

“I mean, I don’t doubt that, but you were a kid, Jon. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Martin reaches out, poking Jon’s knee. He likes that this is something he can do now, without worrying about how Jon will react. Casual touch. What a concept.

“I wish- hm.” Jon looks down at the floor. “I wish I had known someone like you as a kid. Someone just as lonely as me. I think, well- it doesn’t matter what I think, but it would’ve been nice.”

Martin is slightly floored by that, a mundane admission that still somehow hits him like a ton of bricks. “I-I mean,” he stutters out. “I would’ve liked that as well.”

They let that sit, for a minute, the past-tense of it all soaking into their skin and into the floorboards.

“That loneliness is what I’m talking about, I think.” Martin says, slowly. “Being a kid alone in a place with nobody else, feeling like you're the last person left on earth, like everyone else has gone to Mars and left the lights on. Even though you know it isn’t true, it can’t be true, it’s still… lonely. Peaceful too, though, and a bit freeing. No one to watch you, no one to judge. Both the good and bad of being unseen.”

Martin lets out a slow, deep breath. “Does that make any sense?”

Jon blinks for a moment, before nodding. “That, um- Yeah. That makes sense.” He sets down his unused pencil. “You, ah, you have a way with words.”

“O-Oh! Thank you, Jon.” He tilts his head, trying to remember. “I think I used to write, maybe. Back when I was alive. Poetry?” He tests the word, and it feels right. “Poetry.”

Jon does a supremely bad job at hiding the knee-jerk look of disgust that crosses his face, but he does a rather nice job of schooling it into something a bit more neutral. “Not a fan?” Martin says, sympathetically.

“You could say that.” Jon’s words are clipped, and he waves his hand like the matter is a physical fog between them. “Still, did you write any?”

Some of the haze in Martin’s brain clears, and his stomach drops.

Martin did write poetry, but more importantly Martin knows where his old poetry notebook is: where he left it, hidden on top of the center bookshelf.

Martin realizes several things, in quick succession:

1. Martin knows, with an intense, bone-deep surety, that his notebook is what’s tying him to this world.
2. He threw those books, unthinkingly, reflexively, because whoever had moved into his room had gotten a little too close to discovering it.
3. He cannot, under any circumstances, let Jon find his notebook.

Martin is surprised by this last realization, but he knows it’s just as true as any other piece of knowledge. He does not want Jon to find his notebook. He does not want Jon to help him pass on.

He also knows that he can’t stay like this, not forever. It’s taxing to take form, and it’s tortuous to stay formless for too long. It’s not sustainable. It’s barely even tolerable.

He knows this, but his deep, overpowering, distinctly human fear of the unknown, of what does or does not come after this, is stronger than any logic. This house, this life and lack of life, is all he knows. He can’t leave, not yet. He wants to stay. He needs to stay, with desperation that is as strong and immutable as the laws of gravity. 

He likes being around Jon. He wants to keep being around Jon, even if it hurts him in the long run. He wants to know what happens, how this ghost story, his ghost story, plays out.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice is tinged with worry. “Are you alright?”

Martin shakes his head, willing the new knowledge to somehow hide itself once more. “I- yeah. I’m fine. It’s just–” He laughs, frantic and pointy and very obviously unnatural. “I just remembered that I was really bad at writing poetry.”

Jon’s brow furrows, and Martin can’t find the strength inside himself to pretend it’s not completely adorable. “It can’t have been that bad.”

Martin shakes his head. “Trust me, it was.” Frantic to divert the conversation, he reaches out for something, anything. “Did you ever write? For fun, I mean. Not for–” he waves a hand dismissively. “Academia.”

Jon seems to sense Martin’s unease and, gratefully, follows him to this new topic. “Not really but I did, um–” He gives an embarrassed huff. “If you must know, I was in a fairly horrendous band, back in college.”

Martin leans forwards, chin resting in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, enthralled. “No. What kind of band?”

Jon grimaces like he’s being interrogated. “Punk?”

Martin drags his hands down his face. Jonathan Sims in a punk band. Jonathan Sims in a punk band. “Tell me everything. This is key to your ghost research.”

Jon rolls his eyes.

Jon tells Martin embarrassing stories from college, Martin shares some of the truly bonkers tales he remembers from the 80’s, and together they pass the time. Martin does not think about the notebook on the bookshelf. Martin very pointedly does not think about anything other than himself, Jon, and the things they’re sharing. It’s a beautiful day, and the sun is bright. Might as well enjoy it while he can.

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[A PHONE RINGS, AND THEN ABRUPTLY STOPS]

[JON] Hello?

[PAUSE]

[JON] Hi Melanie, how are you?... That’s good to hear… Good, yeah. It’s been- well, it’s been interesting.

[PAUSE]

[JON] (sighs) As of right now? I can’t tell you for sure, but I have a feeling we’re making progress. Can’t be too much longer.

[PAUSE]

[JON] (neutrally) I guess I did say that, didn’t I? My mistake. I have a feeling I’m making progress.

[PAUSE]

[JON] (tiredly) Really, it’s fine. I’m fine. (faux cheer) You’ll be back home in no time! Give Georgie my best. Speak to you soon!

[SILENCE]

[A DEEP, EXHAUSTED-SOUNDING SIGH]

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

Like all the best things, it starts simply out of boredom.

“Can you leave the house?” Jon says, out loud, to the empty room. He’s perched on the edge of the air mattress, going in circles trying to access the name of the architect who built Martin’s house without any sort of credentials. 

It’s exhausting. It’s frustrating. Jon curses himself, and the fact that he’s letting Martin down like this. If he were simply better at his job , Martin wouldn’t be stuck here. Martin wouldn’t have to put up with him anymore. Martin could be free.

Jon pushes down those emotions. They aren’t helpful or productive. Instead, he gives into curiosity, the familiar and well-known urge to question.

Almost before he’s done asking the question, Martin appears, sitting on the bed beside him, and the tape recorder next to him clicks on. The instant drop in temperature is familiar to him, now. Jon finds himself smiling, presumably like an idiot. 

Martin taps his chin, considering. “I don’t think so. I mean, those are the rules, aren’t they?”

“I guess so,” Jon says, closing his laptop. His back is aching from hours spent bent over the thing. “Probably wouldn’t want to risk it, anyways.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, a little glumly.

Jon stretches, back making an audible popping noise. Then, somewhere in the mix of thoughts about land deeds and property taxes, he realizes something.

“I have an idea, actually.” He turns to Martin, who immediately leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. It occurs to Jon that he has no idea what color his eyes are, pale and see-through as they are now. “Okay, follow me on this,” he continues.

Martin nods, watching him. Jon is not used to being watched like this, eyes intent and focused. He's the ghost hunter here. It’s his job to observe Martin, not the other way around. It’s not that he doesn’t attract attention, it’s just that the people whose attention he attracts don’t often stick around as long as Martin has.

Martin, who talks to Jon despite his prickly and awkward exterior.

Martin, who makes Jon laugh and smile and feel the kinds of emotions he had thought he no longer had access to.

Martin, who is stuck here with him because of Jon’s own incompetence.

That thought jolts him out of… whatever spiral his brain had begun down.

He blinks a few times, before continuing. “Your backyard is technically still part of the property, right? So, theoretically, you could, maybe, be able to go outside while remaining in the legal definition of a ‘house’?”

Martin looks at him, for a long moment, before nodding. “Sure, why not. You said these things work on dream logic, right?”

Jon nods. “They do, but who really knows. ‘Ghost lawyer’ isn’t a profession yet.”

Martin laughs, warm like the sun streaming through the windows. “Christ, can you imagine? That would be awful.”

Jon smiles. “So, fancy a walk outside?”

Martin smiles in return. “That sounds wonderful.”

They’re slow at first, tentative and careful. Jon goes through the backdoor into the garden first, holding the door open and watching for any signs of danger as Martin follows him.

Martin stands in the doorway, motionless, a conflicted expression on his face. Jon gives him an encouraging smile, because he really has nothing else to offer him.

Cautious, Martin floats through the doorway, barely an inch over the threshold. He freezes immediately, eyes closed and fists clenched, wasting for some sort of reaction.

Nothing happens.

Martin opens one eye, and then another, and then spins around to take in his surroundings, like he’s worried that something has changed in the time he’s had his eyes closed.

He raises his hands to his face in delight, laughter bubbling up out of him. His smile is covered, but it can still be seen in his eyes.

He’s much harder to see, the daylight making the lines and details of his appearance harder to make out against the blue of the sky and the bright green of the garden. His silhouette is still easy to spot, sunlight refracting through it in a way that reminds Jon of sunlight on clear water; shimmering, dancing, entrancing patterns of light across the surface.

Jon is not prone to hyperbole. Jon thinks that Martin is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

After Martin walks around the garden for a while, checking to see which plants he used to care for had survived without him, they end up laying side by side in the grass, with the tape recorder somewhere behind them, still whirring away.

The silence between them is comfortable, broken every so often by one of them commenting on some thing or another.

Jon can’t stop stealing glances at Martin. He’s beautiful like this, yes, but, more than that, he’s fascinating. Jon can’t stop himself from trying to work out the patterns in the light, from marveling at the way Martin rests next to him without disturbing a single blade of grass.

After a time, Martin catches Jon redhanded in the middle of his looking/looking away. Jon can’t really see his features, his expression or reaction, so he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head.

“The weather is lovely today.”

Jon is saved from embarrassment and a one way trip down a spiral of regret by Martin’s earnest reaction. “God, it really is.” He sighs. “I used to love days like this, back when I was alive. I would go to the park, if I wasn’t working, and just… sit. It was nice.”

Jon hums in agreement. “I used to go to the beach on days like today, back when I was a kid.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the ocean.” It’s spoken neutrally, but it makes Jon ache. He wishes he could show Martin the sea. “Is it beautiful? I always thought it must be.”

Jon nods, fervently, and shifts onto his side to face Martin fully. “It is. I don’t miss Bournemouth very often, but I miss the sea all the time.”

“Why move to London, then?”

“There are more ghosts in London.” Jon pauses, carefully considering his words. “There was nothing much keeping me there, anyways.”

Martin nods, light shifting kaleidoscopically with the movement. “I understand.”

Jon thinks he does, partially at least. But something is keeping Martin here, for now at least. Jon can’t fathom what that might be.

Luckily, Martin changes the subject. “There used to be this bakery, down the street from here. I used to go there, on nice days, but also whenever I was feeling lonely. Because sometimes, you know, even when you don’t really want to talk to anybody, it’s just good to be around people. They had outdoor seating and everything.” His voice is wistful. “They had the most amazing muffins.”

“I could check sometime,” Jon offers. “Go see if they’re still open.”

“Yeah”, Martin says, voice taking on a strange quality. He’s silent for a moment before he continues, much quieter now. “I wish we could go there, together. It, um- It might be nice.”

Jon is rendered silent by a mixture of shock and longing. Jon hadn’t realized how much he had wanted that, some vague sort of future normalcy with Martin. It’s the kind of want that hurts, because he knows that normalcy is something they will never have.

Clearly, his stunned silence comes across differently to Martin, because he immediately backtracks. “I mean- that is- I don’t mean to, I don’t know, overstep, I just-”

“Martin.” Jon’s voice is firm, and Martin immediately stops rambling. He continues, voice softer. “This bakery… did they have scones?”

“Yes.” Martin’s voice matches Jon’s in quality and volume. “They had wonderful scones.”

“And tea?”

“Loads of different kinds.”

Jon closes his eyes. He can practically smell the baked goods, the earl grey, the jam. “I would have liked that, Martin. Going there, with you. It would be nice. Lovely, even.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice is barely a whisper.

They’re both quiet now, and the silence is only disturbed by the sound of bird calls coming from somewhere behind them in the yard.

Martin is the first to break whatever has fallen over them. He laughs, a little breathless. “Bet you say that to all the ghosts you hunt, hm?”

Jon rolls his eyes fondly. “Give me some credit, Martin.”

“Actually, though,” Martin’s voice shifts from soft to inquisitive. “Is this normal? In terms of ghost hunting and all that. Are all ghosts like me?”

Jon shakes his head, as much as he can while still on his side. “Not at all. From what I’ve read, most ghosts are much less stubborn.” Martin laughs, and Jon continues, feeling warm and carefree in the afternoon light, bird calls sounding for all the world like music. “I honestly don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a genuine haunting before… before you. Most of the things people think are ghosts are really just stories, constructed out of power failures and perfectly mundane noises. I’ve never met a ghost, especially not one as communicative or as… complex as you.”

“Sorry to keep you, then.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m- I’m enjoying this. Being here, with you. Besides,” he continues, focusing on the grass between them. “It’s my fault that you’re still here. I should’ve found some way to help you move on by now.”

Martin shakes his head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I understand that these things can be… complicated.” Martin reaches out, hand coming to rest on and in Jon's shoulder. The temperature around Jon drops, but in the sunlight it feels more like a cool breeze than anything else. Martin seems to be waiting for a reaction to continue, so Jon smiles and nods.

“Take your time,” Martin says, voice soft again.

Jon feels like a great weight has been at least somewhat lifted from him, so he speaks, without worrying or overthinking. “You know when you asked if all ghosts are like you, and I said no?”

“Yes?”

“It’s not just ghosts. There’s no one like you, Martin. Dead or otherwise.”

“Jon,” Martin says, voice pleading, aching, longing, all at the same time. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever heard his name said like that, with that much naked care and emotion.

They are both silent, and the bird behind them sings one final note before flying up over the garden wall and into the sky.

All in all, things are only slightly weird between Jon and Martin after that day in the garden.

They don’t avoid one another, at least not on purpose. Martin still has to recharge. While it’s easier to feel human when Jon’s around, it still takes a lot out of him. There’s just a little more hesitancy when they speak to one another, a little more stuttering and a little more that goes unsaid. It’s not bad, just strange. It’s different. It’s new.

What do you do when you care about someone, really, properly care, but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it?

Martin cares for Jon. It’s not a feeling he thinks he can put a label on, too strong and new and overwhelming to name. It’s a feeling he didn’t know he could feel, not anymore at least. It’s been slowly building from a warm glow to a raging fire over these past few weeks, and Martin is at a loss for what to do about it.

Not that he would do much about it, if he was alive. Jon is the type of guy he would fantasize about asking out for weeks before abruptly realizing that those fantasies would never be anything but fantasies. Then he would move on, to some other unattainable person and some other intangible dream.

This fantasy, these feelings he has for Jon, they’ll never amount to anything productive, anything tangible, but for some reason he can’t let go of them. Maybe it’s because Jon is still here, after everything; he’s here, and seems to care about Martin as well.

Which would be glorious, if it didn’t make Martin feel so damn guilty. It’s not that Martin has issues with lying; things like that have to be done sometimes. It’s just that this lie, the hiding of the notebook, is causing Jon worry. Jon is worried because he wants to help Martin, but Martin doesn’t want help. Martin wants things to stay exactly as they are, for as long as he can get away with it.

He doesn’t know how long that will be, though, because coherency is still taxing and with every passing day Martin feels as though the house is closing and coiling in on him like some giant snake. Hallways shrink, walls suffocate, and rooms remind him of things he thinks he was better off forgetting.

He doesn’t like the house, but the thought of leaving it, of stepping out into the unknown, is far worse.

It’s in this awkward, in-between stage, this overpowering fear, that Martin finds Jon awake one night, bent over his laptop, eyes tired and drooping. Martin doesn’t sleep, so he knows that this kind of thing isn’t normal for Jon, at least as long as he’s been in the house.

Nights are worse for Martin. The dark and empty halls remind him of how lonely he felt when he was alive. The details of his existence are still sometimes hidden from him, but the loneliness pierces through; intense, painful, and sharp.

So when he enters the living room to find Jon awake, sitting on his bed, working away, Martin doesn’t leave. Instead, he summons whatever energy he has and takes form, tape recorder clicking on as he does. Maybe it’s a little less elegant than his form has previously been, but it’s as much as he can manage, at the moment.

Jon starts at the noise, and then again when he looks up to see Martin hovering in front of him. “Hello,” he says, voice sounding as tired as he looks.

Martin cuts right to the chase. “Go to bed, Jon. You can’t be getting anything done this late, anyways.”

Jon makes a vague noise of protest, fingers gripping the edge of his laptop. “No, I-I need–”

Martin cuts him off. “Is it an emergency?” Silence. “Can it wait until tomorrow?” Silence. Martin nods decisively. “Bed, then.” 

Jon lets out a deep and weary sigh, closing his laptop. He reaches up to rub his eyes, a bleary frown making its way onto his face.

Martin softens at that, and speaks again. “You don’t have to burn the candle at both ends, Jon. Just take care of yourself.” He pauses, considers, and continues. “If not for yourself, then for me.”

Jon looks up at that, tiredness causing his walls to vanish in a puff of smoke, leaving his expression open and affectionate. “Okay,” he says, and yawns. “I can do that, I think.”

Martin nods, chest tight. What would have become of him if he’d had this, whatever this is, back when he was alive, back when it could have counted for something?

Jon gently deposits his laptop on the floor in front of him, and burrows into his sleeping bag without even bothering to change his clothes. He removes his glasses, blindly placing them on the floor as well. His hair is messy, falling over his eyes and onto the pillow beneath his head.

It’s endearing, watching Jon fumble through the motions of personhood like this. It reminds Martin of himself.

He moves closer to Jon’s bedside, where he rests with eyes half closed, barely visible in the faint moonlight coming through the window. Martin is still out of practice when it comes to caring for others, but he thinks he’s doing alright. Fueled by this sudden confidence, he raises a hand to Jon’s face, slowly, giving Jon plenty of time to move away. He doesn’t, instead watching Martin’s movements with a surprising intensity.

Slowly, deliberately, Martin reaches out to push a lock of hair from Jon’s face, tucking it behind his ear, hand coming to rest on Jon’s cheek.

The motion has no effect, obviously, but it’s the gesture that counts; the motion is what he’s after, the performance of it mattering more than its purpose.

Jon shivers at Martin’s not-touch, but instead of moving away he leans into it, closing his eyes.

Martin is sure that if he had a heart, it would be beating wildly. He doesn’t know where he goes from this. He doesn’t know where they go from this.

Jon reaches a hand out, resting it somewhere in the vicinity of Martin’s arm. His heart is in his throat.

“Stay?” Jon’s voice is rough, lined with exhaustion. Martin thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Jon,” he laughs. It escapes him quietly, breathy and a little bit panicked. “I don’t sleep.”

Jon opens his eyes a crack. “That’s okay.” Jon takes the hand in Martin’s arm and places it on his own face, where Martin’s hand rests, filling its spectral outline with flesh and blood. Martin watches, enraptured. Another gesture with no effect but enough meaning to make Martin feel like he’s drowning.

Jon closes his eyes again, voice soft. “Just… keep me company?”

Martin thinks he would do anything, if Jon asked him like that.

Martin doesn’t know what to do with any of it: his guilt, his fear, his love.

Martin stays.

By the time Jon wakes up in the morning, sunlight is streaming steadily through the window next to him, and Martin is gone.

Jon remembers all of it. Martin telling him to go to bed, him asking Martin to stay, the feeling of Martin’s cold hand on his face as he drifted off to sleep.

It was the most peaceful Jon had felt in years. Even now, awake and alone, he feels the tug of it deep in his chest.

The emotion he is currently feeling is longing. He can identify that, detach himself from it, if only to name it. He is longing; for Martin, for something they cannot have. He longs to go on a maybe-date with Martin to the bakery, or anywhere, really. He longs to touch him, properly touch him, and feel that touch in return. He longs to know what color Martin’s eyes were. He longs for the mundane, for them to make each other breakfast and to tease each other over their tastes in cinema. He longs to wake next to Martin, to see his face in blinding color in the soft glow of morning light. At the very least, he longs to not wake up alone.

Longing, longing, longing. Maybe if he says it enough, the word will lose its meaning.

Now that Jon is alone, the comedy of the situation he’s in hits him with its full force. All these feelings he’s having, real and human and stronger than he had ever thought possible, they’re all for a ghost. They’re for something out of reach, for someone that is already gone, and the knowledge of that fact doesn’t diminish them in the slightest.

Jon doesn’t like to dwell on things that are unfair, because so much of his life has been just that: unfair. Jon gives himself a moment to dwell, though, because it is truly unfair how much he cares for Martin. It is unfair that Jon is only remembering how these things work now that he has fallen for him. It is unfair that they are what they are: alive and dead, tangible and intangible, in love and gone.

In love. That’s what he is, isn’t he? In love with a ghost. Stupid, tragic, predictable, true. In love with a ghost, and still alone.

A small part of Jon’s brain reminds him that he’s being a little quick to judge, a little quick to catastrophize, a little quick to blow everything out of proportion. Jon shoves that part of his brain frantically into his backpack, along with as many of his clothes and possessions as he can find. He has to leave. He has to leave before this all falls apart more than it already has.

He gives the living room one last look. There are signs of Jon everywhere, in the haphazard stacking of dishes and the half-open curtains and the phone number and polaroid taped to the fridge.

The polaroid. There are no signs of Martin anywhere. It’s like he was never there. Which makes sense, given his nature, but it still hurts Jon to think about.

What was I, he thinks, what was I to him anyways? Will I ever know? What were we anyhow? Just a lonely ghost and an even lonelier human?

Jon picks up his backpack and heads down the hallway to the front door.

He opens the door.

The door is wrenched from his grasp, slamming shut. The lights flicker, blinding bright to darkness and then back again, like lightning.

Jon turns around.

Martin is standing there, form static and fizzing like a badly tuned tv channel before coalescing into the soft vagueness that Jon knows. Martin is shaking, breathing heavy like he’s just run a marathon. The tape recorder in Jon’s hand clicks on.

“What,” he pants, “the hell was that about?”

Jon goes silent, eyes wide, for a long moment, both because Martin has never displayed power like that before and because Jon doesn’t know where to begin.

Jon settles for something simple. “You left.” He can hear the hurt in his own voice.

Martin blinks blankly at him, before panic flies over his face. “Oh God, Jon I’m- I’m so sorry. I was just- just looking–”

“For what?” Jon demands. He recognizes, somewhere in his brain, that what he is feeling is fear, that he is lashing out because he is afraid. Not of Martin, but of what Martin means to him.

Martin takes a deep breath. “The thing keeping me here. I, um- I know what it is.” He looks at the ground. “I’ve known for a while, now.”

Jon reels, at that. He takes a step backwards, back now pressed up against the closed door. Martin steps forwards, hands out, pleading.

It’s Jon’s lack of a response that seems to make Martin nervous, more than anything else. “I’m sorry Jon, I didn’t- please let me explain, I just–”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jon cuts him off, almost proud of how steady his voice is.

“I don’t want to go.” Martin says plainly, if a little desperately. “I can’t- this is all I have and–” pauses, staring searchingly at Jon. “I’ve liked it here, at least recently.”

Jon shakes his head. “I have too, but that doesn’t mean–”

This time, it’s Martin who interrupts him. “It’s not just fear, keeping me here. You know that, don’t you? You have to know that by now.”

“What else is there?” Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t. He wants to hear it from Martin regardless.

“Love, Jon. Not just fear, but love.”

Love. Jon steps away from the door, reaching out to Martin before he can stop himself, drawn towards him like a magnet. Martin floats forwards, their limbs tangling somewhat, so close now that Jon feels chilled to the bone.

“What…” Jon’s starts, stops, collects himself. Martin’s closeness is distracting, even like this. Jon can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of their arms intersecting. “What is keeping you here?” His voice is raw, unguarded.

“Jon,” Martin pleads, and Jon closes his eyes, trying to savor the sound of his name in Martin’s echoey voice while he still can.

“Tell me, Martin.” Jon savors that as well, the feeling of Martin’s name in his mouth, eyes fluttering open. “I can’t- I can’t let you stay here. I can’t do that to you, and I can’t let you do that for me.” He reaches up, hand stopping roughly next to Martin’s cheek. “Please, let me help you.”

Martin laughs. It sounds watery and faint, and he leans into Jon’s touch. “What, now you want me to leave you?”

Jon makes a frustrated noise. “You know it’s not like that. I–” he takes a deep breath. “I would keep you here forever, if I could. Just you and me. Two ghosts.” He lets the words ring. Jon smiles, small and sad. “I meant what I said. There’s no one like you, dead or otherwise.” He continues. “But that wouldn’t be fair to you. Sometimes- sometimes you need to let things go, even if it hurts.”

“But you don’t have to let go, Jon.” Martin’s voice is desperate again. “We could stay here, together.”

Jon shakes his head. “Do you- do you know what a ghost is, Martin?”

“Honestly?” Martin’s voice is quiet. “No.”

“It’s… it’s like when you stare into a bright light, and afterwards, when you look around, the shape of it is still visible. It’s like when you move a piece of furniture for the first time in years and you can still see its imprint in the carpet, even though it’s not there anymore. It’s like a ring left by a mug on a wooden table, because someone didn’t use a coaster. It’s like smoke, still hanging around even after all the candles have gone out. All these things—these aftereffects and impressions—they’re all real, but they’re not permanent. You’re- you’re in an in-between space right now, Martin. You can’t stay here forever. None of us can. That’s what makes it so special. It would be selfish of me to ask you to stay, for me to keep you here. It would be selfish of me to say it was sustainable, or even a good idea.”

“I wish we could be selfish.” Martin’s voice is as faint as he is.

“Me too.”

“But we can’t, can we?”

“No, we can’t.”

“I have to let go.”

“I think we all do, eventually. Of the past, of our mistakes. The things that tie us down.” Jon arches his thumb over Martin’s ghostly cheekbone.

“You know,” Martin says cautiously. “That goes for you as well.” Jon is silent, so he continues. “You have to let go of the past, too. You- your past mistakes, past choices, they don’t define who you are. You’re still alive, Jon. You can be anything you want to be.”

Jon chuckles, and the sound is dampened by emotion. “We really are a couple of pieces of work, aren’t we?”

Martin offers him a small smile in return. “Two ghosts, that’s us.”

Jon nods. “Thank you, though. For that. For everything.”

“Whatever happens, Jon,” Martin’s voice is suddenly urgent, like the words are crawling out of his throat of their own volition. “I’m glad I met you. I’m glad we had this time, whatever it was.” He pauses. “Whatever it meant.”

Jon matches him for urgency and emotion. “It meant everything. ” 

They stay like that, for a moment, frozen in time.

“The notebook.” Martin says, abruptly. “It’s the notebook. My poetry notebook. It’s in my room, on the top of the center bookshelf.”

Jon, blinks at that, surprised. “Martin, I- I burned that on my third day here.”

Martin floats backwards a little in shock, before pausing, brow furrowed, staring off into the distance.

He’s silent, for a long, long moment.

“I think–” he says, carefully. “I think that maybe it was never about the notebook. I think it has to be me,” he says, voice firm now. “I think it has to be my choice. I have to choose to let go. I don’t think anyone else can make that choice for me, and I don’t think it’s something you can do magically just by burning a notebook.”

“Do you?” Jon says. “Choose that, I mean. To let go. To move on.”

Martin nods, slowly. “I think I do. I think- I think it’s a gift, maybe. A gift I’m giving myself.” He gestures at the walls around him. “To let go of this. To let go of the past.” He chuckles. “To help myself, for once.”

Jon nods. “I’m- whatever you do, as long as it makes you happy, I’m happy for you too.”

“Will you let go too, then?” Jon thinks of all the things he’s carrying, and imagines just dropping them, letting them dissolve into a fine mist.

“I think so,” he says. “I don’t think it will be easy, but I think it will be worth it to try.”

“Will you stay?” Martin asks, old urgency back in his voice. “With me, I mean. Until I go?”

Jon nods, stepping forward to brush his hand through Martin’s. “Until the end.”

Martin says goodbye to the house, bit by bit.

He and Jon had spent most of the day laying in a tangled heap on the couch, after agreeing that Martin would leave that night. Arms clutching at nothing, nothing clutching back, a mess of interlocking limbs, with Martin’s head resting on and above Jon’s heart. He can’t feel its beats, but he can see them in the way Jon breathes.

They had spent the hours like that, talk of nothing interspersed with weighty silence, before Martin mumbled something about “getting ready” and disappeared into invisible nothingness once again.

Jon had nodded, told Martin to do what he needed to do and come back when he was ready.

So Martin left him there, with the promise of returning, and began to once again wander the halls of the house.

Martin visits his room first. He had spent so much time there, when he was alive, waiting for something- what was it? Had it been anything, after all? He remembers how carefully he had decorated his wall from the way it looked in the polaroid. He remembers trying to exert as much control as he could over his space.

When he thinks back on that version of himself, the him that was alive, he doesn’t feel anger or regret. He just feels a sad sort of compassion.

Martin ghosts his fingertips across the wood of the bookshelves. No sense in dwelling. Martin looks up at the ceiling, and says goodbye.

Martin visits the rest of the house room by room; bathroom, kitchen, linen closet, basement, until he finds himself in front of the locked door down the hallway from his bedroom.

He passes through it.

It’s nothing like he remembers, of course it’s nothing like he remembers. New furniture, new paint, no more beeping machines, stacks of books and cluttered night tables.

Martin doesn’t know what he expected. But he had to see, didn’t he? He’s saying goodbye to this, too.

Martin passes back through the door.

The thing about the unknown, he thinks, is that it’s just that: unknown. Martin doesn’t know what he will find when he leaves. He knows he’d rather take his chances, though, rather embrace the equal possibilities of good and bad and nothingness than to stay here and stagnate.

Martin has never really been fond of change, opting instead for nostalgia and comfort. That’s not a very abnormal thing, when he thinks about it. Now, Martin thinks he’s ready for change. He sees the beauty in it.

Martin remembers learning about the law of conservation of energy back in secondary school: no energy is created, no energy is destroyed. Martin isn’t going anywhere, not really. He’s just changing form.

Because nothing can stay the same forever, and that’s okay.

They decide to say goodbye in the garden.

It’s dark now, the grass illuminated by nothing but the moon and the faint light coming out of the living room. Jon clutches at his sweater, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s not cold—it’s a warm summer night, lovely as anything—he just needs the pressure, the comfort of it.

They walk (and float) into the grass, tape recorder in Jon’s hand. Martin is visible, shining somewhat in the moonlight, refracting and reflecting. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful as always.

He gives Jon a shaky smile. “Always dreamed of sneaking out after dark with a pretty boy.”

Jon snorts with laughter, despite everything, and drops the tape recorder down beside him. “We’re hardly sneaking.”

Martin floats in front of him. “Let me have this.” His tone is playful, but it's dragged down by the seriousness of the moment.

Jon reaches out his hand, before retracting it, and speaking. 

“I love you.” He says it as plainly as he can, because that’s how he means it: without frills, without promises. It’s a fact, more than anything. It’s not the kind of desperate, passionate declaration that you’d find in romance novels, but it’s Jon, and that’s what matters.

“I know.” Martin replies. “I love you too.”

Jon falls into Martin’s orbit, at that, drawing closer to him until they’re mere inches apart.

“Can I–” Martin’s voice is soft. “Can I kiss you? Or try, at least.”

“Please,” Jon nods, a little ashamed at how wrecked he sounds.

Martin raises a hand to Jon’s face, fingers passing slowly over and through his jaw. The tenderness in Martin’s eyes is overwhelming, but Jon doesn’t look away. He can’t, not when he knows that this will all be gone so soon. Martin raises his other hand to the nape of Jon’s neck, tangling up with his hair. Jon shivers, not entirely because of the cold.

He leans in. Martin’s face is lovely and silver in the moonlight, and Jon waits until the last second before he closes his eyes.

It’s cold, the chill making its way down Jon’s spine and into his toes. He raises his hands, desperate to hold onto something, anything.

The cold envelopes him, consuming all his senses. Jon is drowning in it, and he has never felt so loved.

“Martin,” he says, more of a gasp for air than a word.

It’s not like any kiss he’s had before. It could never have been, what with their natures and its context.

The cold subsides slightly. He opens his eyes to find Martin’s face centimeters from his own, arms wrapped around Jon’s shoulders and crossing behind his head.

“Jon.” Martin says it like it’s the only sound he knows, imbuing the meanings of thousands upon thousands of words into one small syllable.

Jon reaches up, instinctually, to touch his lips. They’re freezing. Martin’s eyes track the gesture.

“Are you–” Jon feels out of breath. “Are you scared, at all?”

Martin shakes his head. “No, not really. What you said—you know, about letting go—it helped, I think.”

“I’m glad.” Jon doesn’t think he’s ever meant those words more in his life.

Martin smiles. “Me too.”

Martin drifts backwards, putting a few feet between him and Jon. “I’ll be around,” he says. “Maybe not in a way you’ll recognize, but I’m sure I’ll be there. Somehow.”

Jon is surprised to find that he’s smiling, too. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know you will.” His tone changes from teasing to firm. “Can you do me one last favor?”

“Anything.” No, it’s this he means, more than anything else he’s ever said.

“Stay?”

Jon nods. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” Martin smiles, and closes his eyes.

He disappears bit by bit, floating away into the night like bonfire ash. Jon watches the whole time, charting Martin’s course up into the sky until there’s nothing left before him, and even a little after that, just in case.

Jon takes a shuddering breath. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you–” He repeats the words until he’s out of breath, and they’re out of meaning.

Then, with one final deep, steadying breath, he heads inside, locking the back door behind him.

He does not look back.

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[JON] (quietly) I don’t know why I’m still recording. I know there’s no one listening.

[SILENCE]

[JON] (deep sigh) Well, if this isn’t for him, I guess it’s for the house?

[PAUSE]

[JON] Thank you, I think. For taking care of him. For keeping him safe, all these years, so I could have the chance to meet him.

[JON] I don’t- (laughter) I’m really talking to a house, aren’t I? (sigh) Weirder things have happened, I suppose.

[PAUSE]

[JON] I guess… I guess this is me saying goodbye. To a place and a time. (deep breath) So long, then. Don’t be a stranger.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

It’s about a week later when Jon finds himself at the bakery.

It occurs to him, early one morning, that he never actually did any research to see if it was still open. He does, and something in him flutters when he sees that it’s currently serving breakfast. He gets dressed quickly, up and out of his apartment within the half hour.

It’s a long ride on the tube, followed by an even longer walk, but Jon doesn’t mind. It’s a lovely day, that uncanny valley between the end of summer and beginning of autumn where mornings are crisp and light, even if they give way to oppressively hot afternoons. Jon decides to take his time, and savor every moment of it.

He finds himself at a small outdoor table, muffin in one hand and earl grey tea in the other. He waits for it to cool, picking at the muffin and thinking.

He’s been doing that a lot recently. Thinking. About the things Martin said to him, and the things he said to Martin. There’s an ache in him, buried somewhere deep inside, a thing that shifts and protests when he prods at the subject a little too intently. Jon thinks it will go away, but it will take time.

And Jon has time, because he doesn’t plan on taking another ghost hunting gig any time soon. He’s not quitting all together, because he still needs some way to pay the bills—the tuition bill too, whispers the voice at the back of his head, the one that plans and looks forward and hopes—but still, he’s looking for new opportunities. He’s looking to do something he likes, even if it’s not what he planned.

None of this is what he planned. But it still happened, and he’s still grateful for it. All stories end; he’s glad to have seen it, from start to finish.

Martin had said that he wouldn’t be disappearing, as much as just changing form. Jon thinks that his love for Martin is the same way. It can’t disappear with a puff of smoke, but maybe, over time, it will change form; become something for new people, places, and things.

Jon looks up from his muffin, only to be startled by a small, dark spider, resting calmly on the top of his disposable cup.

It seems to look at him, for a long moment, before moving, lightning fast, scuttling off his cup to some unknown place.

Jon smiles wide, and takes a sip of his tea. 

He gets out his phone, opens his contact book, and thinks of Martin. Let it go. 

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[JON] Hi Georgie, this is Jon.

[PAUSE]

[JON] (soft laugh) I’ve been better, honestly. What about you? How’s Melanie?

[PAUSE]

[JON] That’s- I’m- That’s really good to hear. I was wondering if you all might want to- to meet up sometime, when you’re both free? It’s been a while, and I- I’d love to catch up. (beat) I’m happy for you two. She seems great.

[PAUSE]

[JON] (audibly smiling) A board game night sounds fantastic, actually. Text me the details?

[PAUSE]

[JON] Alright. You too, though. See you soon.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]