Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Candlelight

On the seventh night after his death (old belief the dead return then), Mason came back. The house was silent. The air felt thick with snowand secrets.

He stood tall, every trace of boyishness gone. A fierce scar ran from the corner of his left brow down to his chin, dark and jagged, like a crooked crack in glass. The sight of it made my heart lurch.

Mason stepped forward out of the shadows. The flickering candlelight made him look even more ghostly, the darkness clinging to his form like a shroud.

His icy hand gripped my wrist, a chill seeping from his hand into my bones. I stared blankly at him as he pulled a twisted smile, the corners of his eyes blood-red, tears like blood streaming down his face. The sight was so unreal, I thought I might faint.

He pulled me into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. "Charlie, are you alright?"

He held me so tight I could hardly breathe, whispering over and over, "You’re okay, you’re still here…"

I burst into tears. Was he out of his mind? He kept asking if I was okay, but he was the one falling apart. His grip was desperate, like he was terrified I’d disappear.

When I woke, the deep night had already faded. I stared, dazed, at the pale yellow ceiling, unable to snap out of it. The morning light felt harsh, too bright for the heaviness in my chest.

Was last night a dream, or was it real? The question just wouldn't let me go.

I rubbed my temples. Everything hurt. My limbs felt like lead, my thoughts slow and foggy—like I’d run a marathon in my sleep.

I froze. There was a dark, ugly handprint on my wrist. The sight of it sent a jolt of fear through me, colder than any winter wind.

No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldnt come off. Black-red, glaring against my pale skin, each slender finger clear as day. A chill crept through meMason had really come back. This was no dream.

He’d said he would stay by my side, even as a ghost. And it had come true. The promise I’d once thought romantic now felt like a curse.

"Miss, you’re awake…"

Her brown eyes went wide as saucers and she gasped. June screamed, "Miss, your… your wrist…"

I pressed my lips together and pulled my sleeve down to hide the mark. "Don’t let my brother know about this," I said, trying to sound firm.

June looked worried, as if she wanted to say more, but when I shook my head, she swallowed her words. She hovered at the edge of the room, hands twisting in her apron, her worry written all over her face.

I asked June if I’d acted strangely last night. She frowned, thinking for a long time before hesitantly saying, "You went to bed early, Miss. Nothing strange happened."

She hesitated, then said, "If there was anything odd… I thought I heard crying."

My heart clenched. "Crying?"

"It was low and muffled, and sounded like a man… but it came and went, and I couldn’t really make it out. Maybe I was mistaken." She glanced nervously at the window.

My chest tightened. The room felt smaller, the air heavier.

For some reason, my memories of last night were blurry. The only thing that stood out was Mason’s ghastly pale face, and that cold, despairing kiss. His kiss still lingered—cold, desperate.

Mason was grieving—but why? Why did his sorrow feel deeper than death? What was he mourning?

I rubbed my aching temples. For some reason, a chill kept running through me, sharp as ice. I shook my head, trying to recall any clues from last night, but my mind only throbbed with pain. Memories slipped away like water through my fingers.

Forget it. Since he’s come back, I’ll find out sooner or later. The thought didn’t comfort me, but it was all I had.

When I first heard of Mason’s death, he was all I could think about, day and night. We’d picked each other a long time ago, but I never said the words. Since we’d met as kids, he’d always looked after me, but I’d rarely done anything for him.

One regret after another. They piled up, heavy as stones in my chest.

Now that he was back, I wasn’t as happy as I thought I’d be. Mason always wore his heart on his sleeve—if he was happy or upset, it was plain as day in his clear eyes.

But last night, all I saw in his eyes was endless darkness. For the first time, I couldn’t read him. It was like looking into a bottomless well.

Did Mason really come back just to stay by my side? If so, why couldn’t I feel any joy from him? It just ate at me.

I felt uneasy, certain he was hiding something from me. The not-knowing was worse than any ghost story.

Dusk fell, the last rays of sunlight slipping behind the hills in the west. A few stars scattered across the sky. As night deepened, my mood sank with it. The house creaked and settled, as if bracing for what was to come.

Would nightfall mean Mason would appear again? I wasn’t sure if I hoped he would or wouldn’t. I couldn’t decide.

"Charlie, you…"

"Hmm?"

I looked up on instinct, meeting my brother’s worried gaze. His brows were drawn tight, lips pressed together, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. The kitchen light cast shadows under his eyes, making him look older than his years.

"Bro?" I called, confused.

"Charlie, is something on your mind? If you keep picking at your food, you’re gonna waste away."

I shook my head, staring at the table full of my favorite dishes—mac and cheese, fried chicken, apple pie—but still had no appetite. The sight of the food made my stomach twist.

My brother squeezed my hand, his voice soft. "Charlie, I… your brother will always be here."

I felt myself squeeze his strong, warm hand back, a faint smile on my lips. "I know."

His eyes lit up right away. His fingers trembled, and then he pulled me into his arms. The hug was fierce, almost desperate.

He just kept saying my name. His chin rested on my head, his chest heaving as he murmured over and over, "Charlie, Charlie…"

But my mind was elsewhere. Nothing I did felt like my own. It was as if I was watching someone else live my life.

I wanted to push him away. Instead, my arms wrapped around his waist. The urge to comfort him was stronger than my confusion.