The Blue House of 1478 (20) (Patreon)

I stay close to Kia, who is undoubtedly only hovering near me for the shared body heat. Hunter is further off, still adjusting his lens and clicking away, knees bent into the soft earth for a better angle.

I watch him, wondering what he sees with a lens between him and a graveyard, a camera placed between him and the rumor of a haunting.

I wonder if, like my pen, it feels like armor — when you call the name of someone dead.

"I'm so cold.  Christ."

It might be nice to be Hunter, when chasing a haunting. I bet he feels superior to death.  Because — can something follow too closely when actively pursued?

No. To be the one chasing — it must be nice.

"Did you hear me?  I'm freezing."

"Why didn't you wear a thicker jacket?" I laugh away the seriousness of my thoughts, curling my arm through Kia's. She rests her head against the top of mine and sighs,

"Fashion." She mutters, but doesn't seem too thrilled about the choice now, "Not that it matters, since I'm spending my Friday night with two dorks chasing ghosts."

"For the record, I am never chasing ghosts." I blink lazily, my gaze shifting around the uniformly placed headstones. I think of all the elderly friends I have made in Sleepy Birch and all the memorial articles I've written, "I'm just accompanying my dear friend in the chance that he ends up getting maimed in the dark, or stuck in a swamp, or wherever else his little machines might lead him."

"Is that so?"

"Mhm."

"Well. Good.  You sort of creeped me out with that bullshit earlier." Kia sighs, and her gentle lean turns to a less gentle head butt, "about us bringing home a ghost."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. What if — somehow, all this crap is real, and my idiot brother brings a ghost back? His room is right next to mine." She pops her gum, "if he starts floating down the hallway and — you know, like — possessed?"

"I don't think possessions are a ghost's modus operandi."

"Well. If the floating thing happens, I'm not chasing him around with a butterfly net. That's all I'm saying."

I snort, and Kia's arm rounds my side to pinch it playfully.

"I don't think Hunter's going to encounter any spiritual presence; he just wants a spooky picture to impress his idol."

"Mm.  Good friend you are; if I believed in this crap, I wouldn't be here." Kia laughs, and our footsteps are in sync, growing further away from the main gate.

"...You really don't believe in ghosts?" I shrug my hands into my pockets, curling them around a wrapper left behind. Why would she? There's something horrifically bleak about the idea of someone lingering around after they've passed, something I've thought about often. Something that maybe, I've not been able to shake.

But, I don't have the peace of choice — of believing or not believing.

Kia shakes her head. I change the subject.

"Well, ghosts aside. Should we think it's morbid that Hunter is a caregiver for the elderly but also totally obsessed with the dead?"

"Maybe it's a small cause for concern." Kia frowns. Minutes pass. She fidgets, tenses, and then squeezes my arm tighter.

"Anyway. I was wondering...."

"About what?"  I tap her fingers.  "And no, I'm not sharing my coat."

"That's not it," Kia huffs out a breath.  "I meant to say that... I know Hunter is oblivious. And you love him anyway, but..." She waffles about for a stretch, fiddling with her zipper, "I thought he'd chill out. About all this.  Considering."

My eyebrows gather,

"Considering, what? You mean... Chilling out about ghost-hunting?" I scoff, looking at her like she's declared eternal public nudity, "yeah, right."

Kia doesn't laugh, though. She regards me severe and slow. Sometimes, she gets a look like that.  One that suits her age.  Her life.  I never like it much.

"Hunter told me about the town meeting."

I look away. It's not what I mean to do.  Usually, I hold eye contact.  I never flinch.  I pretend things don't hurt when they do.

"I guess I wanted to make sure that you're okay."

My heart thumps. I nod.

"You know. Hunter knows. At least, now — About everything. Like, he knew but not how and. Because he's — well, Hunter."

I nod again.

I didn't know that. I wish that I still didn't.

I wish Kia's sentence weren't as awkward and jumbled as every condolence I've ever received outside of some stupid, scripted sympathy card.

"Oh.  Okay."

Kia exhales.

"He just — you'd think someone would've told him that ghost hunting with you would — he can be unintentionally, um, well.  Stupid." Her manicured nails dig into my coat, "slow on the uptake. Inconsiderate. I guess."

"He doesn't bother me."

I like that nothing is different.  Kia's teeth grit.  I can hear it.

"Theo.  We're sorry.  He took you to the bridge. He can't believe that he — I can't believe he took you to the,"

I tap her fingers again.

"Kia. It's fine. He didn't know."

Kia doesn't say anything. Then she says,

"Now he does.  So if he oversteps.  Tell him.  If I do — tell me."

I don't look at her.

"And. While we're here, do you want to..."

My stomach turns. I want to run.

"No. She was cremated," I say with a wave of my fingers. Hunter — and Kia, both pleasantly stray from serious things, usually. Kia — doesn't usually bring it up. It's not a constant, sympathetic glint in their eyes.

Graveyards bring out the worst in normally wonderful distractions of people. Compassion. Pity. I don't want to feel those things. Not — not directed at me. That's why —

Hunter and Kia are usually... So nice to be around.

Kia clears her throat, head a slight bob of awkward recognition, and then she's pointing to a statue above Grant Aldridge's grave,

"Hey.  I want one of those. If you cursed me with your dumb monologue, a ghost comes home with me tonight and kills me, you know," she hums, "I want an angel or something. Taller than all the other headstones."

I feel my lip curl with a laugh; face pinched with her odd redirection of the conversation,

"Why?"

Kia shrugs.

"I don't know." She wrinkles her nose. "I mean. Are the dead there if no one looks at them?  I don't want to be forgotten."

I turn to her, startled. Kia laughs, sheepish.

"You know. If no one — uh. Reads my name. Visits — after a while. It's weird.  It feels like disappearing.  Doesn't it?"

I guess it would feel that way.

I don't know how to acknowledge death. I don't know which direction I should face to walk toward the dead. Do I bring my chin up to talk to them? Or turn to my side? Do I look back on my memories? Do I — speak to a photograph or engraved marble, slate — granite?

Will they really... Disappear if I close my eyes to them and forget? Everything in a graveyard full of bones at night looks unfathomably bleak—stones, wet earth, offerings that come from responsibility — words unsaid. Words said too late.

Before I can pull myself from my head — before I can make myself respond in a way that's not too real, Kia's eyes shift over the land up ahead, and she rolls her eyes with a groan,

"Oh no.  Hopefully, that guy doesn't notice my weirdo brother is running around with his camera out," She moves her elbow towards the gloomy distance, and I notice a figure there — walking the path back to our side of the gate. "talk about a strange visiting hour."

"Strange?"

"Yeah. Don't they close the gates soon? Besides. It's dark." Kia shudders, "and creepy."

"Umm, you forget that we're also here pretty late." I shove into her, and she scoffs to herself,

"Not on my own terms.  And not alone."

"Hm. It could be a groundskeeper. Or, like — a lonely ol' widow? I don't know."

The walk grows quiet for a moment, mainly because Kia is cold — but maybe also because I've been writing another memorial for the past four days, and I'm still tense with the fact that this graveyard will only grow.

It weighs on everyone differently.

The heaviness of the graveyard doesn't feel as if it bothers Kia the same way it bothers me.  But I can tell that it troubles her.

So it's quiet.

And it stays that way, for just a little while. Oppressive. The way living feels heavy and palatable—a means to an end.

"Guys!"

That is until Hunter returns with an impressive level of excitement. He waves at us, then giggles, huffing, camera bouncing up against his chest when he runs up,

"I got a good picture, like — a good­ picture. Nothing mediocre. Your boss might even like it, Theo," He's turning on the playback screen of his camera, flicking through the several he's taken since we'd arrived, "Look at this one. The willow tree adds to shots like these, and you can see all the prayer notes tied on the stems."

My heart feels unexpectedly tight.

"I don't know about... I mean, the prayer notes." I frown. "They — kind of make it more sad than spooky."

"Really?"

I inhale,

"Well, it's a really good shot. I mean. I just mean that. Maybe that one is too personal. You could — maybe take a shot of the forest behind the gate instead?"

"There's no movement. There's no subject in the forest." Hunter shakes his head, "The wind hit the prayers," he motions downwards towards his camera. "I think this will make it onto the site."

Kia nods, bending over his shoulder to look. I catch the person from before growing closer to where we stand on the main path, and a misplaced and abrupt embarrassment floods me,

"Hunter, someone's coming," my voice is hushed, the toe of my sneaker digging into the earth, "you should turn your camera off."

"What? Why?" Hunter doesn't look up. He instead flips through a few more photos before landing on another to show Kia. "Look at the moon behind this one."

I back off the pathway a little, maybe wanting to distance myself from the two — the three of us out of place, not here for mourning or visitation purposes, and I feel my cheeks heat at the prospect of someone seeing just that.

I don't know — why I didn't think of that before.

Why didn't I think of that before?

"Hunter, come on. We're gonna look like dicks," I whisper again, but the two ignore me, and I blanch, kicking at the wet dirt beneath me. I contemplate making my way back to the car, turning off into the woods, or hiding behind the second looming angel over Francis Dobinson's memorial stone.

When I glance up again, the person approaching is Leviticus Blue.

Levi — who is hunched a little, hands shoved into his pockets, nearly mimicking mine, probably chilly in his canvas coat. His gaze draws up to meet my own, and although he probably noticed us a while back, he obviously hadn't recognized that it was me until now.

"Hey," I start, and he slows for a moment. I can see a sheen on his eyes that I want to placate, a redness there that wasn't brought by the cold, but possibly warmth — possibly tears. I swallow down anything else I could say, and it feels like a lump.

"Hey," Levi parrots.  He looks small for someone quite the opposite — and ashamed of it. "... Seems like we can't help but run into each other."

The initial animosity isn't present there.

I flinch, folding deeper into myself at the small smile he sends me — like it's condolences for whatever reason I'm visiting a cemetery. I realize why. It's that awful look — compassion.  Pity.

Levi thinks that I'm here for the reason he is.

I don't say anything. I can't. There's a weird lump in my throat that is hard to move past — because I have spent years strangling every part of me that wants to mourn. I look at Levi's grief, and I want to say something kind.

Why?

I've spent too long becoming who I am now.

I don't have time to dwell on that. Kia and Hunter are stifling laughs behind us about something unrelated — the stupid camera still out. Levi's brows twist in confusion.

"Visiting hours are almost over," His voice is hoarse, and there's no rudeness to what he says. It's a plain statement, like he's letting us know that the main gate will be locked soon, "if you drove here, you parked outside, right?  You guys might want to head back — they're all about fining trespassers."

Kia's brows perk,

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I think of how well Levi already knows this cemetery — this graveyard I've never even stepped foot in before tonight. I glance back to Hunter.

"Oh, thanks, man. We're going to talk the long way around, though." Hunter smiles, and though he means to be polite in return, I flush with what he's insinuated. "Be safe on the road; there's a lot of wildlife out here. Go slow."

I pray that it'll be the end of that — the end of this discussion, and imagine my prayer note hanging from the leaves of the willow tree ahead.

"... The long way around?" Levi's eyes narrow, but they're still reddened, the grey of them dark and swallowing. He ignores the second part of Hunter's statement, suspicious gaze falling on his camera, "What are you doing out here, exactly?"

Hunter startles a bit.

"Oh, uh,"

"... You know it's a graveyard, right?" Levi's lips twist downwards, and I stare at my shoes. "...Why're you taking pictures?"

Hunter's grin falls, socially aware enough to realize that Levi is grieving. He fidgets with his camera.  His fingers curl around the device, like they could hide it.

"What're they for?" Levi presses. "Sleepy Birch's memorial pieces?"

Hunter looks cornered. My stomach drops, hot.

"Um, no, actually, they're — for a website."

I glance back up, just to lock eyes with a humiliated Kia. Hunter's voice is quieter, picking up on the other's man's discomfort and taking heed of his sullen disposition,

"...What kind of website?"

"They uh," Hunter shifts. "They said there was a haunting, here... I mean — which is weird for us to get a feature since nothing ever happens in Sleepy Birch." He clears his throat, sheepishly, uncharacteristically quiet, "Even with our haunted bridge and like — the whole, unsolved murder history thing." He laughs, and this time it cracks, strangled with his rambling, "Big news, uh, you know?"

Levi's chest heaves.

"Hunter, we should go," I whisper, but Levi's eyes land on me with disdain. I can feel the heat creeping up my ears, anxiety curdling in my stomach.

"I'm — I didn't think anyone would be visiting this late. I didn't mean to be an ass." Hunter motions towards us with his thumb, "We just — sorry. Sorry man."

I hate seeing people in mourning, and I wouldn't say I like the gaze that Levi watches us with,

"... Nah, get your photo, man," Levi snorts, and shrugs through us, "funny how I'm not surprised with your choice in friends, Theo."

Hunter's mouth opens with delayed surprise, and Kia shields her eyes with the curl of her hand, gaze darting to me with a face pulled like she could shrivel up into nothing.

I don't say anything in my defense, because there's nothing to say.

Levi walks away, and Hunter blinks several times, turning his camera off hurriedly and tucking it into his case,

"Well, fuck, that was blunt." He mutters, "I really wasn't trying to be an ass — wow, I totally looked like an ass."

"He looked like he'd been crying," I feel flustered — hot with humiliation and guilt, "and you — you couldn't just drop it?"

I stalk ahead, my reaction to something I agreed to go along with totally undeserved shame hot on my cheeks. Hunter knows me well enough that he doesn't argue, or maybe — doesn't even take offense to my rudeness,

"Dude, I was the one with the camera.  I'm the one looking like a dick," Hunter jogs up, hand on my shoulder, "I thought you didn't like that guy anyway. Let him think what he wants."

He delivers a squeeze, and we round past a few more graves,

"It wasn't that," I shake my head, "we were just laughing and totally in the middle of a bunch of memories and reasons people have probably cried — ugh, like assholes." I bite the inside of my lip, "He is — I mean, of course, I don't like him; he just looked so..."

Hunter grimaces. He stops, pulling my shoulder until I look up at him — up into his dark, concerned, perfectly kind — eyes. Hunter isn't an asshole. He has never been. He inhales.

"You're bothered because he looked sad." He nods. "... I'm sorry."

"Yeah, sure, uh. I don't think sad is the right word." Kia pipes up, and she's wandered a couple of rows off the path, her eyes caught on something red laid out against a gravestone, "Look."

I follow her, Hunter's hand still on the shoulder of my jacket, his interest piqued as well.

There's a bouquet of red flowers, an abnormal look to them — like bright sprigs of blood, tied with a blue thread. Around the grave, they blossom, spindling upwards, tall and encompassing, like they're trying to swallow the stone between them.

When the wind passes through them, it sounds like a whisper.

I take one step back, right into Hunter's chest, and my skin prickles.

Edgar Blue

Extinctus amabitur idem

1937-2013

I swallow,

"Okay, Detective Kia. What's so weird about bringing flowers? There's a shit-ton here?" Hunter huffs from beside me, disbelieving.

"Trust me, it's weird."

"How's it weird?  They have the same last name. He lives in his old house." Hunter kicks at the back of her shoe, "He gardens.  Edgar was probably his grandad or something."

"These are Lobelia flowers," Kia bends down, rubbing dirt from her boots, "Usually, people bring flowers that mean that they're grieving or — that they love them. You know, the language of flowers and all that."

Hunter rolls his eyes.

"No. I don't know.  Like most normal people don't."

"You are not implying that I'm the weird one."

"...What do Lobelia flowers mean?" My voice croaks with curiosity, interrupting them, and Kia's brows furrow, dark in the ill-lit space,

"Malevolence."

*

(Hey guys, thank you for reading this massive chapter!  The friendship between Theo and the Wells’ siblings is important to me!  Levi and Matthias will have more “screen time” soon)