In recent years, resigned to his fate, Eamon had kept to his attic space, sulking and scowling over the old woman who’d let his home fall into such a ruinous state. For three hundred years the witches had cared for his home, and they had been conscientious and careful. Some had known they shared their home with the restless spirit, and knew how to ask for his boons, when they had need. Some, he had deemed unworthy to reveal himself to; their selfish nature would have turned him to nothing more than an asset to be used.
The girls had thought of him as an imagined playmate. A kindly man in an old military uniform who sometimes turned them away from danger, or appeared in the night reassure them that nothing could hurt them, in his house. As they’d grown, he’d had to pull away. Their mother tried to twist them, to mould them into what she deemed was the future of her clan. She was the mechanism of her own bloodline’s downfall.
The girls turned to one another for comfort, and Eamon could only mourn as they found depravity and black magic to soothe the ache they felt. For love, for care. The elder one day decided that enough was enough, and from that day they were the boy and the girl. He understood, in his way. People changed.
He came to the boy only weeks before they vanished. He heard them scheming to leave, facilitated as much as he could; leaving cabinets unlocked, allowing a draft to blow out candles, knocking over items to distract the mother. He wanted to thank him for always being kind to the neighborhood animals, for being so soft when the world wanted to make him hard. The boy may not remember that night, but Eamon would never forget.
Hearing the familiar voice jarred him; he never slept, but occasionally he drifted somewhere between ‘here’ and ‘away’. Descending the staircase that used to lead to the attic – which had long since been replaced by a more modern pull-down hatch, meaning that only he was there, and not the stairs – he remained invisible as he peered into the entryway to see the familiar, but grown, form standing there.
“Well, when it’s hard to see where to start, start with light.” He looked around, reaching for a light switch and finding that it sparked when he tried to flip it. “Or not. Guess I’m calling an electrician first thing tomorrow. Did she want to fucking kill me?” The good thing about it being a old gothic witch’s house was there we so many candles, and the good thing about being a smoker was that he had a lighter.
Rather than chancing leaving any unattended candles, Cedar chose a thick one and carried it with him. He looked around before speaking. “If there are any spirits here, I am willing to listen to your grievances. For now I’m just going to my old room.”
He made it there and started crying s little at the mess. It certainly wasn’t how he left it, torn blankets and a slashed mattress, withered musky feathers everywhere. And the mural he had been working on so hard, ruined.
The rage the woman had gone into when she’d discovered the children gone had been the beginning of the troubles in the house. She’d torn through their bedrooms, destroying precious objects, defiling treasures, uncaring that she was ruining the integrity of the rooms themselves. The walls were dented where items had shattered after being thrown, the wallpaper was scratched and peeling where mildew had taken root once the rooms were closed up and forgotten. The beautiful mural, which many a night Eamon had perched on the boy’s bed in silence to watch in its creation, was a disaster of slash, scorch and ugly brown swaths where a tin of turpentine had been haphazardly thrown across it. He mourned the loss, causing a month of cold spots and electrical failures, after its destruction.
His sorrow mirrored Cedar’s, as he moved to rest against the windowsill, still invisible to the eye. The years had been unkind to both of them; he was weak and lethargic, unable to manifest nearly as well as he once could. Too many sage treatments, wards and incantations designed to attempt to banish him. He was stronger than some elderly witch, but it had taken its toll.
Finally, seeing the tears slide down Cedar’s cheek, he couldn’t remain hidden any longer. His form flickered into view, unchanged from the imaginary soldier the twins had known so long ago, and he offered a mournful smile of recognition.
