It was said that those who passed away with unfulfilled desires or with a life cut unexpectedly short were cursed to walk the Earth as ghosts, up until the last wish reached fulfilment. But sometimes, those wishes were never fulfilled, and their eternity would be spent as helpless, mute spectators in a rapidly changing present. Ghosts were silent beings. They couldn't speak, cry, laugh, or even touch for the sake of touching. Lacking emotion and expression, they walked and wandered with their burdens. But exceptions held true. Meeting those to which they were connected to while living, would bring those emotions forth. Maybe even bring a route to make their wishes come true.
In short, ghosts did, in fact, exist. And why couldn't they, especially if vampires also existed? There was an entire world of supernatural creatures that normally went unnoticed to the human eye.
Far from the city center of Dehradun, in a part of the forest where no human would dare to wander, stood a small, cherry-wooded cabin. Abhay wouldn't necessarily call it home, but for the past decade, he had no recollection of what his life had been before this. For now, this was his home. And never had he seen a ghost in this period either.
He returned to the cabin after a plentiful hunt, in the essence of a deadly, bloodthirsty vampire. No human to hide his true self from. A sense of freedom, though in a cage himself. The irony was amusing to him sometimes.
Her steps chimed like wind-touched bells. A sweet sound that blessed his silence filled ears.
Who are you?
He knew she was one of the dead. It was easy to tell them apart from anything else. No scent, pale skin, and a chill that even he could perceive at the widest distance away.
This one was standing upon the topmost step to his porch, rocking her heels up and down like a child. Barefoot, in a white dress that touched her knees. He tried to focus his gaze, to see what made her like this. Ghosts always carried their path to death upon their bodies. Wounds, scars, marks, anything. From her backside, it wasn't visible.
His feet shuffled without his consent, crushing the dry, colored leaves into the soil. A strange pain stung his heart.
The girl turned around, on cue with his sound. Blending in with the shadows, he looked at her more carefully. Emotionless as he expected, wearing a gruesome wound on her neck that inked the color of blood to her skin. It seemed to him that she met her end prematurely, and in a terrible manner. Throat torn out from the side. Her hair curled and bounced at the ends, and only her cheeks were as pink as a living human. The wind blew those locks back, but she gathered them quickly and used them to cover the wound from sight.
He stood absolutely quiet, a part of the dark. Soon she turned back, and took the final step up to his doorstep. She looked like a bird lost from its nest, gazing into windows. With her body, or lack thereof, she could have phased through the walls easily, but she was polite.
Is she looking for someone?
A single red spider lily was tucked into her hair. The flower of death. Some legends concerning the flower foretold, that when one sees someone that they may never meet again, these flowers would bloom along the path. They also acted as guides to another life, a rebirth. Whoever she was, and whoever she was looking for, one of them didn't have much time left.
Such an ominous and fleeting symbol. It somehow enhanced her beauty. A being radiating innocence and naïveté.
He, on the other hand, showed up like a murderous beast. He stared at his fingers, then reflection in a small pool of water beside his feet. Blood stained his teeth, lips and chin, nails broken and bloodied. A violent hunt, by a violent hunter. The contrast was jarring.
