The House Above the Sea

7.

It's rare that Kit sleeps at all. When he does, it's often in short, fitful bursts: an hour or two or three in which he curls himself upon the living room floor, only a frayed blanket to warm his shivering body, and lets himself fall away to some place other than here. Only in his dreams is he not alone; only in his dreams does he remember, really, what it feels like to hold someone's hand.

That night, Kit dreams of the beach. It's sunny, so sunny that he's squinting. Waves rush up to his bare toes and seagulls caw above his head, dipping low and sailing up again, snapping up leftover fries and funnel cakes. Something white, pearly, glints in Kit's eyes; he kneels, brushes the sand away, and picks up a tiny, conch-shaped seashell.

A voice calls out behind him. He recognizes it without thought—it makes his chest feel warm with admiration, maybe love.

He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever comes out.

Kit wakes up with a gasp. The empty house around him is a collage of shadows. The sun is gone; instead he lies in an icy pool of moonlight, filtering in through the broken windows. Something is pounding like thunder in his ears—a second later he realizes it's his heart, and splays his fingers across it, feeling it thud against his ribcage.

"What do you think you'll get out of it?"

Kit doesn't jump. He knew he was there—he's always there somehow, either a voice in Kit's head or a flicker across the backs of his eyelids. He's a bind around Kit's ankle, loose enough to forget it's there every once in a while, yet loud enough that he can't ever escape its clinking.

Kit turns his head. Above the mantle is a wide, ornate mirror, a shimmering gold. In it, Kit sees himself: gaunt, frowning, black hair tumbling down his neck. And behind him is the ghost.

"Acting like you belong out there. Like the world has anything for you," says the ghost, his eyes lurid and pale, like two spheres of white flame. "Are you having fun creating that illusion for yourself?"

Kit closes his eyes. If he could speak, he would say, No. If could he speak, he would say, It's not my fault. But his voice is no longer his.

"I don't want to do this."

Kit shakes his head.

"But if you don't give it up, you won't leave me any choice."

Kit shakes his head again, this time with more force. No. No, no, no. His mind is screaming it.

"You belong here, Christopher," the ghost says, and by then Kit's throat is burning with the beginnings of tears. He staggers to his feet, searching around for a pen, paper, anything. "You belong in this house and that's the only place you belong. I know that, you know that, your new friend knows that. It's for your own good."

Kit tries in vain to shape the word No, but all that comes out is a sorrowful groan.

A pause. The ghost turns, watching Kit as he scrambles towards the kitchen.

"I haven't made up my mind," says the ghost, "but it'd be wise of you to stop kidding yourself before I do."

The ballpoint is still sitting on the empty countertop, where Kit and Neo left it earlier that day. Kit searches around frantically before his eyes land on a dirty roll of paper towels.

"He doesn't care, Christopher. You know why?"

Kit tears a paper towel free, clicking the pen.

"Because you're just like me. A ghost. And you don't belong out there."

Fingers trembling, Kit scribbles down his message and whirls around, but by then the ghost has already vanished.