Day 7: "He was sitting in the kitchen when I got home... except, I'd watched them bury him five weeks prior."

He was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home.

At first, I ignored him. It was, of course, impossible, and they had told me that my mind might do funny things. So when I saw a man in a blue hoodie in my house, I turned around and left the room.

I heard his footsteps behind me, but I refused to turn around. The house was cold and dark, and I wrapped my arms around my chest to prevent my teeth from chattering.

"Mark," he called softly.

I ignored him. He wasn't real. I knew he wasn't real.

"I need you to listen to me," he persisted.

I stepped into my bedroom and closed the door behind me. Pulling my hands into my sleeves, I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the ground with my forehead on my knees.

I was a little more than buzzed, having just caught a taxi home from the pub. My alcohol-saturated brain couldn't make sense of this unforeseen turn of events.

I wondered what my therapist would say about this.

"Mark," he repeated. His voice was muffled by the thick wood of the door. He knocked once, then twice, and a third and final time.

I heard him sigh, almost imperceptibly, before he walked through the door and crouched in front of me.

My eyes were dry as I stared at him. He seemed tired, a bit faded. He could have been real had it not been for the startlingly red line across his neck.

My body felt too heavy for my numb, unfeeling mind. I stood, watching blankly as he did the same. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"I don't know why I'm here, and I know you don't want to see me again, so for that, I'm sorry. But I can't leave. The house won't let me."

I didn't react, instead continuing to stare at him until he dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

"Go to bed. We'll talk tomorrow."

--

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fischbach. We did everything we could."

--

Can you blame me for not expecting him to be there in the morning?

When I finally forced my eyes open, he was sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room. His knees were pulled up to his chest, empty eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling. His gaze flickered over to me when I pushed myself out of bed and into the bathroom.

Two aspirin tablets were sitting on  the counter. I downed them quickly before walking back into my bedroom.

"We need to talk."

I sat down on the end of my bed. His startlingly blue eyes met my own, and for a moment I merely searched his face. It was heart-wrenchingly familiar. An exact replica.

A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that it would only hurt more when he disappeared.

I tore my eyes away, looking instead at my socked feet. "You're dead," I whispered. "Why are you here?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I don't think I'm supposed to be."

"But you can't leave." It was more of a statement of fact than a question.

"No. I'm stuck in the house."

I didn't respond. The sky outside was gloomy, roiling grey storm clouds tossed about by the wind. I shivered, pulling my sleeves down to cover my hands.

"I'm sorry."

I turned unemotional eyes towards him, watching him pick at the hem of his hoodie.

"This must be making it really hard for you," he continued. "I'll try to leave as soon as I can."

I stood silently, leaving the room before I could do something stupid.

It wasn't that I didn't want him in my house. I just didn't want him to leave me again.

--

"Sir, this is an issue for law enforcement to handle. I know what your husband meant to you, but you need to stay uninvolved."

--

He tried to stay away from me for the rest of the day. Every time I caught a glimpse of blue, he would disappear before I could get a proper look at him.

I didn't know what to do with him. He couldn't stay, but I didn't know how to help him leave. Asking for help wasn't an option, as I would be dismissed as being mad with grief.

I was stuck.

The only time I saw him that day was when he helped me make dinner. Cooking had always been his thing. I came downstairs after a long recording session and a pot of water was simmering lightly on the stove. He was standing at the counter opposite, carefully chopping a small pepper.

I knew what he was making, and I stepped in behind him to start on the carrots. He gasped, dropped the knife, and disappeared.

I ate dinner alone.

--

"Mark! You have to stop! Jack is gone and this is not going to bring him back! You're going to kill him! Mark!"

--

"Mark!" I heard briefly.

I opened my eyes, bolting up into a sitting position and fumbling for my glasses. There was a soft curse, and hands were on my shoulders.

When I could see, the first thing that registered was the bright smile.

He was sitting in my lap, head cocked. Once my eyes cleared, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of bed. I stumbled down the stairs, closing my fingers around his hand to keep my balance.

"Stand here," he instructed, bringing me to a halt in front of the door.

He must have noticed my confusion, as he continued. "I was messing around a little yesterday, and I noticed that the closer you were to me, the more of me I could fit out the door."

"Why does this warrant waking me up at this ungodly hour?"

"I don't sleep and I got bored. Okay, put your hand on the doorframe."

Sighing, I did as he asked. He opened the door and approached the empty space slowly, sliding one foot through, then his arm, then his other foot, followed by the rest of his torso and finally his head. He stood on the doorstep, beaming back at me.

"Okay. I'm going back to bed."

He frowned, catching my arm as I made to turn around.

"Look, I know this is hard for you, but I'm dead and came back to Earth. I don't know what's going on and I'm scared, so I don't know why you're being a dick. It's only making things harder."

I stared at him for a minute. Wrenching my arm away, I climbed the stairs and crawled back into my bed.

--

"His killer has been put to justice. This is no longer, nor ever was, in your hands."

--

I had to go in to the police station the next day. He followed me there, though I had asked him to stay home.

I could feel him close behind me as I walked inside, nodding to the officers scattered around the lobby. Moving further into the cold building, I stopped in front of the familiar door of my attorney.

"Mark," he said without looking up. "How are you doing?"

"Alright," I reply carefully. "I finished up with the final statement that you wanted."

"Yes, I received that last night." He shuffled a few papers and looked up to study my face. "How's therapy going for you?"

"Fairly well. Thank you."

He nodded, standing and exiting through the door behind me.

"Please meet us downstairs when you're ready," he called over his shoulder.

"Us?" he asked quietly. I jumped, then rubbed at my face.

"Talking to your killer."

"Oh."

When I turned around to look at him, he was gone.

--

"Please! I never wanted to kill anyone! I just needed the money!"

--

He was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home.

At first, I ignored him. Presently, though, I found myself sitting across from him and reaching across to smooth out the wrinkles in his forehead.

He swatted my hand away, giving me a sad smile. "His name was Joseph."

"What?"

"His name was Joseph. He had a sick mother and a drunk father. He cried so hard when he saw what he'd done. Why did you hurt him?"

I was taken aback. "Because he hurt you. He hurt me."

"He never meant to."

He stared at me for a long time. I could feel my eyes stinging, hot tears threatening. I swallowed hard and refused to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mark."

I felt his cold lips pressed against my cheek. A drop trickled down my cheek.

--

"Everything's going to be okay, Mark."

--

Can you blame me for not expecting him to be there in the morning?

Welcome back! Lovely to see you all again!

I hope your beautiful butts are ready, cause Skwarlo and I are doing an entire week of spooky scary one-shots.

<3

~ Aria