The walls are completely white. No pictures showing my sister and me as small children, playing in a swimming pool or riding on a colorful little trail. The floor has been freshly put down, a gleaming parquet with no dents or scratches from pushing that old piano through the living room or accidentally dropping a log in front of the fireplace.
The rooms are completely empty and my steps echo as I look around. There is no couch to unpack our Christmas gifts for each other or clink our glasses together to celebrate New Year’s. No table cluttered with magazines and pencils, no forgotten crisps and chocolate hidden in the secret drawer beneath.
In the corner there is no bookshelf. No stack of crime novels on the floor because there was no more room on the shelf, between all of the pages and small stones, pictures and souvenirs from various vacations. In this room, there is nothing.
But there will be.
They say the bog is haunted.
White mist curls around my ankles as I walk down the narrow path. The air is cold and crisp as it would be on a winters day and a sharp breeze ruffles my hair.
“People had disappeared here”, the townsfolk had said. “Every night, the fog thickens and those who venture into the bog never return home. The spirits claim them. They will not stop at your detective’s badge.”
My breath forms a small cloud in the air when I huff out a sigh. I reach into my coat and pull out a box of cigarettes. My lighter clicks, once, twice. I shake it but the flame flickers out immediately each time. Great.
I stuff it back into my pocket and continue walking. It’s silent, not even the sounds of frogs and birds can be heard.
There is something in the distance, the fog swirling to form a silhouette. I click on my flashlight and shine it forward.
The last thing I see is a white hand flying at me and the touch of ice cold fingers closing around my throat.
When people talk about Death, they describe many things.
A hooded black figure with a scythe and shining white skull, like one of those stone statues at the entrance of some graveyard crypt.
Or a beautiful being with golden locks and white feathered wings, warm fingers leading you to a life without pain while glorious bells chimed in the background.
They certainly wouldn’t mention a skeleton dressed in a black coat and scarf, shielding itself from the pouring rain with a black umbrella. Bewildered I stared across the street, clutching my briefcase tight in my hand. The people beside me ignored that strange creature like it was invisible to them. They complained about the weather and that their groceries would get wet.
My heart pounded faster as the traffic light switched from red to orange. Why did no one else see that thing? I hadn’t gone mad, had I?
Green. The crowd of people started moving across the street like a small swarm of bees. The rain poured mercilessly down onto them. The ghostly figure on the opposite side didn’t move, like a steady rock in the ocean as waves of people swept around it.
I was meant to follow them, but I couldn’t move a muscle. Rain ran down my face, into my eyes. The traffic light was still green, the seconds quickly ticking down. Six, five, four.
The screeching of brakes on the wet asphalt. A truck had barrelled into a car parking by the crossing. The screams of people rang in my ears and bright flashes of car headlights filled my vision.
When I came back to my senses, breathing heavily and sitting in a puddle on the ground, the street in front of me was in chaos. Pieces of metal lay around and red mingled with the rain.
The figure on the other side was gone.
