InsaneJournal

Week 21- Friday
Who: Fisher and Sasha
What: Discovering ghostly secrets
Where: On the front lawn to begin with
WHen: Night, around 8pm


"See the phantoms filling the sky around you. They astound you, I can tell..."

Fisher stared in awestruck horror at the scene before him. It was Friday night, which meant on Palatine Hill the Mundus stone was now open for business. Having seen ghosts all his life, and really having been like a lightning rod to them, Fisher had absolutely no desire to go out into town where there were sure to be plenty. However, morbid curiousity had led him out onto the front steps of the school in the hopes that, while safe from their reach, he could see if maybe Hades had indeed spewed forth its inhabitants. He was not at all prepared for the sheer multitude of spirits he saw now.

They floated along ther streets in crowds, like one might expect at a holiday parade. Some spoke, some screamed, some simply wandered. But there were just so many. His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes wide. Before he could register his actions, his feet began to carry him down the dry lawn, closer to the edge of the safety boundary. The world almost glowed from the ghosts, the way the night is lit up by fallen snow in moonlight. He could hear voices talking about everything and nothing. It seemed to be filling his head.

No, wait. One of the voices was in his head. "Come here," it told him. Fisher's head snapped around, trying to find out where it was coming from. "Do you dress in black to mourn the dead?" This was starting to get freaky. Fisher had seen plenty of strange things in his life, but no one had ever entered his head before. Walking faster toward the edge of the school's property line, he tried to determine who was talking to him. The most important things to figure out: Were they alive or dead?

Finally, he spotted a man who was staring intently at him. He was a European man, most likely Spanish, or maybe Italian. Dark hair, dark skin, bold eyes. He looked to be in his 30s and very severe. Most noticeable about him, though, was the angry raw hole in his throat. Most ghosts, no matter how they died, will revert back to the way they remember themselves looking. But some, especially those with a grudge, never let go of their deaths. This seemed to be a case of extreme grudge-holding.

Fisher walked up to the man, though not close enough to cross that invisible safety line. The dead couldn't hurt him, but he wanted to be able to run away if he needed to. "Hello?" Fisher asked, feeling like an idiot. The man didn't speak (didn't seem like he could), but that strange voice popped into Fisher's head again. "What on Earth do you wear?" he asked, his eyes scanning Fisher's Tim Butonesque shirt and pants. Fisher pushed his long hair off of his face. "Why are you talking in my head?" he asked.

The man made a face. "Because I have no vocal chords," he explained, as though Fisher were an idiot for asking. "I need you to find someone for me. I know she is here. Tell me where Sasha is."

"Sasha?" Fisher said dubiously. "I'm pretty sure I don't know a Sasha. Unless... wait, I think I know a girl with a dog named Sasha. She's small, really well dressed?" Okay, so Fisher's goal for the night had been not to help anyone floating around outside. But come on! This guy went through the trouble of invading his head! How could he just walk away from that?