Ghost Lover: Lumiaar (special preview)

Things at school were no different than they were at home. Chaos and trouble followed me wherever I went. I was constantly punished and blamed, I was made the scapegoat for other girls and their mischief. More often than not, I was stuck behind cleaning when everyone else had their free time.

One such afternoon, I am cleaning the commons room. I am mopping up the wood floors when I notice candle wax is dribbled everywhere. It comes from the fireplace where there is a large puddle of it on the cold stones. The drips lead away from the commons room and I follow it to the library. The room is dark and empty. Since everyone is out for the day, the lights haven’t even been lit. I look around the dark shadows of the room and, as I turn to leave, the candelabra bursts to light. Candle wax rains down from the ceiling and takes shape. It melts together and the figure lurches out towards me.

Without thinking, I grab the broom I am holding and swing it, knocking the waxy creature back, and it stumbles and falls to the floor. The flames on the candelabra die out and the thing starts to moan.

“Holy fuck, did you just strike me with a broom?”

I am breathing hard and my heart has quickened to the pace of a hummingbird’s wing. I lurch forward with intent to strike it again, and it disappears then reappears on the candelabra. 

“Put that thing down!” The creature snaps.

I stare up at it, my fingers clenched so the broom will not fall. I have long since stopped screaming at things that scare me. There is no point to it. If I do scream, I will only be punished for it anyways. 

“Different,” the creature murmurs. “This is fear, but-” it hangs over the edge of the candelabra. “It is different.”

The strange creature looks like a skeleton with wax poured over it. The wax forms a strange shell about it, dripping and flowing, making a sort of vestment upon the bones. The top of the head is high and arched like a pope’s hat. Flames flicker from the top as small drips cascade down, forming peaks on the shoulders. From within the eyes, there is fire burning, keeping the wax melting and flowing down from the eyes and mouth. 

“What are you?” I whisper.

The wax thing poses on the candelabra and looks down at me. “Don’t you mean ‘who’?” It asks me. “I am not a thing, I am a person after all.”

I take a few steps back. “Not from where I am standing.”

It laughs and disappears from the candelabra, reappearing in a burst of flames from the fireplace.  “Manners,” they wag their finger at me and click their tongue. “Try again, be polite, maybe I’ll answer you.”