Ghost - Phan (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 8 - Could it have been..?

Phil's POV

I woke up stiffly on the floor, cuddling Lion. I hadn't brought him with me when I laid down, did I? I threw him back to my bed and attempted to stand. My head hurt and my knuckles were coated in dried blood.

The room was covered with black spray paint. I did that. I saw it all over the lounge and kitchen. Why? Why did I do that? I saw something on the sofa – our book. I tiredly stumbled over.

It was covered in black, but the pages were spared and preserved. I grinned, rereading our stories. I was about to close it, but I stopped myself. There was writing on the inside cover. My eyes sprung wide awake when I read the date – just yesterday. I read the hieroglyphic-like writing:

I love you, Phil. Please know that. I'm still here somehow, and I love you. Seeing you in so much pain is horrifying. Please take care of yourse-

It was cut off there, but a "D" had been scratched into the cover below the writing.

Fully awake now, I threw the book to the opposite end of the sofa. The glass, the texts, the razor, the book.... It couldn't have been... But I began to believe it was him. Him. Could he possibly be... here? No, he was dead.

My voice shook. "D-Dan?" I said quietly at first, then louder. "Dan? Are you... here?"

I huddled my knees into my chest. I didn't cry. I just thought. I thought about the last moment I saw Dan alive and not in a hospital. He was smiling. He was happy. He said "Love you, be back in a few," right? When does my "a few" come? He flashed me his beautiful grin and left. It was my fault for making him leave, and if I wasn't teasing and being weird, he would be alive right now, maybe making a video with me.

I had abandoned the internet, my videos and channel, my friends, my family, my life. Nothing mattered anymore. I never felt so alone. Yet I wasn't alone right now. I felt a very, very light draft of air on my neck; like a breath. The doors and windows were closed. Nothing moved. I felt it. I wasn't alone.

I picked up the book and touched the writing. No doubt that it was Dan's.

I went to my computer and began to research how the dead can communicate with the living, though I felt crazier by the minute. I could barely read the screen, since I was nothing but tired and sick now. Some sites suggested seeing a medium, or psychic – someone who specializes in communication with "the other world."

Dan wasn't gone. I knew he wasn't. People have died in my life before and I've never felt them there ever again after that. But he was. He could be right there staring at me right now for all I knew. I knew it now – I was insane.

But he was there.

I began searching psychics and began to realize that I knew nothing about them. Did I go to them, or did they come to me? What would they do? Do they just make stuff up? How was I supposed to know?

I found someone in London willing to come to the flat. Maybe it was exactly what I needed. At least I would feel slightly less crazy if someone told me any explanation to what's been happening. I had to search for my phone, which had been carelessly laying in my room from when I received the mysterious texts supposedly from Dan. I picked it up and called the number on my screen.

I had to know.