1. CHAPTER 1. Day one: Tuesday
I always thought that the normal reaction to a ghost was to squeal. That is, of course, if you believe in this nonsense, and if not, carefully look around in search of a hidden camera, make a photogenic face and then squeal, moderately loudly and without losing your smile. Because modern special effects can do anything—probably even a ghost. Depict. Authentic, with a protruding aura, or whatever it's called, and just a step away from you. Like this one…
For some reason, it didn’t work out to squeal, but the thought of a hidden camera flashed and went away. I extended my hand and pointed my finger into the whitish, frozen fog – to where a face could barely be discerned in the swaying ghostly figure.
– Hey, be careful! Wow acquaintance – finger in the eye! – here the ghost, judging by the voice of a woman, stopped short, flew closer, hovered, as if he was peering intently at me. And he screamed so shrilly, as if he was being cut. Unless, of course, you can cut something intangible.
– What are you doing? – I asked, stunned.
– Body! At your place! “I wanted to cover my ears, but the ghost suddenly rushed towards me, I instinctively jumped back, tripped over something and fell, painfully hitting my butt on the hard and cold floor. And the ghost fell from above. Feeling – brrr!!! It’s like you’ve been swallowed by a slippery, scalding-icy jellyfish.
– Let me go! – I screamed.
But it was unlikely to be heard, because the ghost screamed along with me:
– Be careful, you clumsy fool! Ritual circle! Why did you lie down? Get up quickly!
“And I won’t think about it until you let me go,” I muttered. When something is demanded in such a boorish manner, and even with insults, one must react adequately, that is, either send them away, or put forward counter conditions. Preferably such that the boor himself will be sent away.
The whitish icy cloud moved away, I struggled to my suddenly weak legs and finally looked around.
A small room, no windows, the light comes from candles lined up in a circle on the floor. Smoothly plastered walls, thickly covered with incomprehensible symbols. The floor outside with candles is painted with the same symbols, the inside is perfectly smooth and clean… Concrete? No, a stone. Looks natural. Even the veins are visible, also gray, but lighter, whitish, like this ghost.
Ritual circle, then?
Hmmm. It seems my latest investigation has gone somewhere wrong. Decidedly and categorically not there!
I bent down to feel the floor and froze. The fingers that felt like ours were… yes, they were someone else's! Mine are graceful. I think I’m generally lucky with my hands: a beautiful hand, fingers that are called musical, and the rings look great on them. I love rings and beautiful manicures. And now, instead of my favorite snake ring with ruby eyes and a scarlet manicure to match the ruby, I saw a modest light one – silver? – a ring with pinkish carnelian or, perhaps, jasper, and albeit neat, but still short, almost clean-cut nails. Although the fingers too… nothing like that. But mine are better.
Okay, stop. What am I thinking, what difference does it make whether it’s better or not if it’s strangers?!