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WaterSheerie

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 Please read the prologue before embarking on this part of the tale. Keeping the story in sequence is in the best interest of the reader. Again, enjoy!

Chapter 1.

     It late into the night by the time Byron reached his small apartment. He had stopped along the way to buy some more cigarettes, and there had been no need to rush back home. The long walk had given him time to think over what had happened.

     Time to think about the ghost he had saw, and her words.

     "Sorry I'm late, Wilson." Byron called out to his roommate as he unlocked the door, and stepped inside. "I had one of those encounters at the graveyard."

     Wilson yawned, stretched out on the small, lumpy couch in the living room. With another languid stretch, he sat up, and fixed his emerald eyes on Byron with a questioning stare.

     "A woman this time." Byron frowned, "She seemed more...aware the others I've seen."

     Tossing his keys on the small end table next to the couch, Byron shrugged off his coat, and sat down next to Wilson. The entire encounter with the woman in the graveyard had left him feeling uneasy. Ghosts usually didn't act like that. They weren't so forthcoming, so vivid and alive. Her words weren't confused, her mind had seemed focused, clear. If Byron hadn't known better, he would have thought that woman was alive. And not dead.

     Dante had referred to ghosts as memories. Nothing more, and nothing less. There was no standard as to how a ghost was 'created.' What seemed to happen, was death leaving a lasting impression. A mark. The mark was the ghost. A faded, tattered wisp of what the living soul left behind as it died.

     It had led to the somewhat whimsical name of 'Memoirs'. At least, that was what Dante called them. Byron smiled, Dante himself was something of an oddity. Like the ghost woman in the graveyard. Ghosts, or Memoirs, weren't supposed to be like that woman. She was aware, asking questions, speaking about the future. Ghosts were just footprints in time, having as much cognitive abilities and awareness as a shoe. Mostly, they just muttered their last words spoken when alive. Some simply stood there, unable to say anything.

     They never acted like that woman.

     Wilson stood up, stretching his long body into a perfect arch. He stalked across the cushions toward Byron, purring loudly. Byron smiled, stroking the large, coal black cat. The nice thing about having a cat for a roommate, was that he never thought that Byron was odd, or weird for seeing ghosts. In fact, Byron had picked out a cat for a pet, with consideration for his 'talent.' Cats had always had some sort of special connection with the dead, the afterlife, and ghosts. Myths and legends across the globe had always held cats in awe, or fear, because of that special affinity with death.

     Cats seemed to share Bryon's gift, in seeing ghosts. Byron could recall one occasion, where he had taken Wilson out to the park. Wilson had enjoyed the outdoors, rolling in the warm summer grass, and pouncing on leaves. One young boy had come up to them, a faded grey baseball cap on his head. Wilson had walked up to the boy without hesitation, rubbing against his legs, even though there really was nothing there.

     People often wandered why cats would stare, seemingly into blank space, for hours. Or would suddenly start to purr, and rub against empty air, as if a person stood there. Cats could see what Byron saw, and didn't seemed fazed by it. A ghost was just another person to them, someone to lavish attention on their royal furry selves.

     "Do you suppose I should talk to Dante about this?" Byron asked, as he scratched Wilson's ears.

     Wilson's only reply was to purr louder, rubbing his face against Byron's hand. Byron signed, sinking back into the couch. He really didn't want to speak with Dante. Such encounters usually left him more confused then before. But he couldn't let go of the incident, the woman's words.

     Things are always happening on Halloween, or they used too. But that too, can change. Someone wished it...sometimes wishes do come true.

     Halloween was in three weeks. Three weeks to figure out what she meant. Three weeks to prepare for what was going to happen. Byron wasn't stupid. The woman had hinted that something was going to happen, something big. He doubted it was something good.

     "Check out the new girl"

     Marcus's hushed whisper buzzed unpleasantly in Byron's ear. Byron turned his head to look at his best friend, and classmate.

     "A girl?" Byron smirked. "Since when do you check out girls?"

     Marcus snorted, shaking his head at the familiar banter. They had been friends since Byron had started attending the local university. Two college students, enjoying their new-found freedom from home and high school, and somehow always one the fringes of what would be considered 'normal.' Their shared lack of concern over 'conformity', and a passion for cult films, had drawn them together.

     They had managed to maintain the friendship, despite the insults and maltreatment that accompanied anyone who dared to be different. At 6'1, Byron was tall, and lanky, with shoulder length dark chocolate brown curls and a chiseled attractive face. His eyes set him apart, a vivid, burning violet, the exact shade of amethysts. A thin ring of molten gold surrounded each pupil, giving him an intimidating, and alluring stare. That and his tendency to dress in all black, while adopting a cynical attitude toward life in general. Not to mention his little talent of seeing ghosts. The talent was the biggest difference, the reason people either avoided him, or mistreated him.

     Marcus was considered different for another reason. A bit shorter then Byron, and more muscular, he was considered to be quite handsome by the majority of the female population. With short blond hair, always tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed, large blue green eyes, and soft almost angelic features made him very popular with the ladies. However, no woman had a chance with him, as he was gay. While the town of Haven Michigan, was not the worst place for a homosexual to reside, it really wasn't the best. There was a small homosexual community there, mostly college students, but Marcus didn't really socialize with them much.

     Byron and Marcus had endured the usual jokes and names that came with their friendships. Byron didn't care if people thought he was fucking Marcus, and Marcus thought it was funny.

     "Hate to say this, but you're not my type." Marcus had joked on more then one occasion.

     They had only one class together at Haven University. Psychology 101, a class renowned for it's difficulty. Being able to attend the class together was the only thing that made it bearable. The professor, Mr. Loftus, was an ass. And the rest of the class was either incredibly stupid, or simply stoned. Although, it was somewhat entertaining to watch an idiot try to decipher the intricacies of even the simplest question.

     "Well, do you see her?" Marcus persisted.

     Byron craned his neck, trying to see this girl Marcus was talking about. There was someone talking with Mr. Loftus. All Byron could see was her back, covered by a large backpack. The rest of the class was shuffling impatiently with this new delay. Byron felt a small bit of sympathy for this girl, nothing sucks worse then walking into the middle of a class, while everyone glared at you.

     She turned, and the shuffling and impatient muttering stopped as she faced the class. Large, slightly tilted, dark blue eyes swept over the class, set in a pretty heart shaped face framed by long dark auburn hair. A condescending, solemn attitude filled her face, her tall frame standing straight, with an almost royal bearing. Tossing her hair over one shoulder, she walked steadily down the aisle to her seat, walking like a queen, without a care or glance to the 'peasants' who gawked at her.

     "See what I mean." Marcus winked at Byron.

     Byron discretely flipped Marcus off, his eyes following the new girl. Along with every other male in the classroom. She found a seat, next to Byron, and sat down with the same steady, graceful movements that had characterize her walking. The somber silence had diminished, giving way to cat-calls and whistles as the men in the class made their desire known. Except for Marcus.

     Marcus rolled his eyes, "Heathens." And bent back down to his work.

     "Yeah...." Byron said softly, still watching her.

     He couldn't help but stare.

     She resembled the woman in the graveyard.