Under Moon, Under Stars
“Under the moon, ghosts hide themselves and weep for the those who live only to sleep.”
-Anonymous
At first, Bren thought he was just hearing things, or coming out of strange dream not yet awake to his fullest. The wind, after all, was known to whistle its own strange tunes from time to time. He had been, for a brief time-no more than ten minutes-going over the state of his sock drawer, trying to mindlessly make it to the witching hour without letting his eyes drop. It was a Friday ritual of sorts, allowing him to sleep through the weekends when he knew kids were sneaking around in his parent’s graveyard of a property; old structures, buildings and the promise of a quiet place to be, proved irresistible to many.
He closed his eyes and wind turned in again, a voice as lonely as the night flowing with it.
’And I shall feel, oh soft you tread above me
And then my grave will richer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall rest in peace until you come to me’
The voice sounded as though it was right under his window and Bren crawled over on his knees, nudging his fingers under the sill of his window and pushing it up so that the cool night air was suddenly brushing into his own room. His astronomy notes ruffled on the dark desk behind him and Bren shivered, all of sudden wishing he was already asleep and having another nightmare of his professor kicking him out of class for not wearing pants.
He could see a man about his age, thin in his grey button up sweater and long grey slacks, just below his window. In his left hand, burning bright and round, was the end of cigarette. The light brown hair over the man’s bony brows obscured a good view of his face.
The man was holding his thumb preciously over the glowing end of his cigarette, though it only seemed to be a habit as Bren noticed the man was doing it absently, gliding the thumb round the end, a couple times before he dropped it and stubbed it out. One stomp and it was a flat as the interstate highway.
But, not too long after he would light another and start to sing again, his right hand pulling at the back of his neck. The second cigarette was crushed in his hand even before it touched the earth, the man letting the remnants fall without so as much as a glance.
“D-Do you need help, buddy?” Bren had his phone in his back sweatpants pocket, resting with a twitch over the 9. He was ready to call someone.
The man shook his head. “Lucky, go back to your puzzles…Lew’s just messing ’bout. Thinking and smoking, nothing new…” Lew which Bren guessed was short for Lewis, finally looked up at his window, grinning in the corner of his mouth. He reached into his pocket and took a third cigarette out.
Bren finally noticed the small lighter in the palm of his right hand, as it glowed briefly, lighting the cigarette.
This time he took a drag and sat down on the grass. Smoke was wafting up and the boy felt his eyes starting to water. Nasty habit, just fucking nasty.
“H-Hey! Smoke somewhere else, dude.” Bren closed his eyes, as they were also starting to sting.
“Oh Lord, sorry Lucky,” the man apologized, stamping this third cigarette out in the grass between his legs. “I forgot that mama said to keep the smoke out of your face.”
Bren rubbed his eyes. This man was clearly high or something, though the reason he felt the need to have an imaginary conversation with someone named ‘lucky’ was beyond him. I need to at least-
“L-Lucky…I d-don’t t-think I’ve got much of that courage ya think I do. You know, you know I really never felt like I was ever much? You always tell me I am, but you’re my little brother, what else can you tell me?” Bren heard how the man’s voice was catching in his throat, as he became more upset. “Mama and pop don’t never really did that for me, did they? No, no, not even when I promised to stay. I lied then, but I can’t lie to you. I’m a yellow-bellied coward. I’m not going back. Never ever going back to look at those bastard stars and moon or to being an honest man again…never, never, never….m-maybe I should never have left that place...that love of mine, always waiting to look after me…b-but I-I didn’t want it to fall apart…”
The man fell back on cold earth, laughing between hitching sobs, his face so thin that the boy could clearly see the hollows of his eyes. Lewis took out the whole pack of cigarettes and threw them behind him, beginning a whistle of same tune he had been singing before.
The boy watching him from the window, ducked back and grabbed his phone, the whistling surprisingly distracting as he felt it grow closer. Deep breaths, he said to himself finally grabbing his phone. He could feel the temperature in his room growing colder as the wind picked up again and carried the whistles in faster, buffering them at the same time.
It was out of power.
“Crap,” he leaned over the window and closed his eyes.
The man was gone. The cigarettes, all, used or not, were gone. The whistling was gone, the wind no longer gusting so much even as he left his window open just in case.
The grass wasn’t burnt, the boy realized the next day. It was as if Lewis had never even existed.