Scribbler's Book

The door of the chapel opened up with a loud creak that echoed tenfold in the silence, and an old man stepped through it into the night. The moonlight reflected off of his hairless, creased head and highlighted the many patches and dirt stains on his clothes. The healed-up remains of a deep cut scarred his face where his right eye should be. He was carrying a shovel and a rake in one hand, while holding up a lantern with the other. Its light illuminated his morbidly thin frame, his bones practically showing beneath the skin amidst the patches of shadows they formed. He closed the door behind himself and stepped onto the road.

The old man, Pastor, was the caretaker of the graveyard. Having no home to go back to, he’d been living in the chapel for many long years. He knew all the headstones well – their names, their numbers, their epitaphs. He dug most of these graves, and was always there when their new residents arrived. It made him feel somewhat responsible. Nobody else would take care of these shrines, and without him they’d just be overgrown with weed. The dead deserve better.

It’d be false to claim that Pastor had any kind of love for the dead. But his hatred for the living served a similar purpose, and in the end, he generally found the graves to be better company. People care too much about material desires, chasing them their entire life, willing to do anything to get more just to lose them all when the time comes. It doesn't matter what it is – as long as it's "more", they want it. He knew this well – he’d had plenty of firsthand experience with such throughout his long life.

The dead don’t need anything but an orderly grave. The dead won’t come after you to try and harm you. The dead care not about themselves and will listen to your woes.

Sometimes the dead will even answer them.

Pastor let out a tired sigh as he began walking among the mounds, following one of the many paths his feet trampled over the years. His bones creaking with each step, he held his lantern high, looking around, examining the graves. The light of the moon and the lantern combined into many distorted shadows patching the ground around him, but he gave no heed to the unnerving shapes. His one sunken eye swept over the surrounding area until he reached a certain spot.

At first glance, this part of the graveyard looked like any other, but even without a marker he could tell that this was where he stopped working last night. Most of his job consisted of making rounds through the labyrinth of dirt mounds, making sure each and every one of them looked orderly without as much as a spot of weed on them. He softly put the lantern and shovel on the ground, grabbing the rake in his two shaking hands before he stepped over to the next grave in line. He stopped in front of it, planting the head of the rake into the ground while loosely holding its end with both hands, staring at the gravestone, waiting.

Isolde Lockwood. 1965 – 2002. ‘Until the day breaks and the shadows flee.’

The wind whispered a subtle melody through the branches of the nearby trees, and for several minutes, nothing happened. But then a faint white shade began appearing above the grave, slowly becoming more and more visible as it took the form of a young woman. She had long hair and big eyes, her frail, nebulous form floating inches above the mound. Her pale face betrayed no emotion as she locked eyes with the caretaker, who was unfazed by the apparition. He waited patiently, staring at her with a calm, stern expression. Several more minutes passed in silence until the woman slowly nodded. Then she faded away, disappearing without a trace.

When she was gone, Pastor grabbed his rake once again, putting the head gently onto the mound. With permission now received, he began smoothing down the dirt, taking great care to get rid of any weed he came across – exposure to the winds and rain made it look cloddy, and home to many unwanted plants.

When I lazily glanced towards the living room doorway, I noticed that the corner of the carpet was… for a lack of a better word, clawed all over. The fabric had ugly, torn lines across it, and the stitching was undone in several spots. I knew it wasn’t like this when I left for work that morning.

I got up from the couch, curious as I knelt down next to the carpetal destruction, trying to think of what could have happened here while I was out. Did something get in? How? Everything was locked – the door, the windows… Maybe it was something in the air – bad conditions can snap fabric, or so I’ve heard…

Just to be sure though, I went around the apartment to check each room. “Maybe something DID get in somehow,” I thought, but I couldn’t find anything. Before I could get too confused by this mystery though, the doorbell rang.

It was my old neighbor, Mrs. Barnett. She was a kind lady, but the years were getting to her. She was leaning onto her walking stick, holding some kind of bag in her other hand.

“Erwin!” She chirped with a wrinkly smile. “Good to see you! Haven’t seen you in a while!”

“Good day, Mrs. Barnett.” I replied with a nod. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with work…”

“That’s fine, that’s fine!” she said. “I won’t be long, really, but I saw your cat the other day! Very nice kitty, told me you treat him really well!”

“…What?” That confused me even more. Was she imagining things? In her old age, it wouldn’t have surprised me. “Mrs. Barnett, I don’t have a cat.”

“Seemed a little thin, though!” She continued like she didn’t even hear me. “So I thought I’d bring over some food, make sure you got a little until you buy some more. Here!” She raised the bag with her shaky hand. Confused, I took it. Cat food. Rather cheap.

“Uh… um, thank you…?” I said, looking back at her. She looked completely serious about the whole thing, which convinced me even more that she was just imagining things.

“Oh, don’t mention it!” She shook her head. “See you around, alright?” With that, she shuffled to turn around and head back to the apartment opposite to mine.

“Uh, yeah. Have a nice day, Mrs. Barnett.”

After the confusing exchange, I closed my door and looked at the bag in my hands. I thought about the possibility that something might still be hiding in my apartment, so after pondering it for a moment, I headed to the kitchen to grab a small bowl and fill it with the cat food. Might as well. What do I have to lose?

I set the bowl out in the hallway, then went back to the kitchen to make a sandwich for myself and move on with my day. I watched some TV, argued a little with someone on the internet, the usual stuff. When I finally felt tired and decided to go to bed, I passed by the bowl in the hallway. That’s when I noticed – it was empty.

In light of this new evidence, my first thought was that something really did get into the apartment. To test it, I put some more food into the bowl, then went to bed. It was gone by morning. I left out more food over the course of the next few days around mealtime, and each time it was gone soon after, yet I never saw what was eating it. I tried watching the bowl, a few times even from hiding, but nothing happened. Then I left for five minutes and it was gone. The destruction didn’t stop either. I noticed the carpet was more and more scratched up with each passing day. One time I found the toilet paper ripped up in the bathroom, too.

Is there a cat in my house? I needed more proof. A week later I went out to buy more cat food as well as a proper bowl. I bought the cheapest one I could find, an orange plastic one with the name “Tiger” on it. It works. I also bought a scratching post – maybe I could still save what’s left of my carpet’s corner. Before I left the store, I also decided to buy a litterbox. Might as well be cautious and prepared…

From that point onwards, I put some cat food in the bowl twice a day with an amused “there you go, Tiger”, and cleaned the litterbox every couple of days. The food was always gone without exception, and the box and scratching post were used frequently – in turn, my carpet stopped coming apart ever since. I don’t know exactly when, but sometimes along the way it stopped being an attempt to find the loose animal in my house, and became me taking care of a cat that may or may not exist. Despite the circumstances, it was a nice change of pace to have a pet around the house, to liven up my boring days a little... even though I’ve never actually seen it.

 A year had passed like this. Then one day… I went to buy more cat food in that small corner store near my home. It was convenient not having to go to the supermarket for it. On that day though, as I left the store, I tripped and dropped the bag. It landed on the asphalt with a thump and a rip. None of it spilled out, fortunately, but it still soured my mood…

It only took me a couple minutes to walk home, but as I was fumbling with the door, I heard a meow. It was an orange tabby cat… seemed like it smelled the cat food from the ripped-up bag, and followed me home.

I glanced at it for a moment. “Uhh… Don’t look at me like that. I can’t keep you. I already have Tiger, and…” But the moment I uttered the name, the cat started purring and rubbed up against my leg.

“Mmh… alright, fine. Tiger, huh? What a coincidence.”

When I leaned down to pick up the cat, it didn’t attempt to run away. It didn’t even flinch. It just kept staring at my shopping bag that held the cat food. I headed up to my apartment, and filled the cat bowl with food first thing. The cat wasted no time digging in, like it was somehow familiar with the routine already.

The man seemed confident as he glanced around the place. He had short, messy brown hair and was clean-shaven. Maybe even a bit too much so... He couldn’t help it – he was born with a babyface. His baggy, navy blue hoodie was hanging loosely on his thin body and arms, covering up a red shirt. He was carrying a brown shoulder bag flung around his neck, filled to the brim with books and papers.

The woman on the other hand seemed to be having second thoughts about coming here. She was eyeing the place with a repulsed grimace: this wasn’t what she signed up for. She was wearing a dark purple jacket covering up a pink top and trousers, separated by a stylish lavender belt. Her fuzzy, brown boots protected her from the ages of dust gathering on the floor, and her long blonde hair was being kept in check by a purple hairband. Her large, pink hoop earrings swayed gently as she turned her head, looking up at the rotting boards on the ceiling.

“Ugh… remind me why I’m here again, Dipper? Why did I agree to this?” the woman asked with a hint of disdain in her voice.

“Because Mabel is busy with her theater stuff, and you owe me one, that’s why. Mmh…” As she looked at the railing around the stairs, Dipper opened up his bag and pulled out a thick burgundy book. “Pacifica, did you remember to prepare like I asked?”

“Of course, I’m not about to half-ass this…” She rolled her eyes, then tried to recall the details. It was her job to ask around town about the happenings in the mansion, and she sure wasn’t about to shirk her responsibilities. She made a promise after all. “The neighbors down the hill said the place gets really loud every couple days around midnight. You know, stuff getting thrown around, scratching, all the clichés.” Pacifica followed his eyes and glanced at the stairs as she talked, pulling her nose up at the thick layer of filth gathering on the steps. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been down here though. Way too dusty.”

Dipper nodded and flipped through the book. “Okay, so it’s either a really bored ghost, or a bunch of teenagers making a mess. Let’s see…” He settled on a page and started reading, mumbling to himself. “Not-so-deadly… fondest wish… making things float…” He nodded, seemingly having found what he was looking for. “Well, unless I’m missing something, this should be an easy Category 1 ghost.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Pacifica frowned. She gently tapped the lowest step of the stairs with her foot and watched the dust puff into the air around her legs.

“Har har, shut up. I had incomplete information. THIS should be simple.” He looked up the stairs towards the upper floor and closed the book. “How long have these happenings been occuring?”

“I don’t know, like a month? Something like that?”

“Curious…” It was Dipper’s turn to frown, rubbing his chin in thought. “Usually, this type of ghost goes away if you just ignore them, but this might be a subclass. Let’s go find a spacious room, then we can try to see what it wants.”

Without a second thought, he headed up the stairs in a hurry. Pacifica reluctantly followed, but lagged behind a bit – she was trying to keep her steps cautious so she wouldn’t disturb any more dust than necessary. They were expensive shoes, after all… Checking a few doors, Dipper soon settled on the master bedroom. It was spacious enough for his plans – the only thing left in there was a half-broken queen-sized bed that was filling the room with an odd smell. There was nothing else… looters probably took the rest of the furniture a long time ago. “Okay… This will do.”

“What is that smell?” Pacifica grimaced as she followed him inside.

“Do you really want to find out?”

“…You know what, no. So are we doing an exorcism or something?” she asked, frowning at the bed for a second before she turned back to Dipper.

“This ghost probably has an unfinished business of some sort. In order to make sure it passes on, we’ll do a quick séance and figure out what it wants.”

“Should be simple, huh?” Pacifica rolled her eyes. “Okay, how do we do that?”

“A Category 1 ghost would have shown itself to us by now if it could, so I’m going to assume that it can’t.” Dipper explained. “We have to give it a temporary body, and then we can just ask it ourselves.”

“Temporary… what?!” Pacifica raised her voice in protest. “I didn’t agree to that!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dipper shook his head. “Besides, I’m the expert ghost hunter here, so of course the ghost will be drawn to me. Your job is to talk to it. Find out what it needs in order to pass on.”

Pacifica pouted and crossed her arms. “Ugh. Okay, fine, if you say so. Go on.”

“Right.” Dipper cleared his throat and spoke up tentatively. “So uh… hey? Ghost?”

“Is THIS your method?!” Pacifica couldn’t help letting out a chuckle.

“Ssh.” Dipper frowned at her before turning back towards the empty room. “Ghost? Are you there? We’re here to help. If you can hear me, please tell us by any means how we can help you.”

“Yeah, we’re both here to help.” Pacifica added. “Do make it quick though, I don’t want this to take all day…”

For a minute, nothing happened. The room remained as silent as they found it. After a while, the two looked at each other.

“Well.” Pacifica spoke. “Doesn’t seem like it wants us to he-AH!” Suddenly, her eyes darted wide open as she buckled over, falling onto her knees.

“Pacifica?!” Dipper took a step forward, looking startled at the girl. The next moment though, she stood up, spinning around briefly as if her legs refused to hold her up for a moment. “Pacifica, are you okay?”

Her legs wobbly and unsteady, the girl spent a few seconds trying to balance herself, as if she wasn’t used to it. She then glanced around the room, raising a hand to touch the side of her head next to her eyes before looking down again in confusion. “Oh, yeah…” She mumbled, and only then did she spot Dipper standing nearby. “Oh…!” She had a confused glee in her voice as she smiled, turning to face him. Her arms spread for a moment to help her balance before she put them behind her back and leaned in slightly. Was she… trying to look cute? “Hey there…” She spoke with a wide smile, panting the words slightly.

“Uhh…” Dipper quickly figured out what happened. “Are you… the ghost…?”

“Ehehe…” ‘Pacifica’ giggled as she looked him over, pausing on his bag, then on his face. “Why do you want to know… handsome…?”

“Subclass…” Dipper mumbled, making a mental note to add a footnote to the Category 1 page of the book. “Well, uhh… if you are, then we’re here to help.” He wasn’t used to Pacifica acting this… forward. She took a few steps, walking up to him while keeping eye contact and that smile the entire time.

“Oooh that.” she giggled again, putting a hand on her cheek. “Yeah, I uh…”

“I really thought you’d pick me, though…” Dipper added. He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “This is a bit awkward.”

“Well, if I picked you, I couldn’t be WITH you, right…?” It was like the girl couldn’t stop giggling. A nervous reaction, maybe?

“W-with me?” Dipper’s face turned a slight shade of red. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” She stepped even closer to him. Pacifica was slightly shorter than Dipper, so she had to tiptoe to face him evenly. “I was hoping someone like you would show up… You know… there was something I reeeeeeally wanted to do in life, and… well, things happened, and I could use your help with it…”

“A-ah?” Dipper did not like where this was going. “Uh, what’s that?”

“Well, you see…” Finally, the girl pulled back, now facing him from a normal distance. She looked away shyly as she blushed. “I died pretty young I guess, so I never had the chance… but I always wanted to… be with a boy…”

She said the last part rather silently, but Dipper still understood it. His eyes widened. “W-wait… what?”

 The bed didn’t seem to actually smell that bad up close. Or maybe he just got used to it by then. Dipper was laying on his back, with ‘Pacifica’ cuddling up to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. One of her hands was holding his, while the other was resting on his chest. She had a content smile on her face. They were just lying there silently, until a few minutes later she finally spoke.

“This is nice.”

After a moment of hesitation, Dipper replied. “So uh… when you said you wanted to be with a… uh, nevermind. Happy you’re enjoying this.”

“Your girlfriend is so lucky.” she giggled, scooting a bit closer, her cheek rubbing against his shirt.

“Thanks, but I don’t have a girlfriend…”

“Really?” She raised her head, looking at him. “Then who’s this girl?”

“She’s just… a friend, I guess?”

“Huh.” ‘Pacifica’ leaned her head back onto his shoulder. “She sounds dumb.”

Dipper considered arguing that, but he decided not to say anything. This is for the sake of the ghost… no point getting into semantics.

A few more minutes passed in silence. The ghost didn’t want this to end anytime soon, but then she sighed in satisfaction. “Thanks for this, by the way. I’ve wanted this for… well, a very long time, and I never thought it’d be this… enjoyable. I actually feel satisfied…”

“You’re welcome.” Dipper nodded slightly, before glancing down at her. “…Wait… satisfied? You mean…”

‘Pacifica’ let out another happy sigh, then in the next moment her eyes darted open, looking startled. “What the…”

Dipper was afraid this would happen. “Uhm, I can explain…”

He tried to get up, but the hand on his chest pushed him back down. He was met with a mean glare from Pacifica as she looked up at him. “If you tell this to anyone – ANYTHING that happened here today – I’ll gut you. Understood?”

“Uh, yeah, sure… wasn’t planning to.” Dipper shook his head.

Jackson’s job was fairly simple, yet very important. Lots of people would consider it soul-crushingly boring, though. Luckily, he didn’t have one of those unreliable things anymore. It was his responsibility to keep track of the paperwork of incoming souls. Every soul was scheduled to arrive at a set time and date, and he had to make sure this goes flawlessly. Whenever he actually had to leave his office, it meant that something had gone wrong, or someone wasn’t doing their job properly. Souls can come in too early, or not at all, and it was his task to investigate these discrepancies and set things right.

The skull-faced salaryman was checking paper after paper that day, inspecting the names, dates, times, causes of death, and the type of stamps they received from the entry division. The one he preferred to see was the green “Arrived” stamp. It meant the soul showed up on schedule, and all he had to do was skim over the details, then put his own stamp on it: “Approved”. There were two other types of stamps that he didn’t like to see, though: “Early” and “Late”. These were the ones he needed to investigate. It broke the pleasant, predictable monotony of his day; instead, he had to waste his time fixing someone else’s mistake. Jackson hated mistakes.

As he grabbed the next paper from the “IN” pile, his boney eyebrows sunk into a frown. Samuel Smith, twenty-eight, hit by a bus. On the bottom of the form: a big red “Late” stamp. The “date arrived” was left blank, meaning that Samuel never even showed up. He was two weeks late.

Jackson let out an annoyed sigh and put the paper down. He was really hoping he could have just one pleasant week without something going wrong, but of course, that’s never the case. He stood up and left the office, turning briefly to his secretary as he walked. “Lilith, I’ll be out of the office for about an hour. Make sure my papers arrive in order.”

“Yes, Mr. Reaper.” came the answer. Jackson headed towards the entrance hall, nodding at anyone he passed by. People usually stayed out of his way; after all, he had a reputation in the office. He was fine with that; others didn’t like talking to him, and he didn’t like talking to others. It worked out.

He made his way to the entrance. It was officially known as the entry division – there was a booth opposite to the front door, with souls standing in a long snaking line next to it. A man was sitting in the booth, looking at some papers while talking to the soul in front. One could have mistaken him for a human if it wasn’t for the large, white-feathered wings nestled on his back. He was naked from the waist up, and looked unnaturally healthy. Of course. HE had to be on duty right now. Jackson rolled his non-existent eyes, then walked up to the booth.

“Gabe, I’ll be out of the office for a while. Can you call me a ride?” he said, leaning onto the counter with one arm. The man looked up and flashed a white-toothed grin at him. “Why, is something wrong?”

“No, I want to take a leisurely walk in the moonlight, Gabe. What else do you think I’m heading out for?” Jackson growled. “A soul is late and I need to investigate. You should know, you stamped his paper.”

“Of course. No need to get so grim, Grim.” Gabe said cheerfully. He was the only person in the office who openly called him that. Jackson had to let it slide, though. Gabe was from the upper offices – ‘Grim’ knew it wasn’t worth getting snappy with him.

He stepped away from the booth and headed outside, ignoring the stares of the newly arrived. There was a soul greeter standing by the front door, but Jackson ignored them, making his way down the short path outside – cement slabs leading into the empty void, with a tiny patch of grass surrounding them on each side. At the very end of the path, where the slabs ended, there was a wooden bench facing the emptiness, standing in its lonesome. Jackson sat down and waited.

In just a minute, a cab appeared in front of him in the void. He stood up and got in the back without a word. The front seats were empty – there was no need for a driver. Once he was comfortable, Jackson called out his destination loud and clear, and as if by request, the void around him shifted. The empty scenery quickly changed into a dark suburban avenue illuminated only by a lone streetlight. Getting out, Jackson muttered a thank you before the cab disappeared.

The street was empty and silent. Few have a reason to wander after midnight, but even if they did, nobody would have noticed the hooded figure. People tend to only see things that want to be seen. The house in front of him was dark, its resident asleep. Jackson walked up the pathway and went straight through the door without opening it. This way, he didn’t make any noise.

The house was a simple downtown home with two floors. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all – Jackson practically knew the place already, even though it was his first time there. He walked up the stairs and over to one of the doors he suspected was the bedroom. He phased through it and looked around.

The room was fairly small, but still managed to have a bookcase, a table, a nightstand and a large bed. On the latter, all but his head hidden under the blanket, a man was sleeping soundly. Jackson knew it was Samuel by the picture on his paper. On one of the posts at the footboard, a creature was staring at Jackson from the darkness. It had the body of a butterfly, but it was gray and much bigger than one, about the size of a large dog. Its face was humanoid, and instead of antennae, it had one long spike on its forehead like a unicorn. It looked nervous, its wings fluttering silently.

Jackson looked at the creature. “Cindy.” he said. His strict expression just made the butterfly even more anxious.

He knew the creature was a guardian angel, of course. Their job was to look after their assigned human, to make sure they’re safe until their time comes. Guardian angels had the authority to alter reality in minor ways, which helped them accomplish their task with relative ease.

“O-oh…” Cindy mumbled, trying to keep her composure. “Hi, Mr. Reaper… What a pleasant surprise...!”

“You’ve done it again, haven’t you?” he asked, crossing his boney arms. Cindy lowered her head. “Yes…”

Jackson rubbed his forehead, letting out a sigh. “Look… Cindy, we’ve been over this. Do you know how late this soul is?”

“He… he’s not just a soul!” the guardian angel said, taking flight and hovering over the bed. “I just… I couldn’t let him die so young! He’s special!”

“Yes, I’m sure he is.” Jackson shook his head. “Just like the person before him, right? Cindy, you can’t keep doing this. I already went out of my way to get you this second chance. You know how upset the boss can get if something doesn’t go according to plan.”

“Yes, but…”

“There’s no excuse. When you got this job, you were specifically told in orientation not to let your emotions get in the way. That just doesn’t work out here.” He then glanced towards the sleeping man. “He was supposed to be hit by a bus two weeks ago, what happened?”

The guardian angel softly landed on the bedpost again. “I-I tried my best, I really did! It was just… in that split second… I just couldn’t let it happen! He has so much to live for!”

Jackson shook his head again. “You know that’s not how it works. He has to go, now.”

Cindy looked at the floor silently. She didn’t dare oppose him – she knew she messed up. Jackson sighed and stepped over to the bed. He raised his boney arm, motioning towards the man with his fingers. After a few seconds, a tiny, glowing orb left the sleeper’s mouth, briefly illuminating the room with a blue light before it disappeared.

“There.” Reaper lowered his arm. “Don’t worry. He felt no pain.”

Cindy looked at the man, then back at the floor.

“Now come on. I need to fix his paperwork.” Jackson turned away and headed towards the door, but the guardian angel didn’t move. He stopped and looked back at her, then sighed. “Come on, Cindy. If you hurry, you may still meet him in the office.”

Hearing that, Cindy looked up. “Really?” she asked, and took flight again. A glimmer of hope could be heard in her voice.