This place is haunted, they say. This place is haunted, there’s a ghost with love scorned, she hung herself years ago, and sometimes there are shadows. There are shadows and a red dress, and nooses for chandeliers. They say she wails and breaks glasses and slams doors and makes the nooses from twine and human hair. She hangs them like she hangs herself, and then she sleeps for the night; she sleeps tight in this church, and no one will say why they haven’t burned it to the ground.
He doesn’t believe in ghosts, he never has, he knows that everything around him is already dead and there is nowhere else to go. Xigbar sits, leans back, boots resting upon the pew in front of him, and he smokes. The smoke rises up, threads itself in and between the nooses she’s woven and he doesn’t see a thing. There’s a crucifix in front of him, just passed the alter, eye traces the lines worn with time. It’s illuminated by candles, a light to guide the souls that wander through here in the twilight, a guide to the map of faith, but all he knows is the cross.
The door to the vestry slams shut— he doesn’t flinch. All there is, is a woodwork comfort, candlewax and shadow, headlights seeping in through stained glass windows. He’s all alone here, alone with ghost he doesn’t believe in, and they both watch the flames of the candles flicker and die out as she screams.
