Chapter Text
It’s like standing outside of the old lady’s house all over again. Only this time, Wille is right by his side. He can see him. He can touch him. Wille is real.
Sara’s face is still painted with indignation.
Linda’s is contorted in pain.
Simon doesn’t understand.
“What?” Surprisingly, it’s Wille who speaks first. Although only Simon can hear him, apparently. He doesn’t believe it. There’s no way. It doesn’t make sense. This has got to be some sort of prank. Sara is in denial. She’s upset that Simon was right.
“Simon…” Wille looks up at him, and there, Simon sees his own confusion reflected back at him.
“I don’t— I don’t know,” he stammers, feeling so very lost, confused, and frankly angry. “You’re— you’re wrong! You’re lying!” he settles on exclaiming, words aimed at Sara. “He’s right here!” He grabs Wille’s shoulder and pulls him from the chair. “He’s right here.”
Simon can feel pressure behind his eyes that he can’t deal with right now. This whole situation is very frustrating, and Simon is nearly over it. It doesn’t make sense.
Wille takes a step closer and clutches Simon’s arm. Simon watches him open and then close his mouth. He can’t help but relate; he’s not sure what else to say either.
Linda saves them all from the uncertainty.
“Sara, why don’t you go get started on your homework?”
Sara turns her steely eyes to her mother, confused. “But I don’t have—” She’s cut off by a fierce look from Linda. Sara leaves the attic, and Linda walks over to Simon. She’s careful to avoid his left side, where his arm is extended in an unnatural position, probably where Wille is, holding his hand, maybe.
With Sara gone, Simon’s expression clears into pure distress. “Mamá…” He slumps into her side once she’s close enough. His left elbow catches on something invisible before it slackens to only catch his hand.
“Do you believe me?” he whispers to the floor, and, frankly, Linda needs a moment before she can respond. Her gut tells her to take her son’s words for truth, no matter what, but the whole situation is beyond comprehension. He’s never been one for imaginary friends. That was mostly Sara. He’s always been so sociable; there was never a need to pretend. But ghosts? What does it mean if her son can talk to ghosts?
She must take too long to respond because Simon steps out of her hold. There’s a small furrow between his eyebrows as he speaks, “Mamá, I promise you that he’s real.” He pulls his left arm into his body and places it around what she can only assume to be Wille’s shoulders. “I promise.”
Linda is very careful to keep her features neutral, but she still gives Simon a small, reassuring smile when she says, “Okay.”
Simon returns the smile, then turns his head to the side. Suddenly, his face drops, and he moves so that both of his arms are extended out in front of him. “Wille, calm down, you’re okay,” he says, grave concern on his face and a tremor in his voice. He turns to his mother.
“Mamá, he's– like– freaking out. He's not breathing right. Kinda like Sara does sometimes. What do I do? We talked about it, but I don't remember what to do!”
“Simon, corazón,” Linda says, careful to keep her voice calm and steady, “can you sit him down? Sitting down is a good idea, yeah?”
Simon nods and starts to move. He ends up crouched in front of the chair that Wille was supposedly sitting in when Simon introduced them, looking up with a face pinched in worry and frantic eyes.
“Then we have to breathe, right?”
Simon nods.
“How can we do that?”
“Hand,” Simon says, focused entirely on Wille, or at least the empty chair he’s apparently in, “hand, hand, hand.” He reaches out for something invisible, then brings it to his chest. “Breathe with me, Wille. In… out… in… out…”
“Is there anything else we can say?” Linda guides. It's slightly terrifying not being able to do anything about the situation, but Simon seems to have it covered. He thinks for a moment before he says, “Words! Nice words. It's okay, Wille. You're gonna be okay.”
Now there's nothing else Linda can do. She can't see the boy to understand the situation any further, to give better advice. Now it's all up to Simon.
Linda watches her son with rapt attention as he cares for a boy she cannot see. He seems unaware of the world around him, attention entirely focused on Wille. Her endlessly caring boy.
In that moment, Linda truly believes that whatever it is that may be happening is very, very real.
After some time, Simon starts talking, and Linda feels like she’s intruding. Not only has her son entirely forgotten her presence, but it’s also strange to watch him talk to… nothing. Logically, she knows it's Wille, but watching him smile widely at a chair will never not be unnerving, no matter how much she tells herself otherwise. So she sees herself out.
“I’ll call for dinner, okay?” Linda says as she leaves, squeezing Simon’s shoulder on the way. The boy startles before smiling and nodding.
On the main floor, Sara sits on the couch watching the TV, and Micke is cleaning up the kitchen.
“How’s the stove?” she asks, leaning against the door frame to give Micke his space as he moves around, putting tools back into his tool bag. She notes the open alcohol cabinet and the bottles in the sink and makes a mental note to check in with Simon before he goes to bed. Micke grunts before he looks up.
“It’s a stubborn thing.”
“Should we call in a guy to look at it?”
Micke scoffs. “Are you saying I can’t fix it?”
“No,” Linda says quickly, definitively, “but the problem might be more complicated than you think.” Micke scoffs again. Linda holds her breath.
“So you’re saying I can’t fix it?”
“No,” Linda repeats firmly, forcing herself to remain calm, keeping her words measured. She will not lower herself to Micke’s level. It never fixes anything. She lets out her breath. “How was Simon?” Changing the topic is always a good defuser.
“He ate some lunch, watched TV, then…” Micke looks around, and Linda suppresses a sigh. It wouldn’t be the first time he lost track of a kid while drinking. “He’s in the attic,” she supplies, praying that her annoyance doesn’t show. Instead, annoyance settles on Micke’s features.
“God damnit, I told him to stop chasing that boy!” He starts moving towards the door. Linda subtly blocks him. “Let him be a kid, Micke. We all had imaginary friends when we were younger, didn’t we? He’s probably stressed from the move.”
She watches as Micke takes a deep breath. “Fine.” He grabs his tool bag from the table. “I’m headed to the basement. I’ve got an idea.”
Simon sits back on his hands with a sigh. It would be time for dinner soon, but he didn’t want to leave Wille. Never did, really, not after the incredulity that Sara looked at him with or the pain in Linda’s gaze. He hits the leg of Wille’s chair with his foot, slightly annoyed that they haven't moved somewhere more comfortable yet.
“Do you believe that you’re a ghost now?” he asks teasingly, daring to broach the topic. He suspects that Wille’s breakdown was closely related to the… unfortunate? truth. Well, he supposes it would suck to be dead, but then they wouldn’t have met, so it can’t be that bad.
Wille glares at him, but shakes his head with a small smile. He starts picking at the edges of the book he was writing in earlier.
“It’s… weird, I guess. Like– sure, I’m a ghost, but then how come only you can see me? It– it would make sense if it wasn’t just you, but…” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “Simon… Simon, how did I die?”
Simon would like to know that answer, too. “I don’t know,” he responds truthfully, not sure what else to say, but feeling like he's supposed to.
Wille stares intently at where his fingers are picking at the book, the action somehow feeling more intense. An eternity passes before he stops and quietly admits, “I… I really want to know.”
Simon still doesn't know what to say.
Wille takes a shaking breath in. “Simon,” he says, sounding so wounded that it hurts to hear, “I’ve been… I've been living—or, not living, I guess—in this attic for twenty years, apparently, without knowing, and they left.” He sniffs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Simon, they left,” he says in a hiss. “I’m dead, the police found nothing, and they left.” There are real tears now, and he uses the sleeves of his nice, collared shirt to wipe his eyes. “He left,” he whispers.
Oh.
Simon hadn’t thought about that too much, but of course, Wille cared more than he did. His family had literally just left after he went missing. They probably didn’t know that he had died. How had he died anyway? If the police found nothing, surely it's got to be something out of the ordinary.
Simon scrambles to his feet and wraps Wille in a tight hug. He’s not really sure what to do or say. The gravity of the situation has finally hit. Wille’s dead. His family don’t know, the police don’t know. Sure, it’s been twenty years, but there’s always hope. Wille could be thirty right now, but instead, he’s a ghost in Simon’s attic.
At dinner, Micke shares good news.
“I figured out why the stove isn’t working.”
Linda perks up from where she sits across from him.
“Oh, that's wonderful news! Were you able to fix it?”
Micke grunts as he finishes chewing. “It’s a rusted pipe,” he says, reaching for his glass. “What's strange, though, is how the gas was turned off at the meter. The pipe rusting would be expected of a house that hasn’t been lived in for thirty-or-so years. That’s why it was so cheap. Stupid of us not to check stuff like that. Or the realtor, actually! I knew she was dodgy as hell—”
“Micke,” Linda scolds.
He huffs but continues, “Turning off the gas at the meter implies that someone turned it off but didn’t fix the pipe. If a neighbor noticed the leak, they would’ve called or turned it off and then called. Either way, I can't believe we didn’t notice that there was no gas in the house or the rusted pipe.”
Linda shrugs. “We’ve only been here two weeks.”
Micke nods. “Still strange, though.” He sighs. “I should be able to get it fixed this weekend, but I’ve got work until then, so still no stove.”
To Micke’s right, Simon sits and ponders his father’s words.
“A gas leak is bad, right?” he asks.
“Of course.” Micke clears his throat. “You shouldn’t breathe in gas. It’s toxic. You could die.”
Simon stiffens. Linda watches him from the corner of her eye. “Do you know if the pipe breaking was recent?” he asks.
“All I can say for sure is that the house didn’t smell like eggs whenever we visited, so it must have happened some time ago. If a neighbor spotted the leak, it had to be around long enough for the smell to be noticeable, then it would have taken a while for all that gas to dissipate. But that’s all speculation."
“Could it have happened twenty years ago?”
Micke opens his mouth, but Linda interrupts. “Simon, how was your day?”
Luckily, the boy takes the bait, even if his answer is bland, and she stops any accusations from Micke with a look. She has a sinking feeling that she knows where that train of questioning was heading, and she doesn’t know if it would be better or worse for Simon, and thus Wille, to figure out his cause of death.
Of course, there is no way to prove that he was killed by that gas leak, but Simon isn’t dumb. It's a perfectly logical conclusion at the moment.
When it's time for bed, Simon insists on checking the attic, and Linda doesn’t have the heart to stop him. What is surprising, though, is how he comes down after only sticking his head up, looking nowhere near as crestfallen as he was when Wille suddenly left last time.
“Is he not there?” she asks.
Simon shakes his head.
“No, he does that sometimes. I think it’s part of the whole ghost thing. Did I tell you he’s a ghost? Well, he’s a ghost. You thought that the whole time, but it’s official now. He even admits to it.”
“That’s certainly something,” Linda comments.
“Yeah,” Simon says, getting into his bed. She kisses him on the head. “I wish you could see him, Mamá. He’s really great.”
Linda smiles. “I’m glad you’ve made such a good friend, mi amor.” She leans in close to pinch his sides. “Even if he’s a ghost.”
Simon squeals and squirms away.
When Wilhelm got home from school, he had a pep in his step and a smile on his face. He’d had a good day. The first one in a while. He was feeling good.
“Mamma!” he called upon opening the door. “Mamma!”
“Yes, älskling?” Kristina replied from where she sat on the couch in the front room, putting down her book to give her attention to her youngest son. His smile widened.
“It’s snowing!” he exclaimed. Kristina’s lip ticked up a bit at her son’s enthusiasm. It was nice to see him so happy. Perhaps this was finally the end to his madness. Thankfully, the media had only gotten hold of a small handful of his disappearances, but he ran off to that house nearly every other week. It was curious how his chosen hiding place wasn’t very far, but Kristina chose to be thankful that it was so close instead of questioning why. He also never went away for long. A few hours at most.
“It is indeed,” Kristina said, turning to gaze out the window herself, where flurries danced across the sky. It wasn’t going to stay, but it was a nice symbol of the changing seasons. She was never one for winter, but Wilhelm tended to appreciate it. Perhaps it was the childish wonder that came with snow and the holidays.
“Where’s Erik?” Wilhelm asked as he took off his backpack and hung it on the hooks by the door, toeing off his shoes in the process.
“With friends,” Kristina responded, returning to her book. She still caught how Wilhelm’s whole demeanor slumped, though. He was always so attached to his older brother.
“Oh,” he said. Then he grabbed a folder from his backpack and moved towards the kitchen. On his way to the kitchen table, where he liked to do his homework, Wilhelm caught sight of the glass slider that led to the back patio, where the snowflakes were framed, wandering across the sky. He had always appreciated snow. There was just something about watching snowflakes lazily make their way to the ground without a care in the world. Wilhelm could watch them for hours. It was peaceful, calming.
But the image was tainted now, along with his mood, the moment he was informed of Erik’s whereabouts. There had been a time when Erik and Wilhelm would tumble through the door together after school. There had been a time when Erik couldn’t wait for Wilhelm to get home, once he had started going to school earlier than Wilhelm.
But those times had long passed, apparently. Logically, he knew he couldn’t be too upset about it. According to his mother, it was normal for siblings to grow up and make new friends who weren’t their younger brother. It still hurt, though, and… none of Wilhelm’s classmates were like Erik. He couldn’t explain it, but they all felt so… fake. Erik was never fake.
But his actions as of late had Wilhelm starting to second-guess that.
It was halfway through dinner when Erik got home. He burst through the door, covered in a light dusting of the snow that was still gently falling.
“Erik!” Kristina called, concern clear in her tone, although perhaps more subdued than one would expect. She still had an image to uphold, after all. “Where have you been?” That was a bit accusatory, but softer than any tone she had ever used with Wilhelm, considering Erik was expected home half an hour ago.
“Sorry I’m late, Mamma!” Erik called back, not sounding very sorry at all, as he dusted himself off before removing his shoes and jacket. “Sigge and I wanted to get one last round in, and it took longer than expected.” His smile was a touch too smug for Wilhelm’s liking as he ambled into the kitchen to serve himself some dinner.
“We were worried,” Kristina continued in that same firm tone, concern still easily evident. “You should have texted. You have a phone for a reason.”
Erik shrugged. “Lost track of time.” Then, softer, eyeing his mother with care, “I’m truly sorry, Mamma.”
Wilhelm was convinced that Erik must know something about Kristina that he didn’t, because all she did after that was sigh and ask, “How was your day, Erik?” and that was upsetting. Because how could he do everything right and Erik still be treated like the prince? It wasn’t fair, and it didn’t make sense, and Wilhelm didn't like it.
He did everything that Erik did in a situation like that and got none of what Erik just got. Yeah, sure, he’s made plenty of mistakes, and the first time he ran off, Kristina had been worried, if not more than she is now, but Erik gets away with it all. There were no consequences for him.
On top of it all, after dinner, Wilhelm asked if Erik wanted to play, swallowing his resentment because he loves his brother dearly. He was going away for a rowing camp soon, too. At the end of the day, all Wilhelm wanted was to spend time with Erik because it felt like he was falling lower and lower on the other’s list of priorities when he would never budge on Wilhelm’s list.
“I’ve got homework, Wille,” Erik said from where he was actively hunched over a math worksheet. “And I already spent all afternoon gaming with Sigge.”
So much for a good day, was all Wilhelm could think as he stood in Erik’s doorway and tried to squash the rage building in his gut. He had long learned that it never got him anywhere, but man, was it tempting to kick and scream and have a fit right then.
Instead, Wilhelm took a deep breath and decided that he was done. It was a decision he made often, but what else was there to do in a house that didn’t care for him?
He went to his room to grab his bag and bundle up a bit. He had taken to the attic of the house across the street because it was the most hidden spot, but it was very cold, especially at this time of year. Then, he checked the whereabouts of his family members. Erik was singing loudly to the music from his headphones in his room, and his parents were both watching TV downstairs, as they usually did together of an evening, volume raised to compete with Erik’s poor vocal skills, all of them none the wiser.
Wilhelm slipped through the front door and across the street.
Logically, the untouched house that Wilhelm loved to hide in had a locked front door. Fortunately, it had a broken window in the front. Of course, that only added to the rumors that it was haunted, but it sure made it easy to get in. That was the main reason Wilhelm had chosen it.
Sneaking in through the window, being careful of the broken glass, Wilhelm was affronted by a horrid smell not unlike eggs that had gone too long unused and lingered in the kitchen for a few days after Ludvig had disposed of them. The smell had certainly not been there the last time Wilhelm had entered the house two-or-so weeks ago, but the pressure behind his eyes had been building from the moment he stepped out of his house, and this building hadn’t been touched by anyone other than Wilhelm and Erik in the past fifteen years, so it was hardly at the top of his worries in that moment.
He scrambled up the ladder to the attic, which was probably a detriment to the secrecy of the location, but it was too much of a hassle to put up and take down every time to be worth it. Once up, he chucked his bag at the desk after taking out his blanket and crumpled into the beanbag on the floor with the blue fabric tucked securely around his shoulders as tears finally broke from his eyes.
In all honesty, that was what he usually did in the attic. As pathetic as it was, it was better than home. Other times, he was too angry for tears or just wanted to be in a place where he couldn’t be found. More recently, it was just tears, though.
The suffocating smell of eggs was dizzying. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his breaths were all quick and shallow.
Wilhelm buried his head in the bean bag and brought the blanket up over his head. It hardly helped. Perhaps it wasn’t the eggs but just the crushing realization that Erik truly wanted nothing to do with him anymore. That his mother would always prefer him over Wilhelm.
Another thing that was becoming more frequent was crying himself to sleep. He almost preferred it, in a way, because then he didn’t have to deal with it. This time, sleep came to him deceivingly easily.
Simon checked the attic every day for Wille, nearly buzzing out of his skin with the anticipation of his new discovery. It's after church when Simon finally finds him.
The first thing Simon tells him is that he’s been gone for four days (more proof that he’s a ghost, ha!). Unlike the last time, all Wille does is shrug.
“Wasn’t any different for me,” he said, staring at the floor like he had to memorize the pattern of the wood grain and playing with his fingers. Simon supposed that Wille actually believed that he was a ghost now, but he was still expecting some sort of reaction.
The next thing Simon asked was what he remembered from the last time he actually came to the attic. Because that would be the day he died, right? And they needed something to even start guessing how he might’ve died. Also, Simon’s theory could only be right if one thing were true about when Wille died.
Surprisingly, Wille started telling his story without any need for persuasion or reassurance on Simon’s part. By the end of it, Simon doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He’s right. Wille died from the gas leak because the gas pipe rusted. Or at least a gas leak of some kind. But how are you supposed to tell your friend that? Yeah, he’s already a ghost, but…
“Simon?” Wille says, and Simon realizes that he has yet to say anything since Wille stopped talking. His nails are picked raw.
“Wille,” Simon chastises softly with a small smile, taking Wille’s hands, “don’t do that.”
“Sorry,” Wille mutters, ducking his head and biting at his lip.
Simon laughs. “Not that either!” he says, reaching out to free Wille’s lip from his teeth. Wille leans away from the touch but stops chewing his lips. He groans loudly and falls forward, putting his head on Simon’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his torso to dig into the back of Simon’s shirt. “Sorry,” he says again.
Simon rubs Wille’s back. “Why are you sorry?”
“It’s just… a lot,” Wille says into Simon’s shoulder. “I haven’t really… thought about that day.”
Simon hums in acknowledgement, and they’re left in silence. They reposition themselves a bit. Simon uncrosses his legs so Wille isn’t leaning so far forward, and the boy settles nicely into the space between them.
Eventually, Simon dares to say, “I think I know how you died,” and they both stop breathing the moment the words leave his mouth.