Hook

   The house on the end of Vilitz Avenue was far too small of a home, and the neighborhood surrounding it far too quiet, to be stricken by such a great blustering as it currently was. The last on its row, a cramped standalone unit that looked out onto a dense thicket, it housed only one registered occupant, who, by all accounts, was incredibly private, and never the sort to make a spectacle.

    And yet, it had been consumed by a maelstrom.

    In the living room, a large green blur went to and fro like a great dervish, turning up vases and shuffling through once-neat piles of mail. One could be easily forgiven for failing to believe that up until around five minutes ago, the room had been spotless.

    “Where are they?”

    The tall man tore across the floor, shoving his hands desperately in and out of his pockets for perhaps the dozenth time before looking frantically to the watch on his left wrist. Yes, he had still plenty of leeway now, but without his keys, he could not start his car. If he could not start his car, then he could not get on the highway before rush hour started. And if he couldn’t get out before rush hour, then…

    He planted his hand against the front door with a thud, all eight-foot of the him trembling in tune with his racing heart. He clenched his manicured black fingernails against the faded red paint and forced himself into slow, paced breaths. As his nerves quelled, his eyes drifted to the brass hook by the door, empty as the day it was installed.

    The ring was not there. Yet, he always put his keys there. The routine was simple: he entered the door, latched the deadbolt, hung up his keys, then removed his shoes, before proceeding further into the house. No matter how tired, how drained, or how out of sorts, this routine was never broken, and shy of an infiltration of poltergeist (which was more likely a scenario than one might suppose), there was no way that the item could have moved on its own. Unless…

    No.

    Ballister quickly abandoned the train of thought, as his eyes now drifted over the room’s small sofa, where a grey, washed out figure sat wrapped in a blue sweater, silent and unmoving, facing away from the massive ogre.

    “Ags?” Ballister called. There was no response. His face crinkled. “Ags,” he repeated, with a bit more force.

    Slowly, the grey shape turned its head, peeking just over its shoulder at the man. One dull, grey eye peered at him.

    “Ags,” Ballister said again. “Have you seen my keys?”

    ‘Ags’ stared back for what seemed a long while, wordless, then finally, gently tilted his head.

    Ballister sighed. It was foolish of him to expect a response from a zombie—or, well, that was an improper term to use—from an undead, Aghav in particular.

    To put it succinctly, there was an idiom to describe certain situations. The saying went: “as boring as watching paint dry.” As far as Ballister had observed, however, if one were to put Aghav in front of a wall of freshly rolled semi-gloss eggshell, and ask him to regard it until the wall was suitable to the touch, it would have been the highlight of the risen man’s week.

    Normally, Ballister could not complain. It was probably a blessing that Aghav caused so little of a stir at any time. To the neighbors’ knowledge, Ballister lived alone, and the fewer prying eyes there were, the less chance of someone finding out that he was harboring something mildly illegal—mildly illegal, and as some fellow members of the community might argue, vastly unholy. Of course, whenever Ballister pondered that last point, his hand fell to the cross that lie against his chest.

    Even the son of God once rose from the dead. He could think of nothing else more holy.

    Yet, holy ghost or no, the pale figure on his sofa was no help to him now. He was lucky enough to see Aghav even move at any point during the day; pantomime was about the closest they could get to solid communication, as his motor control had still yet to develop beyond holding a pen, let alone making more than crude shapes, and words were still beyond him. Even the name they had settled on together for him had required an intense and extended back-and-forth, the likes of which even the bureaucratically-minded Ballister should never hope to repeat. The concept of Aghav noticing a set of misplaced keys, and furthermore remembering where he had seen them, and then communicating that notion, was about three levels too high, and a decade too soon.

    Ballister’s shoulders slumped. Some glasses upon a kitchen shelf rattled as the floor trembled under his tromping feet. Had he dropped they keys into a shopping bag? He hadn’t been shopping yesterday, but at this point, anything was worth a look. He pulled the bevy of sturdy cloth out of a drawer, but the sacks were neatly folded and none of them showed the characteristic lumps of something left inside. Furthermore, the ring was nowhere on the floor, and while he was not prepared to go digging in to confirm, he had fairly high confidence that it had not fallen into the garbage.

    He scuffed his bare feet across the tile. Would he have to call a cab? It was seeming more and more likely. It would not be a bright spot for his reputation for him to be the only one missing from the morning meeting, a meeting that he had called for. He pinched his temples, and skulked back into the living room to scoop his cell phone from the coffee table.

    He had just begun to swipe through his contacts to find the number of the rideshare he had last used, his finger hovering over one of the entries, when there was a strange, wheezing sound.

    His eyes darted over to the couch. The expulsion of air sounded as though it had come from Aghav, but it was not a noise he had ever heard the undead make.

    “…You okay?”

    But the zombie only stared straight ahead, quiet as ever, and after a few seconds of scrutiny this remained unchanged. Ballister looked back down at his screen.

    “Gff.”

    At the next strange, low sound, his eyes darted back. His hand lowered, slowly shoving the phone into his pants pocket, and in two long strides he covered the few feet to the sofa. The springs creaked as he sat down in the empty seat.

    “Ags?”

    The zombie’s pale fingers were trembling. Ballister squinted with worry as they lifted tepidly from their position on Aghav’s thigh. Slowly, achingly slowly, the zombie maneuvered his hand, until it stretched behind his back.

    “What… are…?”

    There was a sound like metal. Across the span of an eternity, Aghav stretched out his hand. Delicately, he turned it over, his fist creaking open until his fingers splayed wide.

    “My keys?!” Ballister snatched them up frantically. “Why were they…”

    He looked to Aghav’s face for an explanation, and his eyebrows twitched. Aghav’s cheeks were pulling at the two sides of his mouth, the corners pushed up crudely. His eyes, or at least the uncataracted side, were wide, and flickering mischievously. The expression was a rudimentary one, but the sentiment was clear.

    Ballister’s mouth opened wide, the sharp points of his teeth flashing.

    “Seriously?!” he shouted, throwing up his hands and standing from the seat. “Do you think this is funny? Aghav, I—“

    He halted mid-gesticulation, looking like an avant-garde coat hanger with his limbs still splayed. He stared at the grey man as though he had just sprouted wings.

    “Aghav… are you…?”

    The keys slipped from his grasp. Aghav’s body shook softly as two large hands suddenly clapped onto his shoulders, and the wide mouth over him spread into a grin.

    “…Very funny,” Ballister said, soft and low, shuddering through a smile. “You got me.”

    The zombie beamed back in reply. The long, green fingers gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze.

    “Hey,” Ballister said finally. “I’ve gotta go.”

    Rising from the sofa again, he retrieved his keys and gathered up his shoulder bag, and checked once more for his phone and wallet before he headed to the door, crouching to pull on his loafers. He paused just as he reached for the handle, and peered back.

    “Look,” he said, still unable to hold back a smirk. “Don’t fuck with my stuff, okay? I’ll be back around four.”

    With eyes half-hidden by dark bangs, he winked.

    “You be good while I’m gone.”

    And without pausing to wait for the undead’s response, he was out the door, securing the two locks swiftly before he rushed through the cool humidity to his awaiting minivan.

    As he hopped in and turned the ignition, pulling out into the road, the smile still lingered on his face. It tugged wider, like a pulley bringing on a warm squeezing within his chest.

    Aghav—it was no one’s name. It was a label, only a shorthand by which to call a wraith. Yet, perhaps there might be a person behind that word, and Ballister’s prayers were not as futile as he thought.

    Today, his keys. Tomorrow, who knew? In seven months, it was the first time he had actually glimpsed a light from beyond the pale. Any light, sufficiently nurtured, could only continue to grow.

    He wrapped his fingers around his necklace, and said a small thanks as he merged onto the highway.

    Never had he been so happy to be pranked.