:::scratch:::

::FOOOM:::

Where the gentle sounds as the match was dragged across its book, followed by the gentle hiss as the flame kissed the end of a cigarette. All was still and quite in the dark corridors of the ancient, infamous Whipstaff manor, as if the house itself was sleeping, like most of it inhabitants as the clocks struck 2am. The chilly autumn winds outside sent the dying leaves on their final, lazy journey to the dusty, uncared for ground. Only a few months ago, they were born-green and full of the promise of life. It made Strecth's heart secretly break every time the trees began to die. It only meant that the bitter Winter was on it way...when...when he...his nephew...damn.

He sat alone in the parlor, sitting in his favorite worn, over-stuffed, clawed-foot chair staring intently out the large victorian windows to the scenic grounds and the endless ocean beyond. He felt as it the sea was the perfect metaphor for himself, rough and hectic at first, but the more you wade in-the more gentle and serene it was.

He took long, leisurely drags on the darjium, filling his opaque form full of smoke-he always thought it was a strange and beautiful sight...something he knew that the others would never appreciate. He sat slightly hunched over, his left elbow perched on the arm rest with his fist tucked under his chin, his right arm sat limp on the other armrest, only moving it to take a puff on the black clove cigarette, absently flicking ashes onto the floor. It was times like these, late at night, that he would let himself truly unwind, leaving the angry, irreputable spirit everyone else saw go for just a while. It was where the 'gentle and serene' part came in. Violent and unpredictable as the shoreline during the day, subversive and still at night when no one else can see it. At these moments he would sit for hours and simply comptimplate about everything-the war, his brothers, science, religion, his poor, neglected nephew, his past, himself...and her That dammed little wretch that seemed to creep into his mind more and more....

Years had pasted since they came...but to one who has been dead for over a century...it seemed like just yesterday he smelled their life-force in his home, could hear their heartbeats echoing in the halls.
She was just a girl then, prepubescent even...but now...Oh, now...

He hated her, wanted to hate her...because he couldn't have her...How could he? He can't. He wouldn't.
She wouldn't want him.
She wanted Casper, the eternal child...at least that was how it use to be, when she was a child herself.
He didn't know anymore. No one did.

She was nearing the age where she would soon leave, off into the big wide world-to college (to frat boys who would paw at her and force her to drink), to work (where greasy co-workers would lewdly gawk at her and try to coax her home), to get married (to a man who would never appreciate her, probably cheat and leave her heartbroken)...

To leave and forget all about them, and him. And what could he do about it? Nothing.
He couldn't bear it.
Ever since the Doc came, spouting out his parapsychological bullshit banter about 'unfinished business, he had always wondered just what his unfinished business could be...Now he knew.
It was to tell her, just to simply tell her...that he just might lov-

A slight sting had yanked Stretch out of his thoughts-he was so wrapped up in his own head that cigarette had burned half-way through, the ash falling onto his 'leg', then through it to burn the upholstery in the antique chair.

"Shit." He mumbled floating upward to quickly swat away the small glowing ember on the seat, so lost in the moment before, he hadn't heard her walking through the house-into the parlor.

"Stretch? What are you doing here so late?"

He froze halfway through the motion of cleaning the chair, to slowly look at her.

Kat, his beautiful, precious kitten, had grown into something almost unearthly. She was waifish now, long straight,ebony hair cascading down her back like a black river, her oddly sculpted face held in confusion. Her beautiful lips parted just slightly, he couldn't explain why it always made melt when she did that.
Even in her teenage nightclothes (baggy halloween pajama pants and her HS gym shirt), she was an eerie goddess.

Time stood still, his form pulsed in terror-to look upon her must surely be sin.
Unsure of what to do-he did what came best.

He sucked in the last puff the cigarette held before saying, "Why th'hell should you care fleshie? I'll do what eva'th'hell I want in MY house!" He regretted it before he even finished.

Without the patience or energy to retort, she rolled her eyes and sighed, and continued her walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. The extra mercury that came from the kitchen faucet gave the water the best taste in the house-to her anyway.

He stared at the spot where she stood after she left, then glanced to chair. The ember had died, but not before burning a hole into eighty year old, worn, velvet.
He hated himself just a little bit more.

Fin~