Page 22 of Souls We Rip

I slightly opened one of my eyes and stared at the cave’s ceiling. “What is this place?” I whispered, trying to keep the other eye closed. “Is this Hell?”

The ghost laughed, bringing his hand to his stomach. “For me, is not Hell, if that place even is out there.”

In no time, the ghost was on the side. I crawled on my elbows until I hit my head again.

“Stop it, woman! I do not have the means to nurse you back to health from your ignorance!” the ghost shouted next to my ear, making me wince.

He had no colour of his own; behind him was just his clothing.

I opened my other eye. “Who is your master?” I asked, puzzled, my voice straining. The cold stone breached my back, pushing its pointy tip into my skin.

The ghost, who looked no more than my age, scratched his head, as if he could feel it. “The Goat Man, of course. He brought you here.” His nose upturned, and his empty eyes watched me as if I were nothing but dust.

“Where is ‘here’?” I inquired, standing on my feet. I supported my hand on the wall, staying as far as possible from the ghost.

“You have too many questions, woman. And I have no patience.” He tilted his head, floating in circles. “My master is the Goat Man, and I live here. For as long as I remember.”

“How much time is that?”

He leaned his head the other way, making the wall behind him blurry. “Ah, me from last year, and my master for centuries, I believe.”

Centuries? But it was just a story.

And still, the Goat Man brought me here. It was the one who severed my father’s hand. My heart clenched at the pain he must have felt. How would he work in the field now?

I made the cross sign with my right hand, wondering at the view in front of me and the disaster the Goat Man left behind him.

My eyes darted from one corner of the cave to the other. There was no escape from here.

I took a deep breath and pulled every ounce of courage I had in my veins. Or rather curiosity. “What is your name?” I asked, rising from the iciness of the stone. I still couldn’t look at him, so I set my eyes on a point further in the distance.

“Andrei.”

“And your master’s?” My dress swished on my heels as I took another step closer. It had blotches of mud from the seam to my knees. But cleanliness was not a priority.

The ghost shrugged. “No one knows. He is the Goat Man.” If he could get any paler, he did right then. “But let’s leave that. Come eat, woman! You will need all your strength.” He turned around, announcing that tochitură with mămăligă was waiting for me in the kitchen.

Which seemed odd, because this meal was usually served in winter, right after Ignat, when the pigs got cut and turned into food.

As we were walking towards the kitchen, I remembered the story about Ignat.

According to it, Ignat wanted to cut a pig one year, but by an unfortunate accident, the hatchet flew into his father’s head. Saddened and seeing that his sin is not forgiven, he travelled the world, where he met a priest. The latter told him to build a bridge over a river, without asking anything in return. Ignat did that, but the priest had another request: to bury a seed of any tree and wait until a bush would grow.

The years passed, and Ignat married. During one night, he couldn’t sleep, hearing all types of shouts from the bridge he built. On the other side of it, there were two old men asking for help. Ignat helped the elderly men cross the bridge, and they wondered at the poverty Ignat, his wife and children lived.

Turned out that the old men were God and Saint Peter, who rewarded Ignat with all kinds of treasures, because he repented for his sin.

I hoped my sins would not be as hurtful as Ignat’s. Not when I was already repenting.

Walking behind the floating ghost, his words came back to me. “Why would I strengthen myself if your master needs a soul?”

But the boy floated further down the stony hall, ignoring me.

I walked after him into a small kitchen, where the smell of food was well preserved, having no way to air the room. There was a small cast-iron pot on a wood stove and a solid mămăligă next to it. The scent of fried pork meat called to my stomach.

As my eyes searched the room, I took a seat at the round, wooden table. I watched enthralled as the ghost placed the pot and mămăligă on a wooden board without even touching it, its steam warming my face.

There were two large cabinets filled with mugs, pots and trays, in no proper order. My fingers twitched at the thought that my mum would rearrange them.