The memories were disorienting, yet they provided crucial context. Jack wasn't just lost ; he was living another life. The boy he had become used to surviving in harsh conditions. But now, with ability to summon food, he at least won't be starved to death.
As he sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to process the influx of information, he suddenly realized that the world that he was in now, was definitely not Earth.
At first, he wasn't too sure about that fact. He thought he might just have time-traveled, since the environment looked like a typical medieval era in the movies and TV shows.
What made this world different from Earth, though, was the existence of ghosts.
Jack's new memories—those of the boy whose body he now inhabited—revealed that spirits and specters were a very real part of life here. They weren't just the stuff of folklore or ghost stories; they lived alongside the people of this world, manifesting in various forms.
Well, "alongside" might be a bit of a generalization, considering that they weren't exactly living in harmony.
At least one person from his village was said to be killed by ghosts every year. Of course, that might be just an excuse used by the villagers to explain away certain deaths or disappearances. In a place like this, where life was harsh and survival was a daily struggle, it wasn't uncommon for tragedies to be attributed to supernatural forces, even if the true cause was something far less mysterious. Starvation, illness, or accidents could all easily be blamed on a vengeful spirit.
But the boy's memories—Jack's memories now—hinted at something darker. There were whispers in the village, rumors of spirits that weren't merely accidents or products of fear. There were ghosts that lingered with intent, spirits who took lives for reasons unknown, or perhaps for reasons known only to themselves. The villagers often spoke in hushed tones about these ghosts, and there was an unspoken agreement to avoid certain places, certain rituals, certain words, lest they provoke the dead.
Some of the older villagers claimed to have encountered these spirits directly, and their stories were always chilling. A sudden, unexplained cold, the faint sound of whispers in the dark, figures seen out of the corner of one's eye. Sometimes, they claimed, the spirits took physical form, their features twisted and grotesque, their eyes burning with hatred. Other times, they were more subtle—just a presence, a weight in the air, a feeling of being watched.
Jack wasn't sure whether to believe these stories. The boy's memories had been infused with fear and superstition, and he wasn't sure how much of it was real.
The only real proof that Jack had of ghosts was how the boy had died.
About a year ago, the boy found a scroll, buried in snow, while he was out foraging. Luckily or unlucky for him, even though not very well, the boy could read.
…
Two months passed before Jack finished reading the book. His progress had been slow—after all, he had only learned to read from his uncle, who visited once a month. His reading was rudimentary at best, so it had taken him longer than it might have taken someone more skilled. But the book was insistent, filled with cryptic passages and strange symbols, and Jack had to read and reread the pages, struggling to decipher its meaning.
..
It taught him how to see ghosts, catch ghosts, and how to control them. To make himself stronger.
The temptation to wield that power was undeniable. But more than that, it promised a way out of the harsh, cold world in which the boy lived—a way to not just survive, but to be in control of his life.
Life in the small village was unforgiving. The cold winters made hunting and foraging difficult, and with no proper way of sustaining oneself during the long months of snow, survival was a constant struggle. His parents had died two years ago, and since then, the boy had been alone, left to fend for himself with only his uncle's infrequent visits offering a glimmer of support.
Jack could sense the boy's frustration, the desire for something more, something beyond the confines of this bleak existence. Strength wasn't just a matter of physical prowess—it was the power to change his fate. In the boy's mind, the ghosts could be the answer.
That was why he had pursued the ritual so fervently. He didn't want to be just a helpless boy in a freezing village, struggling against the elements or the oppressive weight of poverty. If he could control the ghosts, he could be stronger. He would be able to eat his fill.
For months, the boy spent his time gathering the necessary ingredients for the ritual—herbs from the forest, arcane symbols scratched into old parchment, and, most importantly, the trust of the black dog that belonged to his neighbor. The dog had been a scrawny thing at first, nothing more than a hungry stray, but over time, the boy fed it scraps from his traps, building a fragile bond between them. The dog, in turn, grew stronger, its gaunt frame filling out until it was nearly twice its original size.
When the dog finally trusted him enough, it allowed the boy to gather its tears—the crucial ingredient for the ritual. The boy had learned from the book that the tears of black dog could serve as a gateway to the spirit world.
The boy smeared the tears over his eyelids every night for a month, reciting the strange words from the book. He didn't understand the language, but the ritual was clear, and the book assured him that the words were the key. As the days passed, he felt a growing unease, but he pushed through. His desperation to be stronger, to gain control over the spirits, drowned out any lingering doubt.
Then, on the final night, when the last of the incantations had been spoken, the boy felt an overwhelming sensation—like his very eyes were melting. It wasn't the familiar burn of tiredness or the sting of exertion. No, it felt as if something was corroding him from within. His eyelids began to burn and itch, and he could sense his vision blurring, but he could do nothing to stop it. All he could do was endure.