The cool moonlight seeped into the shed, and silence blanketed the deep sleep within.
Faint whispers rode the breeze, weaving through the branches with the moonlight before dissolving into the distant rhythm of snoring. Broken, thin clouds floated among the sparse stars, casting fragmented shadows over the camp in front of the gold mine. Chilling darkness spread quietly among the camp's sleeping inhabitants, and gradually, the sound of snoring began to fade.
Crunch—
The old bed sheet creaked softly as someone turned over, and a resentful, fluorescent glow flickered in the darkness beneath the bed.
An ethereal silhouette, as translucent as a veil, rose slowly from under the bed, hovering around the two sleeping figures. As the ghostly presence floated closer, its cold malice directed at the living it hated and envied, moonlight spilled through the cracks in the shed. The light illuminated a pair of shoes hanging by the bed—and the papyrus stuck to their soles.
The faint outline of the phantom paused, lifting the papyrus slightly. A few blurry words shimmered under the moonlight:
[To... the kindest undead... welcome... hope... to come again.]
The veiled figure hesitated, circling the sleeping forms a few more times before finally rolling up the papyrus and slipping out of the shed.
The papyrus, caught briefly by the wooden door, floated down. But the phantom returned, grasping the note and pulling it through the gap in the door.
Outside, three veiled silhouettes appeared in the moonlit camp. They resembled pale, flowing dance skirts, fluttering and spinning as they gathered and disappeared into the depths of the gold mine.
Darkness thickened, accompanied by faint rustling sounds. Malevolent whispers echoed, occasionally twisting into chilling laughter.
At one point, a silhouette raised the papyrus, only to have it snatched and torn to pieces by its companions. They seemed to argue silently, their eerie forms writhing in the darkness.
Eventually, the chaos subsided, and silence returned to the camp.
---
Sunlight, the best remedy for sleep, filtered into the shed.
Annan was first awakened by the clamor outside, followed by the loud banging of the wooden door.
Yawning, he slipped on his linen coat, unbolted the door, and stepped outside.
A chaotic scene greeted him. Old Zoren's usually tense expression relaxed slightly at the sight of Annan. Once Martin was roused from his slumber, Zoren explained what had happened during the night.
Every miner in the camp claimed to have suffered horrific nightmares. The mage apprentice declared that the undead had cursed them, though he assured them that the curse had passed.
The miners, however, were skeptical. A wizard apprentice with no spells or magical tools seemed unlikely to suppress the chaos. Fear rippled through the camp. Some miners were already packing to flee, demanding wages and food as they left.
"Why are you two fine?" Zoren asked, his gaze sharp.
Annan appeared unaffected, and though Martin looked groggy, he seemed unharmed.
Annan's thoughts flickered to the door. The note was gone. His heart raced with excitement. It worked!
The implications thrilled him—not only had he survived, but he'd also managed to communicate with a non-human being for the first time.
Old Zoren seemed equally exhilarated, interpreting their safety as a blessing from the goddess of luck. While the other miners were cursed, Annan and Martin had been spared.
Martin, however, was quick to speak up, nearly letting the truth slip. Annan cut him off, unwilling to risk exposing their fragile connection with the ghosts. It wasn't worth 30 copper coins.
"Forty copper coins per person," Zoren bargained, his voice desperate. "And if you find ore, you'll get a share!"
"I agree," Annan said quickly, worried the old man might reconsider.
Zoren hobbled off on his lame leg, moving with surprising speed as he went to prepare breakfast.
"Annan, you're amazing!" Martin exclaimed. But after a pause, he added hesitantly, "Can we tell my family we only earned 30 copper coins?"
Annan nodded, understanding Martin's plight. His cousin barely earned tips at the tavern, and most of his income went to Aunt Susan. Firewood was always sold at the lowest price, leaving Martin with almost nothing for himself.
While they waited for breakfast, Annan scanned the camp. His eyes landed on the half-minotaur sitting at the edge of the woods on a rickety stool.
Filtered sunlight spilled through the trees, illuminating the creature as it leaned against a trunk. It clutched a piece of charcoal too small for its massive hands, sketching a faint outline on a wooden plank.
Annan approached, recognizing the figure depicted: a pale, formless ghost, draped like a shroud.
"Is that what entered the camp last night?" Annan asked.
The minotaur looked up. Its brown pupils reflected Annan's face—a young man in a tattered linen coat, but with eyes that were clear and bright.
"Why don't you have a cursed aura?" the minotaur asked.
"My kindness is contagious," Annan replied with a smirk.
The minotaur's expression remained stoic as it offered its own explanation. "My foul bloodline grants me immunity to such tricks."
"Giving so many people nightmares is just a 'trick'?"
"No one was harmed," the minotaur said flatly. It seemed surprised by Annan's naivety.
"Are you going to tell anyone?" Annan asked.
The minotaur shook its chains, the iron links rattling faintly. "I'm a slave," it said simply.
Standing, it handed the wooden plank to Annan.
"Is this for me?" Annan asked, accepting the sketch with a rare smile. "Thank you."
The minotaur hesitated briefly, its steps faltering as Annan expressed gratitude. Then it walked back into the chaotic camp.
---
Annan's heart was heavy as he returned to the shed. He couldn't help but sympathize with the minotaur's plight—it wasn't so different from his own. If not for Aunt Susan, his life might have been just as bleak.
Martin was already devouring his breakfast: black bread and sour peas. The food was so poor that Annan briefly considered begging instead.
After eating, the pair entered the mine. Annan led Martin into a shallow tunnel not far from the entrance, avoiding the deeper, more dangerous areas.
Pickaxes clanged intermittently throughout the day, but their baskets remained empty of gold. By evening, Annan was exhausted, and Old Zoren muttered bitterly about his failing luck.
That night, Annan wrote another letter to the ghosts:
[Dear ghosts, I long for your ○, and hope you will allow me to go deeper—From the miner who wants ○○.]
Embarrassed by the blanks, Annan stuck the note to the door and went to bed.
---
Late at night, three ghostly figures emerged from the mine. One slipped into the shed, drawn to the wooden plank on Annan's bedside table.
The pale figure lifted the drawing and tapped it gently against the door before vanishing into the darkness.
In the depths of the mine, whispers and laughter echoed as the ghosts pinned the drawing to their secret lair.