Work Text:
Pete tells himself he doesn’t believe in ghosts. When he walks through a cemetery, he senses no spirits lingering and any howling he might hear can only be the wind.
And yet, in those cozy domestic moments with Georgina doing the crossword puzzle by the firelight and his parents’ favorite song droning on the radio, Pete is distinctly aware of a chill. It’s not the flat, which is, if anything, too stuffy at times with its many knick-knacks and thick floral wallpaper. And it must be noted that these chills are accompanied by snatches of memories, Technicolor vivid in their intensity—women and men and children creeching, platties torn and made wet with krovvy, teeth and red globs splattered across night streets.
The memories taint so many calm moments, so many ordinary little pleasures, as though they were vengeful wraiths with talons ready to razrez Pete’s quiet little life.
They are the only ghosts he knows are real.