Just as Mr. Witson flung another rose petal into the air with the solemnity of a man auditioning for a melodrama no one asked for, I stepped forward, parting the crowd like a prophet descending from a higher plane of exasperation.
"Mr. Witson!" I bellowed, arms spread wide, emerging like the grand finale of a circus act nobody paid to see.
He turned, startled. A single tear clung to his cheek like a pearl of desperation caught in the sunlight. "You!" he gasped, as though the universe had answered his tortured call. "Have you come to guide me to her spirit? Have you come as a messenger of the cosmos?"
I struck a pose, one hand over my chest, the other gesturing with flair. "No. I have come to stop this madness."
"But love—true love—demands madness!" he cried, his voice trembling with romantic delusion.
"I agree," I said, finger pointed at him like a judge about to declare a mistrial, "but only the fun kind! Not the jump-in-a-fountain-and-catch-hypothermia kind!"
"I would gladly drown for her!"
"In chlorinated town square water?! Have some dignity, man!"
Mr. Witson faltered, but only slightly. His gaze drifted upward, wistful and completely detached from common sense. "Her face haunts me. Her voice echoes in my soul."
'That would mean she's a cursed spirit, you baboon,' I thought, resisting the urge to throttle him with his own scarf.
'Clearly, logic was a lost cause. Time for Plan B: Deflect and Distract.'
"Then… behold!" I swept an arm to the side, stepping aside with a dramatic flourish worthy of a theater curtain drop. "She is here!"
Raven, who had been crouching behind the fountain like a war criminal hiding from judgment, froze mid-gasp. His face turned the color of expired yogurt.
Mr. Witson's eyes went wide, shimmering with devotion and delusion. "M-My lo-love?!"
Raven stepped forward stiffly, as if every movement was controlled by an off-brand puppeteer. "Y-Yes… it is I… Raven… Ravenille Bloodmoon," he squeaked in a falsetto so unconvincing it could've been tried for perjury.
Mr. Witson clasped his hands to his chest, eyes glossy. "Ah… Ravenille Bloodmoon. Even her name sounds so heavenly."
'Wait… you don't even know her name?' I turned my head slowly, staring at him like he'd just told me he'd fallen in love with a lamppost. 'And what's so heavenly about that name? It sounds like a curse.'
I glanced at Raven.
He was sweating through his wig.
His eyes locked onto mine in raw, silent desperation.
They screamed: 'Help!!!'
I sighed.
Showtime was far from over.
I sighed and clapped my hands like a proud stage director wrapping the final act of a cursed play. "See? She returns! From beyond! Reincarnated in the flesh… and some very tasteful blush!"
Mr. Witson collapsed to his knees as if overcome by divine revelation. "My love! You've come back to me! Your beauty is… different. Taller. And… broader in the shoulders."
Raven gave an awkward curtsy that nearly turned into a faceplant. "Uh… love changes people."
Mr. Witson, swept up in a tsunami of passion, reached forward with trembling hands. "Let me gaze upon your eyes, my flower. Let me—"
Raven gently slapped his hand away with the delicate grace of someone avoiding a handshake from an eel. "I mean… I'm a spirit. You can't touch me. Ghost rules."
"Of course!" Mr. Witson gasped, nodding so hard his hat nearly flew off. "I forgot how much you loved establishing boundaries. So noble. So modern."
I narrowed my eyes at him like a judge about to sentence someone for crimes against logic. 'You didn't even know your crush's name…'
Leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, I added, "Yes. And if you truly love her—uh, them—you must respect her boundaries. Preferably from a minimum distance of twenty feet."
Mr. Witson rose with the grandeur of a tragic poet reborn. "Then I shall serenade her! From afar! With poetry and interpretive dance!"
Raven's eyes went wide with horror. "No need! Just… maybe write her a letter. A long… long letter. Like… twenty pages. Single-spaced."
"Yes!" I cried, grabbing a quill from a nearby passerby who looked more like a butcher than a stationary vendor but wisely said nothing. "Here! Begin at once! It's the romantic thing to do!"
Mr. Witson accepted the quill like it was a holy relic. "This shall be the greatest love letter ever penned! An eternal flame inked in despair and passion!"
He wandered off, humming something dangerously close to a tragic opera. Raven slumped against the fountain like a man who had barely escaped with his soul.
"I can never show my face in this town again," he mumbled into his hands.
I patted his back, smugly triumphant. "On the bright side, you've just prevented a public incident and improved gender diversity in tragic ghost romances."
Raven groaned louder, burying his face deeper in his palms. "I want a refund on my dignity."
"Too late," I said cheerfully. "I spent it all on blush."
I yanked Raven up by the arm and dusted him off like an old rug. "Come on, Raven. Move those lazy bum bones—we need to tail that lovesick maniac before he writes an ode to her eyebrows or something."
Raven whimpered, dragging his feet behind me like a child being taken to the dentist.
We trailed Mr. Witson all the way to his house—a crooked little cottage that looked like it had been emotionally damaged by decades of romantic disappointment. The shutters hung like weary eyelids, the roof sagged like a sigh, and the whole structure leaned ever so slightly, as if it, too, had once loved and been left behind. Shadows pooled in the corners of the yard, and the wind whispered through the trees like a disappointed mother catching her child skipping school again.
"Is it just me, or does the house look... depressed?" I asked, eyeing the wilted flowerbeds and mournful porch swing.
"I heard people say you can tell the owner's emotional state just by looking at their house," Raven replied, nodding with the solemnity of someone quoting a dubious blog post.
I stared a moment longer, then mumbled under my breath, "I wonder what mine looks like…"
"What?" Raven asked.
"Oh, nothing." I wiped the sweat from my brow. "Just contemplating the structural integrity of my soul."
We crept around the perimeter like the world's worst spies—one of us in loafers, the other in visible distress. Every step was an awkward crunch on gravel, every whisper far too loud. If anyone inside had ears, we were already busted.
Raven peeked through a window, pressing his face against the dusty glass. "Do you think he's in there?"
"Most probably," I muttered, crouching beside him. "Where else would a man go to write a passionate, deeply unhinged love letter? People usually retreat to their homes to pour out their delusions in peace."
Raven blinked at me, expression blank. "Huh?"
I sighed, pulling a picklock from my sleeve like a magician revealing the final card. "That's what I've heard. I don't know either. Anyways…" I grinned. "No lock can stop me."
"Ugh…" Raven groaned as if his soul were slowly leaving his body.
I made quick work of the door's lock—it gave in with a satisfying click, practically sighing in resignation. We slipped inside like two shadows with questionable ethics.
Raven followed close behind, muttering under his breath in a rapid, guilty chant.
"We're criminals! Oh sweet mother of toast, we're criminals! If we get caught, we're gonna explode! Poof! Into flames! Real, actual, biblical flames! I can already smell my eyebrows sizzling!"
He clutched his head dramatically, spinning in a tiny circle. "This is it. This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a barbecue—and we're the marshmallows!"
I ignored him, of course. At this point, his panic was just background music.
We crept up the staircase with the subtlety of a marching band, floorboards groaning beneath our weight. The second floor was dim, the hallway carpet stale with the scent of mothballs and heartbreak. At the end of the hall stood Mr. Witson's bedroom—door shut, ominous as ever.
Raven tiptoed to it and pressed his ear against the wood. "I think… I hear something. Like scribbling?"
"You sure it ain't a ghost?" I leaned in behind him, voice pitched low and spooky.
"Yick—stop teasing me!" Raven whispered harshly, shuddering.
"Sure, sure," I replied lazily, already losing interest in being serious.
Raven turned to me. "So how do we get in?"
"Easy," I said, nodding with confidence. I raised one leg like a martial artist preparing for battle.
Raven's eyes followed the motion, confusion spreading across his face. "What are you doing… with your leg?"
I grinned. Raven's expression turned from confused to sickly green.
"Nooo!" he shrieked, clutching his face as though he'd just witnessed a gruesome crime. "No, no, no—!"
Too late.
WHAM!
I kicked the door with all the force of a woman who had been denied snacks and sleep for three days. The wood gave a mournful crack as the door burst open and slammed against the inside wall with a dramatic BANG.
"I call that the Heartbreaker's Entrance," I said, brushing dust off my shoulder.
Raven whimpered behind me like a haunted child.