Author’s Note:

There is no sex in this story. If that’s what you’re looking for, read one of my other stories.

A special thanks to blackrandl1958 for organizing this event, and for editing this story. You’re a doll. Thank you, also, to my other editor and friend, Pixel the Cat and all my fantastic betas: Laura Lun, BarryJames1952, Spyauth, sbrooks103x, and stev2244. To my dearest friends MsCherylTerra, for coming up with the ending, and to Bebop3, who was so invested in the story that he wrote that ending, which I tweaked and included as the last passage.

In this story, ask “why” not “how” and it will all fall into place.

Cheers, Nora

🌻 {c}Sunflowers in Bloom 🌻

On a balmy, purposeless spring weekend in 1965, the stone cottage received its first inhabitant in many years.

It was a small house with only two upstairs bedrooms, a lounge, a tiny attic, one bath and an old kitchen with a breakfast nook in the place of a dining room. The inside of the house was vacant and dusty, a testament to its age and lack of upkeep. The yellow wallpaper in the lounge was peeling, the colour browning around the edges like a used cigarette. The bedrooms had been freshly painted, but they were beige and unbearably boring, and the plumbing was suspiciously rusted. The only good things to be said about the house were in the exterior with its charming stone walls, hanging plants, climbing vines, blooming flower beds, and a lovely bright-blue front door.

“You won’t last a fortnight here,” Ezra said. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve, but it only served to smear over his leather jacket. It was a wonder that he’d put it on after having moved furniture all day.

“I don’t think it’s all bad,” said Alfie, plopping down on an armchair. “Nate only needs it for—ah, what did you call it?”

“Inspirational intervention,” Ezra supplied for him, rubbing his temples. He casually leaned back against the wall of the lounge and closed his eyes.

Nate nervously scratched the back of his head, looking a little hopeless. The agent had shown him very nice pictures of the surrounding English countryside. In them, the house had looked quaint, just what he’d asked for. He should’ve taken the cheap rent as a red flag, but it hadn’t been the first rash decision he’d made lately. Quitting his job in the city had been rashest of them all.

“He’s in shock,” Alfie said when too much time had passed.

“Definitely,” Ezra agreed with a grin.

“Piss off,” Nate said, feeling a bit annoyed by how right they were. In fact, the idea of living alone in the time-worn cottage was starting to sound worse and worse by the second.

It was too late, however, to reconsider his decision. He’d already signed an eighteen-month lease and had spent the better half of his weekend moving in all his belongings, with the help of Alfie and Ezra. All the furniture and boxes were in the home. The typewriter was set up on an old mahogany desk in the smaller of the two bedrooms, which he’d converted into his study. Save for a few boxes that still needed unpacking, he was all set to pursue his dream.

“We’d best get going then,” Alfie said, checking his watch. It was half-past five. “Queenie will need to be fed.” Queenie was Alfie’s cat.

“Mental,” Ezra muttered, but he straightened himself from the wall and dug in his back pocket for the keys to the moving lorry. He jangled the keys in front of Alfie, motioning for him to get up from the armchair.

Nate was still debating what to do with himself. In a few moments, he would be completely and utterly alone.

“You listen here, Nathan,” Ezra said, looking pleased by the dirty look Nate threw him for using his full name, something that he knew Nate loathed. “You ring us if the spirit comes out to scare you. We’ll set her straight, won’t we, Alf?”

Alfie pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes.

Ezra had chatted up some locals at the pub in town the day before, learning that the cottage Nate had leased was, in fact, haunted.

“Oh yes, it’s positively dreadful. Poor girl died there ages ago. Don’t think she was ever able to move on,” a woman had said, leaning in much too close to speak to Ezra. A handful of other women had collected beside him in the pub, watching him with keen interest.

It was no surprise. Ezra was extremely good-looking. He had mastered the “bad boy” look with his leather motorcycle jacket, Black Sabbath t-shirt, and black Doc Martens boots. His arms were covered with tattoos, always had a pack of smokes in his back pocket, and styled his long black hair slicked back from his handsome face.

Neither Alfie nor Nate resented him for it. They’d known him so long that they could only see him for what he was: a fiercely loyal friend, the kind that could be counted on to show up at a moment’s notice in light of any crisis, no matter how big or small. He was a jokester, that wasn’t a lie, but it was always in harmless fun. There was so much more to Ezra than he let on. Only his best mates knew that no matter how cool he acted, deep down, he was just like them: friendly, likable, funny, and deeply self-conscious—hell, they were all just human.

The three of them had been mates since attending the same boarding school as kids, bunking together in the same dorm while kicking up destruction everywhere else; pulling pranks on the staff, sneaking out to the girls’ building at night, smuggling back alcohol from their parents’ liquor cabinets after holiday—what stupid troublesome thing hadn’t they done?

In all that time, the three had become more brothers than friends.

“Wooooooo,” Ezra said, wiggling his fingers as he did his best (rather terrible) impression of a ghost.

“I think they made it all up,” Alfie said, talking about the townspeople. “We’ve been here all weekend. I haven’t seen any sort of spirit.”

“Oh, there are some spirits here,” Ezra said, gesturing to the fully-stocked bar cart in the corner of the lounge. He seemed to have forgotten that he was just about to drive himself and Alfie home (Alfie still didn’t have a driver’s licence, bless him).

“Get out,” Nate said, taking Ezra by the shoulders. He led him to the front door, yelping when Ezra reached back and seductively ran his hands up Nate’s arms.

Alfie trailed out after them, snickering until Ezra blew him a kiss and winked.

“Real pervert, you are,” he grumbled.

Nate walked Ezra down the drive and right up to the rented moving lorry parked by the walkway. It looked out of place amongst all the greenery.

Taking in his surroundings, Nate was comforted by how beautiful the landscape was. Rolling hills, cheerful neighboring homes, twittering birds, and the fresh sweet scent of honeysuckle. There was a large oak tree on the property, casting a bit of shade from the sun that had already begun to set. It really was a lovely place if the interior of the cottage could be excused.

Ezra turned when Nate released him. “All right, mate,” he said. “You sure I can’t convince you to come back to the land of the living?” He was referring to the city.

Nate nodded. “This’ll be good for me. I’ll finally be able to finish my novel.”

That would be the novel that he’d been trying to write since age sixteen, the one that he thought about constantly and wrote and rewrote and spent many sleepless nights editing and revising. The very same novel for which he’d quit his job in accounting. For the millionth time that weekend, Nate felt unsure of his decision.

Years of school wasted on an accounting degree. Far away from all my friends and family. Depleting all of my savings. I’ve gone mental.

“You used to be scared of ghosts, you know,” Ezra reminded Nate.

“Yeah, when we were kids.”

Alfie reached over and gave Nate a one-armed hug, assuring him not to worry as he was positively certain that the odds of the cottage being haunted were zero to none. Alfie wasn’t the kind to believe in anything of that sort. He was bookish, often no-nonsense, possessing a rather dark, dry sense of humour, and dressed a bit like a dad, much like a middle-aged man stuck in a twenty-five-year-old’s body—a far cry from the innocent-faced schoolboy who had smiled sweetly in his teachers’ faces after setting off stink bombs in the corridors with his best mates. “You two corrupted me!” was the excuse he gave now when his behaviour in school was ever mentioned.

“Thanks, Alf,” Nate said, returning the hug. He was feeling both nervous and excited. In the city he’d lived with Ezra in a cramped flat, and before that he’d always been at the boarding school or at his family’s estate in Wiltshire. He’d never truly lived on his own.

Ezra was good at reading him. “We’re all waiting on you to write that best-seller,” he said warmly. “And Alfie and I will pop in every weekend to check that the ghost hasn’t murdered you, of course.”

Alfie shot him a disapproving look. “C’mon,” he said, rounding the lorry to get into the passenger seat.

Ezra clapped a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Stay focused. You’ll make a killing once it’s done.”

“Drive safe, Ez. Don’t get into too much trouble without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ezra said, smiling. He hugged him, supplied him with another amusing warning about ghosts, and got into the lorry. The engine started up with a sputtering roar, shaking as Ezra shifted it into gear.

Nate stood on the walkway and waved, watching his friends drive away down the road. He watched after them for a long while, shading the sun from his eyes with a hand until the lorry was just a speck in the distance. It was dark by the time he looked away, the lorry already long gone.

He shivered from the evening breeze, and let out a sigh and made his way back to the cottage. It was his first true venture into the unknown.

His plan was to become a world-famous author. He fantasised that the cottage might someday become a tourist spot for being the location where he’d written the most popular fantasy book since Elric of Melniboné. In two years’ time, he hoped to be on a book tour, travelling the world. Ezra would love that. He’d probably tag along as he was never one to pass up on an adventure. Alfie, too, even though he’d be at his wits end trying to keep them out of trouble.

Nate chuckled to himself as he entered the cottage, feeling a bit lighter. He knew his fantasies of the future were childish, but he held on to them to give himself the push that he needed to overcome his writer’s block. His job had really been the impediment (at least that’s what he’d always assumed) and that was no longer a problem. He didn’t know what had overcome him that day when he’d marched into his boss’s office to turn in a resignation letter that he’d typed up just moments before.

It could have been all the stress—hell, he’d started dreaming numbers.

“Christ, I thought they’d never leave,” said a soft voice from the staircase.

Nate jumped, stopping in his tracks. The cottage was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen down the hall. He thought for a moment that he’d imagined it, but then he spotted the source of the voice.

It was a young girl—or a woman, but he really couldn’t tell from the shadows.

She was sitting on the steps, her elbows on her knees with her chin resting on her hands, watching him with an expression of mild amusement. She had long white-blonde hair that framed her face. It was the colour of stardust, giving her a sort of ethereal quality. Her wide blue eyes, small pixie nose, and pouty little mouth made her look like an absolute dream.

On any given day, Nate would have flirted with her, but as she was in his house without any explanation, the thought didn’t cross his mind.

“Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

This was just what he needed, an intruder on the first night in his new home. It occurred to him that she might be crazy. She was smaller than he was, so he wasn’t truly worried that she could harm him, but the whole ordeal was disconcerting all the same.

Nate wondered how he could convince her to leave without sounding too rude. Ezra had always said that he was too polite for his own good, especially when it came to good-looking birds.

“Lizzie.”

She got up from her sitting position and dusted off her jeans. Her simple flower-patterned blouse was in muted colours, looking dull against her light pearlescent skin. She was slender, tall and willowy.

“Well—er, Lizzie, would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

Ignoring his question, she made her way down the stairs and walked right up to him. The dim light from the kitchen glowed on her face, accentuating her soft features. She really was very pretty.

Lizzie walked in a circle around him, observing him from every angle. She had a finger on her chin, as if she was thinking very deeply about what to make of him.

“You’re much better than the last one,” she finally said. “She tried to have me thrown out, the old bat.”

Nate tried to knock the guilty expression off of his face. Just moments ago, he’d been considering doing the very same thing—was still considering it, actually.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Wish I knew,” Lizzie said with a shrug. “Nice typewriter, by the way. I’ve always wanted to use one.”

Nate visibly paled. It felt oddly intimate, this stranger going into his study. It served as more than a place of work for him—it was a place of inspiration. The room was filled with all sorts of uniquely characteristic things like pictures from old magazines, newspaper clippings of obscure happenings, a hand-drawn fantasy world map Ezra had sloppily sketched one drunken night, his records and a record player, a telescope he’d gotten from an estate sale, and all too many antique trinkets that everyone had always told him were nothing more than “junk.” The room was very personal, like a window into his soul.

And now, this girl had seen it. He would have never been able to do such a thing.

Nate figured his best option would be to get Lizzie comfortable enough to share the reason for her intrusion.

“Tea?” he offered.

He stepped around her and headed down the hall towards the kitchen, a little wary of turning his back on her. He had a vision of her stabbing him with a knife, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. She really didn’t look all that threatening.

Lizzie followed him, pausing briefly to study at the paintings he’d hung on the wall. He felt a little embarrassed. They’d been painted by his ex-girlfriend from Uni. In an innocently romantic gesture, he’d bought every single one of her paintings from an art gallery. She hadn’t liked that, Holly. To her, it had been more of a cruel form of sabotage. He’d spoiled her opportunity for exposure, at least that was the way she had put it.

Lizzie didn’t say anything about the paintings and he was grateful for it. Truthfully, he had no idea why he still held onto the paintings, much less hung them up in his new home. A small part of him was still pining after Holly. He’d always been shit at relationships, but Holly had seen all his weirdness and hadn’t gone running for the hills—at least until she’d met that bloke from her pottery class.

“Don’t bother with the tea,” Lizzie said when he began to fill the kettle from the sink.

Nate filled it, anyway, and put it on the cooker, disbelieving of her aversion to tea.

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” He felt he should introduce himself properly. He might as well if he was going to have her dawdling around in his kitchen.

“Oh, I already know. Nathan Alaric Chapman. Wicked middle name, if you ask me. Shame about the first and last names, though. Rather plain compared to Alaric, don’t you think?”

Ignoring her rudeness, Nate asked, “How do you know my name?”

“Your diploma is hung up in the study. Read it off there,” she said casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right,” Nate said, feeling very uncomfortable now. “Do you do this often, walk into people’s houses?” He tried to say it nicely, like it was out of harmless curiosity.

“I would never,” she said, looking both shocked and offended.

But you did, he wanted to counter. You’re doing it right now.

“Besides, I didn’t just walk in. I’ve been here the whole time.”

“You can’t have been. I’ve been here all weekend and I haven’t seen you.” He felt a bit like he was challenging her, and being the polite person that he was he regretted it immediately. Thankfully she didn’t seem all that fazed by his words.

“Well, I didn’t want you to see me yet,” she said. “Your mates would have dragged you off, and then I’d have been alone again.”

Nate found that his palms were sweating. This was amongst one of the strangest things to have ever happened to him.

Lizzie hopped onto the counter, her legs dangling as she thrummed her fingers on the surface. She looked very at ease there, as if she did it all the time.

“Let me get this straight — you’ve been here this whole time, hiding from all of us?”

She nodded.

“Where?”

“Well, everywhere,” she said. “Always out of sight, of course. I spent a fair bit of the daytime in the small attic, did you know there’s one up there? I explored after you lot went to sleep. I like your things. They’re very interesting, you know. Your records, and that telescope. Heaps of antique knick-knacks, too.”

Nate flushed, pleased by her words. No one had really held any appreciation for his things before. He’d thought himself to be the only one.

“Thank you,” he said, forgetting to be bothered by her intrusiveness.

She smiled brightly, leaving him momentarily speechless.

“I’m so glad you’ve come. It really is nice here, you know. We could clean it up a bit, maybe repaint those horrid walls. I’d love some plants in here, too. I’m partial to sunflowers, personally. They’re really so cheery, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Nate said, unable to think of anything else to say. He was fairly certain that this attractive girl was proposing to live here, but his mind couldn’t exactly wrap around the idea. Surely, she hadn’t meant that.

The kettle began whistling, distracting him from his thoughts.

“I’ll get it,” Lizzie said, hopping off the counter. She popped a teabag in a cup she found in the cabinets and took the kettle off the burner. “Have you got any milk?” She began rummaging through the fridge before he got the opportunity to answer. “Oh, yes. Wonderful,” she said, holding up a bottle of milk.

Nate paced in the kitchen, keeping a reasonable distance from her. What he wouldn’t give to have Ezra’s nerve. He wouldn’t have stood for this, not one minute. He would have thrown her out, no matter how pretty she was—wait, no. Nate had to rethink that one. Ezra may just not have thrown her out. She was the type of girl he usually invited in.

“I could stay out of your way, if you’d like,” Lizzie said, catching the troubled expression on his face. She looked down at the container of sugar she was holding and hooked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Nate glanced at her and felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings.

“No,” he said, not believing what he was saying. “You’re great. I’m just a bit knackered.”

“Must be nice,” she said.

Nate wondered what in the world could be nice about being tired, but she answered his question when she added, “I can’t get tired. It’s hard to catch any sleep.”

Lizzie settled down at the small table in the breakfast nook and put the teacup in front of the empty seat across from her. Nate sat down and thanked her.

“Lizzie,” he said after a minute or so of silence. “What are you doing here?” It was not spoken unkindly. It truly had been said out of burning curiosity.

Lizzie was looking down at her hands, oddly quiet. She chewed her bottom lip, and the sight of it made Nate draw a ragged breath, which he covered with a cough.

He’d seen a number of striking women in his life—women like Holly, for example—but Lizzie was ... different. There was a softness about her; her skin, her lips, her hair—it all looked impossibly soft. She was lovely, her features wholesome, pure, real. The vibrancy and openness of her personality was both discomforting and refreshing. She took out all the guesswork of getting to know a person. She shared her thoughts so freely, as if they’d been friends for a long while.

“Talk to me,” he said gently. “If it’s a secret, Lizzie, I’ll keep it. I won’t turn you out.”

“What if I’m a murderer on the run?” she asked, looking up. Her eyes were sad, but her tone was playful. It almost hurt to look at her. She was deflated but failing miserably to hide it.

“See, I don’t think you are,” he said carefully. “I think there’s a good reason you’re here and it hasn’t got anything to do with you killing anybody.”

Lizzie blinked and a single tear rolled down her face. She hastily wiped it away.

“Christ, I’m sorry. I’ve really bodged this up,” Nate said, getting up from his chair. He knelt down on the kitchen floor beside her and reached out to take her hand.

But — he couldn’t. His hand went right through hers.

“Do you get it now?” Lizzie asked, her voice soft.

The room swam. His ears were ringing, his heart caught somewhere in his throat. He felt like he was suffocating — suffocating.

“No,” he whispered. “You’re—”

“Dead.”

Flowers began appearing everywhere. There weren’t enough vases; there were just so many of them. Overflowing in the breakfast nook, gathered in bunches in the loo, stuffed into the few vases that Nate did own and arranged in the lounge. The water jug hadn’t survived the attack either; it sat on his desk, filled with flowers that made him feel like sunshine had been captured in them, warming him just from being there in front of him.

Sometimes he’d be deep in thought at his desk, staring at the typewriter as if daring it to give him an idea, and he’d reach up to scratch the back of his head(a nervous habit) and find a braided flower crown that Lizzie had snuck there.

“Liz, this is madness,” he would say, never really meaning it.

It was as if she was trying to fill the dull cottage with as much life as possible. Moving to the countryside had been something Nate had fantasised about doing for years, but no amount of planning could have prepared him for Lizzie. She was just so—so much. So much energy, so much nosiness and interrupting and talking and dancing to records at all hours of the night.

She was so much madness.

It hadn’t a thing to do with her being dead—no, that was something by which he was never given the chance to be bothered. She weighed down his thoughts with other things, following him around, reading over his shoulder, driving him near mad at times. There were other times, the times where he couldn’t imagine how he’d have survived in the cottage without her.

On clear cloudless nights, they would gaze out through the telescope, breathing in the fresh air from the open window, a record playing in the background as they talked about everything and nothing. She asked so many questions, wanting to know every single detail about everything and everyone, especially him. She wanted to know what made him tick, what had made him the way he was.

Lizzie was just so unapologetically herself that he forgot to care that she wasn’t alive — because to him, she was alive. He’d never known anyone more alive than she was.

She was like breathing, right there with him even when he didn’t notice, present even when he wasn’t paying attention, even when he wasn’t looking at her—and he did like looking at her. He tried to be discreet about it, but he suspected that she knew because there was nothing that girl missed. She observed him like he was the most interesting thing in the world, picking up on things he hadn’t even noticed about himself.

“You miss the same spot every time,” she said from the doorway of the loo, arms crossed.

“What are you talking about?”

She pointed to a place beneath his jaw. “You always miss it, shaving.”

“Do I?”

It amused him so much that he began to miss the spot intentionally, just so he could hear her complain about it again.

Within a week of knowing him, she began to take Holly’s paintings down.

“What are you doing?”

“You hate these.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

He hadn’t even told her about Holly. Not a word, not a hint, nothing, but Lizzie had sussed it out anyway, catching the tiniest flicker of anguish in his eyes when he passed the paintings on the walls. She never asked about it, as if she knew that it was one thing that was too painful and personal to pry into.

“You’re slouching again.”

“Liz, let it go.”

“You’ll become a hunchback and the village kids will throw fruit at you.”

“Let them.”

“Stop slouching.”

“Make me.”

So she chucked a throw pillow at him.

That was the weirdest thing, the fact that she could touch things.

“So you can’t walk through walls?”

She bit her lip, and he swallowed, trying not to stare.

“I can’t walk through walls, no.”

“So just me then.”

“Well, I can walk through any person, really. Though my clothes can’t so there’s no point in making a habit of it. A bit impractical to be walking through a person and leaving my clothes behind, don’t you think? It’s weird anyway.”

That was a lie. She’d put her fist through his head, laughing at the scowl he’d give her. She would wiggle her fingers to tickle his ribs and then push her hands into his chest, trying to capture his heart like some kind of annoying sea witch. She’d try to catch him unawares, making him jump for the fun of it. She did it simply because she knew he hated it.

“Will you stop?”

“Nate, you wound me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Didn’t you just stick your bare foot up my arse?”

“Might have done.”

It was like that every day. Getting annoyed with each other, fighting, brooding, apologizing, laughing, teasing, talking like old friends and then doing it all over again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Ezra was smitten.

“Why doesn’t anything like this ever happen to me?”

Alfie looked up from his book and shot him a look. “Everything already happens to you. You get all the birds.”

“You’re not bad looking, Alf. You’ve just got to stop dressing like my dad.”

Alfie really wasn’t bad looking. Though he did wear thick-rimmed black glasses that Ezra joked emphasised his seriousness, they still sat on a face that was rather nice to look at. He had striking emerald-green eyes that complemented his clean-cut red hair and had a surprisingly fit body hidden beneath the “dad” clothes. Of the three boys, Alfie was the only one whose face still seemed to have a soft boyishness to it, so to counter it, he’d started keeping a beard from his Uni days. Ezra always teased that he was bound to be mistaken for Aristotle’s younger, lesser-known ginger cousin.

“He dresses just fine,” Lizzie said, giving Alfie a warm smile.

“Shame I can’t touch you,” Ezra said, putting out a cigarette he’d been smoking, and danced towards her. A Jackie DeShannon vinyl record was playing in the background and Lizzie was already twirling in the center of the room.

“You can try.”

He did.

“Shame,” Nate said when Ezra’s hand went through her chest.

“Did you just try to grope my breast?”

Ezra shrugged. “You didn’t specify where I could touch you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Ezra danced with her, singing off-key because it made her laugh.

“What the world needs now is love, sweet love, It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of,” he sang terribly.

“What the world needs now is love, sweet love, No, not just for some, but for everyone,” Lizzie sang along, her singing voice no less horrendous.

“You two are tone-deaf,” Nate said, laughing so hard that he wheezed.

“Sing with me, Alfie!” Lizzie said, giving him such a dazzling smile that for once, Alfie didn’t seem so no-nonsense and serious. He put down his book and obliged.

“Lord, we don’t need another mountain, There are mountains and hillsides enough to climb, There are oceans and rivers enough to cross, Enough to last ‘til the end of time,” Alfie sang with Lizzie, his deep baritone complementing her sweet (but off-key) tone.

Ezra and Nate looked dumbfounded, eyes bulging.

“C’mon, everybody now!” Lizzie yelled, laughing.

And then they were all joining in, the three boys getting up and putting their arms around each others’ shoulders and singing to Lizzie so horribly that she laughed until she cried.

And that was how she became one of them. Just like that.

One day there was just the three of them, just Nate and Alfie and Ezra, best mates who had grown up together, and then suddenly there was Lizzie, waltzing into their lives like a thunderstorm, uprooting them like she was the gale, dancing in the lounge, twirling like a tornado, rendering all of them speechless.