Precious And The White-suited Stranger

 

Sidney

Precious woke first, her cheek pressed to the cool wooden floorboards. The room smelled of her father’s old tobacco and the lavender sachets her mother used to tuck into drawers. She blinked, confused, until memory rushed back: Sidney’s impossible words, the way the air had folded around him like silk, and then—nothing.

Her father lay sprawled beside her, one arm flung out as if reaching for the rifle he kept above the mantel. Precious crawled to him, heart hammering. “Dad?” Her voice cracked. He groaned, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment they stared at each other in shared, wordless terror.

The front door creaked. Footsteps—measured, unhurried—crossed the threshold. Sidney stepped into the hallway, hat in hand, white suit pristine despite the dawn dust. He looked almost shy.

“I did knock,” he said. “Twice.”

Mr. Cardosa scrambled upright, back against the wall. “You’re not real.”

“I’m real enough to love your daughter.” Sidney’s gaze slid to Precious. “Real enough to keep promises.”

Precious’s knees felt like water. She remembered the kiss—how it had tasted of rain and something metallic, like blood on a cold morning. She remembered the small voice in her head that wasn’t hers. “You said you’d come tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a courtesy for the living.” He tilted his head. “I’m impatient.”

Her father found his voice. “Get out of my house.”

Sidney smiled, and the room dimmed, as though a cloud had passed over the sun. “I’m not in your house, General. I’m in her future. You can’t shoot a future.”

Precious stood, legs trembling. “You lied to me.”

“I omitted.” Sidney took a step closer. “I told you ghosts linger for purpose. Mine is you. I’ve waited two centuries for a heart that beats loud enough to drown out the silence.”

Mr. Cardosa lunged for the rifle. His hand passed through the stock as if it were mist. The weapon clattered to the floor, solid again the moment it left his grasp. He stared at his empty palms, face ashen.

Precious backed away until the wall met her shoulders. “I won’t marry a dead man.”

“You already said yes.” Sidney’s voice softened. “Words have weight, Precious. Especially the first ones spoken after a first kiss.”

Her father’s breathing rage. “There’s a priest in town. Exorcist. Served with me in ’82. He owes me.”

Sidney laughed, a sound like wind through empty windows. “Holy water stings, but it doesn’t send me anywhere. I’m bound by consent, not Latin.”

Precious’s mind raced. The market. The stories. The way he’d flickered when the sun caught him just so. “You said ghosts need purpose or revenge. Which is it?”

Sidney’s eyes—gray now, not the warm brown she remembered—met hers. “Both. I was betrayed. A woman promised me forever, then buried me alive beneath the old oak by the river. I’ve walked since 1823, looking for the one who’d choose me freely. You did.”

Her father’s voice shook. “You can’t have her.”

“I already do.” Sidney extended a hand. “Come willingly, Precious, and your father lives. Refuse, and he joins me. Heart attack. Tragic. They’ll blame the war.”

The room smelled of ozone now, like a storm trapped indoors. Precious looked at her father—his broken nose, the scar through his eyebrow from a bayonet in some forgotten jungle. He’d taught her to load a shotgun before she could spell her name. He’d cried only once, when her mother’s coffin lowered into red clay.

She stepped forward.

“Precious, no—”

“I’m not choosing you,” she told Sidney. “I’m choosing him.” She placed herself between the ghost and her father. “You want consent? Here’s mine. Leave. Or I’ll find that oak and burn it root to branch. See how long you linger then.”

Sidney’s smile faltered. For the first time, he looked uncertain. “You’d damn yourself to save him?”

“I’d damn you first.”

The air thickened. Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed though it was barely six. Sidney’s outline blurred, edges fraying like old film. “You can’t—”

“I can.” Precious reached for her father’s hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm, alive. “You said words have weight. So does blood. And mine’s louder than yours.”

Sidney flickered. Once. Twice. Then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of river mud and the echo of a sigh.

Mr. Cardosa sagged against her. “Jesus, girl.”

Precious stared at the empty doorway. The sun climbed higher, spilling gold across the floorboards. Somewhere in the distance, church bells began to ring.

She squeezed her father’s hand. “We’re chopping down that oak today.”

He nodded, eyes wet. “Bring the chainsaw.”