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Everything was dark.
Jim remembered seeing snow.
He couldn’t anymore. Instead, there was an inky black void surrounding him—and it was heavy, crushing down on his entirety. He felt like he should be breathing. But the weight on his chest pressed against his lungs, like it was sinking through his skin—down, down, all the way to his insides. It probably would’ve felt agonizing—if he was able to feel it at all.
Jim found himself feeling a whole bunch of nothing. Except for the pressure. But he could ignore that. Even through all the nothingness, somehow—the back of his mind knew, even without feeling, that his feet were hovering above the floor. His arms were floating by his side. He was somewhere.
Were his eyes closed? Is that why everything was so dark? His eyes. He willed them to open. The darkness stayed.
He stood there, or rather, floated there for a few seconds. A few minutes? There wasn’t much else he could bring himself to do. He was half-dazed, half-awake, a sort of inbetween state. There was a faint memory, somewhere, of why, or how?
There had been someone in front of him. Standing. Looming. They were picking something up. They spoke with someone else. A blue figure. More of a blur, really. Jim had said something, heaved it out of his chest with a rasping breath—but it was only met with the crunching of snow as they disappeared into the white. Jim remembered feeling despair as they retreated. The small glimmer of hope he had felt faded just as they did, and he was left with heavy eyelids and a fuzzy mind.
Then there was just grey. A stone floor beneath him. It was rigid and rocky, unlevel and uncomfortable. Then there wasn’t. A momentary feeling of nausea washed over him, and then it was gone.
The world was gone. It was pulled away from him in a long, agonizing instant, until everything was far, far away. He felt his eyes start to close. It was done.
But then someone reached out.
A figure, a cloak draped over their shoulder, face shrouded in shadow. They spoke in a slow, husky, whisper. Deep and sure, they told him something. Something he couldn’t quite remember. But it must have moved him very much, because as soon as the man had finished, he reached out his hand towards him. Jim took it in a haze.
Then he was pulled up, and up, until he found himself alone. In the dark.
That’s where Jim had found himself for the past, like, forever. He had hovered, unmoving, too confused and disoriented to think.
An unsettling reality started to set in the longer he sat. He was floating. It was shadowy. He couldn’t feel anything. Oh. He was dead, wasn’t he?
Oh. He was dead. Jim was an accountant. He hadn’t accounted for this.
Then there was another noise. Once that wasn’t silence. A quiet clinking of a pot, maybe a pan? It was something, and that was all he needed.
“Is… is someone there?” Jim spoke out into the darkness.
No reply. His breath hitched.
“I-I can’t see.” He tried. His arm moved out slightly, trying to reach something, feel something. It didn’t. Why couldn’t he open his eyes?
Jim didn’t want to take a step forward. Float forward, actually. “If someone’s there… please help me.” He cracked out.
It was met with silence once again.
“Someone… anyone?”
The quiet didn’t waver.
Jim sensed that if there was someone there, they didn’t want to talk. Or respond to him specifically. Was it worth it to keep going? The pressure of tears built behind his eyes once again.
He continued anyway, speaking more to himself than the supposed person. “I just want to go home.” A short pause. A shaky inhale. “I need to take care of Mayor Monty.”
Oh, swords. Jim felt the dread in his stomach turn to grief. Mayor Monty. Did he know? Or was his own body just somewhere out there, cold and rotting, nobody around for miles? If anyone, the mayor would have sent someone after him. Surely he would’ve.
And Roadtown. The budgets, the yearly quota—his job. Mayor Monty hired him for a reason. Could he find someone else? Would Roadtown be able to survive this sudden cold spell in a financial sense? And the miners—oh he remembers the miners, are they alright? The mountain had been colder, and there had been gold, and worry—
Jim blurred his mind as the memories hit. So, so many things he still had to do. People he had to help. The miners, the people of Roadtown, Mayor Monty…
“I can’t leave him like this.” He choked out to nobody in particular. Had there ever been another person? Had he imagined that noise?
This couldn’t be all there was. There had to be more. “I just need to open my eyes.”
“My eyes…”
Jim felt like he should be crying. His breaths were heavy, there was a lump in his throat, and his mind was blurry. But there was nothing.
“Your eyes.” A curious voice suddenly spoke, and Jim was jolted out of his despair. “They aren’t there.” It stated.
Jim felt, yes—yes, he felt, a hand press against his shoulder. “...What?”
“You don’t have any eyes.”
Jim slowly reached up to his own face. He felt his cheeks, his nose, his visor. Then touched at where his eyes would be, and—oh swords. There was nothing but smooth skin. The hand that grasped him did not leave his shoulder as he made a noise of disgruntled confusion.
He decided to set that panic aside. This must be the person who made the noise. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“Can you see anything?” They spoke again, voice smooth and echoey, ignoring his questions.
“I–I, uh…” Jim had already come to the conclusion that he could not. But saying it aloud, especially to someone else, just cemented that in his brain even further. Dread crept back into his stomach. “No…”
He sat in agonizing silence once more. The other person seemed to pause and think. Jim shuddered at the quiet, and found himself wishing that he would take any other kind of noise other than this. Really, truly—nails on a chalkboard, the pattering of rain, even dynamite—
Jim felt a sharp pain at the front of his brain. Maybe not dynamite.
The hand that gripped his shoulder moved. Thankfully. It took his own hand instead, and pulled him slightly forward. “Follow me.”
Jim paused in hesitance. If this were any other circumstance, (the circumstance being that he was not dead), he would have pulled away. Questioned, fought, argued—whatever he could to understand and/or escape the situation. He found none of that motivation now. After a moment of reluctance, he let the grip pull him forward, and found that there was no need to consciously walk.
The atmosphere around him did not change, even though he knew he was moving. The air, or lack thereof, was mild and slightly cold. There was an unnoticeable breeze as he was ushered forward into the unknown. The grip on his hand was not forceful, and easy to slip out of—but he felt no urge to let go. This person seemingly knew something, and at least he was going somewhere, instead of hovering quietly in infinite nothingness.
Jim found himself savoring the touch. The few moments of deprivation from earlier was something he didn’t want to think about ever again.
Then he felt himself stop. They had arrived somewhere. It smelled of cooking and heat, and there was a faint bubbling noise to his right. Maybe a kitchen?
The person loosened their grip slightly, and Jim took a sharp breath in. Were they going to let his hand go? Jim tightened his hold in response. Without this one feeling, this one grounding piece of evidence that, yes, yes, he was still here; Still conscious, still feeling, still somewhat alive, Jim might have started to spiral again.
Jim heard the person shift, and he felt eyes on him. A brief pause, and then he was guided somewhere else.
“I need to let go of your hand.” They stated. “There’s a chair right here. I need to make something. I’ll be just across the room. Within earshot.” Jim reached out with his other hand, and it made contact with a hard, wooden surface. Chair. “We can keep talking, if that would help.”
Jim slid into the seat. It was strange—his body didn’t feel any more or less relaxed than it did before. No weight was taken off of his feet. He settled for a moment. “...It would.”
“Okay,” They spoke, calmly and confidently, and Jim felt the other pull their hand away.
The person retreated, and Jim became slightly aware of how he was positioned. He felt as if he wasn’t actually sitting. More like he was mimicking the position of someone sitting—legs hanging off the chair, hands in his lap, shoulders not-so-rested on the back of the chair. Almost as if he forgot he was supposed to be sitting, he’d sink right through the seat.
Jim shifted slightly as more sounds of pots and cutlery clinked a few feet away from him. “What’s your name?” Introductions were important, no matter the situation. Even though a million more important questions burned in his mind.
“I go by a few. Some people call me Kitchen Wizard, or Ghost Chef… the first one was from when I was alive.” The sound of a cabinet opening. “But you can call me Wiz.”
“Wiz. It’s… nice to meet you, I suppose?” Jim said with a small laugh. This was an absurd and devastating situation. But this guy was so… normal?
“Likewise,” Wiz replied, and Jim could hear the small smile in his voice.
Now that was out of the way. Jim took a careful breath.
“What happened to me?”
“You’re dead.” They said simply.
Oh. Right—yeah.
“I’m not exactly sure how you died—nobody ever is. Most people don’t remember what happened to them.” A sound of a stove clicking on, and a pot being placed atop it. “At least, nobody who lives in this manor remembers.”
Jim didn’t wanna think about his blurry memory of what he believes is his last moments—the snow, the cold, the rocks. “Manor?” He prompted.
“Manor, yes,” Wiz confirmed. The quiet sound of water pouring into an empty container. A lid placed on top. “That’s where we are. Lots of spirits seem to end up here.”
Jim took a moment to process that. So he was still somewhere. And there were other people here too!
“Well, why am I… here? Still here, I mean. And not gone. Gone gone.”
“Most people who die in… unfortunate ways, have some kind of unfinished business.” The wizard spoke. “I can’t quite recall what mine was, but… Master Telamon placed me in this kitchen. When I was dying, he saved me. He told me I still had more to do.” He paused for a second. “Do you remember what he said to you?”
Jim shook his head. Whoever this Telamon guy was, those few seconds—or however long it had been, were not something he’d even want to remember. The pain was still throbbing through his body as the voice, who had now been identified as Telamon, spoke. His ears had been ringing louder than anything else.
The wizard didn’t reply for a moment. “Well, you were calling out to someone.” Oh… right. “If I could give a guess, it seems like your business might be with this Mayor Monty you were talking about.”
“Mayor… Monty. Yeah. That would make the most sense.” Jim felt the pressure on his chest grow a bit heavier. He recalled something—fuzzy and far away. A campsite. A journal, writing, worrying, many other things. “He was… Monty was—” He choked up on the last word, and his tightened throat wouldn’t let him speak again.
“...Was very important to you?” Wiz finished slowly.
Jim nodded once again, opting not to speak. It wouldn’t have worked even if he tried to.
The wizard seemed to leave it alone. Jim was grateful for that.
The room lapsed into silence for a while.
Jim heard the quiet sounds of cutlery and utensils. He assumed Wiz was cooking something, though what he even could cook in the afterlife left Jim drawing a blank. It was a good thing to focus on, though. As much as he probably should want to remember… he felt like it would hurt.
The stove clicked off. Jim heard the quiet clink of a lid being removed, and liquid being gently stirred.
“Here,” Wiz finally spoke, his voice drifting closer.
Jim felt him take his hand again. The touch was warm, and got significantly warmer as something was placed in it—a cup. Or bowl. Either way, the heat spread through his fingers, and he felt himself melt into the intensity.
“What is it?” Jim asked.
“A potion. It should help your vision.”
Jim smelled it hesitantly. Sweet. Like a mix of raspberry jam and lemon. “Is it safe?”
“There shouldn’t be any side effects.” The wizard hummed in reassurance.
Jim gave it a cautionary swish before taking a small sip. The flavor exploded on his tongue, and it was better than anything he’d had when he was alive. It was fruity, slightly tropical, and tasted like all those vacations he neglected to go on. There was a pang of regret as he downed the rest of the drink.
Nothing happened for a few moments. Then Jim felt like he just got hit with a superball.
He coughed into his arm, feeling a headache build in the front of his mind—it throbbed to the rhythm of a heart, even though his own wasn’t beating anymore.
Bracing himself, he swallowed thickly.
There was a small wave of nausea as he cracked open his eyes.
Everything was a bit fuzzy. Through all the blurriness, there was a gray-blue shape, slightly see-through. It looked worried.
“---did it work? Hey, hey, are you alright?”
Jim blinked hard and nodded slowly.
The figure in front of him started to come into focus, and he was met with a concerned… wizard. Wow, this guy really was a wizard. He had a long blue robe on, covered in small white stars, dotting the whole cloak. Disappointingly, he didn’t have a wizard hat on—instead, a white chef’s hat sat atop his head.
He gave a small smile. “Drink some water.”
Jim felt the cup he’d just drank from be taken from his hands, and it was replaced by another. He took a small sip at first. It was cold, refreshing, and washed the overpowering sugary taste from his mouth. The cup was emptied quickly after.
Then Jim finally got the chance to really, truly, see. He’d guessed correctly, they were in a kitchen, and, jeez—it was an ugly kitchen. A large cauldron in the corner, a fridge, two exits—not exactly a huge one, but it was sizable. It was painted in odd hues. A gross purple coated the walls, the counters were covered in a mess of fruits and ingredients, and the cabinets were left half-open.
Despite the distaste for design, Jim returned the smile.
“Are you feeling better? Is your vision clear?”
Jim nodded. The wizard gave a content sigh at that answer, seemingly satisfied, (and a bit relieved), and turned back to the stove. He began to clean up the space. Barely, Jim noted. Things were still too messy for his liking.
After a few seconds of the chef not speaking, or making any try to expand on what happened—or where exactly this manor even was, Jim frowned.
“Well then… where should I go?”
Wiz seemed surprised at his question. “Oh, uh—well, most people would’ve wandered off by now.”
“Well, I would!” Jim gave a small, awkward laugh. “But I—I don’t really know, or—or even remember how to get to Monty…”
Wiz thought for a moment. He eyed the kitchen, then glanced over toward the exit. “I suppose you could stay here with me.” Looking back over to Jim, he gave a small nod. “Maybe explore the manor a bit? At least, until you remember.”
Jim shifted slightly. He took a second to look at the space. It seemed… comforting. Not quite like home—it wasn’t as warm, with no rushing waterfall, no log cabin. The walls were a sickly purple, a shade he didn’t particularly like. The floor was a black-and-white tile which didn’t compliment that at all. He placed a hand on his hip.
…But this could work. He could make this work.
And Wiz didn’t seem so bad.
“I did always like cooking. Pizza was my favorite to make.” Jim smiled.
The wizard nodded at that. “Pizza’s always a good choice.” He paused for a second, eyeing the cabinet. “Though, you may be a little disappointed at our choices of ingredients…”
Jim followed his gaze to the open cabinet door. A bag of dust, along with a jar full of spiders sat in plain view.
It was going to be harder to stomach being dead than he'd thought.