Fall in love in a weekwe get by [Edgars ņš] (fb2) читать постранично

Edgars Auziņš Fall in love in a weekwe get by

1. CHAPTER 1. Day one: Tuesday

I always thought that the normal reaction to a ghost was to squeal. That is, of course, if you believe in this nonsense, and if not, carefully look around in search of a hidden camera, make a photogenic face and then squeal, moderately loudly and without losing your smile. Because modern special effects can do anything—probably even a ghost. Depict. Authentic, with a protruding aura, or whatever it's called, and just a step away from you. Like this one…

For some reason, it didn’t work out to squeal, but the thought of a hidden camera flashed and went away. I extended my hand and pointed my finger into the whitish, frozen fog – to where a face could barely be discerned in the swaying ghostly figure.

– Hey, be careful! Wow acquaintance – finger in the eye! – here the ghost, judging by the voice of a woman, stopped short, flew closer, hovered, as if he was peering intently at me. And he screamed so shrilly, as if he was being cut. Unless, of course, you can cut something intangible.

– What are you doing? – I asked, stunned.

– Body! At your place! “I wanted to cover my ears, but the ghost suddenly rushed towards me, I instinctively jumped back, tripped over something and fell, painfully hitting my butt on the hard and cold floor. And the ghost fell from above. Feeling – brrr!!! It’s like you’ve been swallowed by a slippery, scalding-icy jellyfish.

– Let me go! – I screamed.

But it was unlikely to be heard, because the ghost screamed along with me:

– Be careful, you clumsy fool! Ritual circle! Why did you lie down? Get up quickly!

“And I won’t think about it until you let me go,” I muttered. When something is demanded in such a boorish manner, and even with insults, one must react adequately, that is, either send them away, or put forward counter conditions. Preferably such that the boor himself will be sent away.

The whitish icy cloud moved away, I struggled to my suddenly weak legs and finally looked around.

A small room, no windows, the light comes from candles lined up in a circle on the floor. Smoothly plastered walls, thickly covered with incomprehensible symbols. The floor outside with candles is painted with the same symbols, the inside is perfectly smooth and clean… Concrete? No, a stone. Looks natural. Even the veins are visible, also gray, but lighter, whitish, like this ghost.

Ritual circle, then?

Hmmm. It seems my latest investigation has gone somewhere wrong. Decidedly and categorically not there!

I bent down to feel the floor and froze. The fingers that felt like ours were… yes, they were someone else's! Mine are graceful. I think I’m generally lucky with my hands: a beautiful hand, fingers that are called musical, and the rings look great on them. I love rings and beautiful manicures. And now, instead of my favorite snake ring with ruby eyes and a scarlet manicure to match the ruby, I saw a modest light one – silver? – a ring with pinkish carnelian or, perhaps, jasper, and albeit neat, but still short, almost clean-cut nails. Although the fingers too… nothing like that. But mine are better.

Okay, stop. What am I thinking, what difference does it make whether it’s better or not if it’s strangers?!

– So what are you staring at? – the ghost was indignant. – Give me my body and go back where you came from!

– I came?! Your body?! Yes, take it! And send me back immediately! This is what you did!

– That's not what I did!

– ? What?! – What did you have to do for such a thing… I can’t even say “result”! Summon the devil?! It seems that the “hereditary dark witch” I was going to expose claimed that the devil does not exist. Although what to take from a charlatan. Or… Isn’t she such a charlatan, since instead of her dimly lit salon, decorated with a pretense of mystery, I’m standing here? Maybe it was her doing, and not this… shrill one?

– Ritual! Complex love spell ritual! – the ghost howled and seemed to melt into the air, only to immediately appear in another corner of the room. – So what should we do now?

– What ritual?! Okay, stop! “I finally stopped understanding anything.” First a ghost, now a ritual. A love spell or something else – this is the tenth thing. The main thing is that the result is obvious. Even if it’s not what you expected. “Ritual,” I repeated. – Real. That is, these are not fairy tales, not quackery, and not…

– Haven’t you studied ritualistics? – something like mockery suddenly appeared in the washings. – Retarded?

– You yourself are retarded! Do you believe in all sorts of nonsense? Also tell me that psychics, clairvoyants and hereditary dark witches are not scammers.

– Pfft! – this ghostly impudent woman snorted distinctly. – There are a lot of scammers, and idiots too. Because true strength is not given to everyone. But every educated magician should know what a ritual is!

– I! Not! Magician! – It didn’t sound impressive and weighty, as intended, but… yes, too – almost hysterical! Is she contagious, or what?!

– She is a fool. And I, it seems, am no better. Wait here!

The ghost disappeared – this time completely, and I sat on the floor and stared at my not-my hands. She brought her palms to her eyes. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Strangers, but mine?! No, mine – but strangers. Wrong ring, wrong manicure. There is no usual bracelet watch. But the skin is soft and silky, even after the best cream it’s not like that for me.

What am I wearing? Some kind of depressing hybrid of a lab coat and an evening dress – a long, ankle-length, unbuttoned robe made of white dense satin, under which, thank everything, there are quite normal, only too tight and bright trousers and a tight T-shirt. ?Very tight! And there is something to wear! I felt myself, then tried to look at it, then felt it again… Those are boobs! I couldn’t add a couple of sizes in an instant, could I?

In the heat of an argument with a hysterical ghost, I too easily accepted that I was not in my body. I almost forgot about it. But now the understanding has dawned – it’s true. For some reason, my brain immediately rejected the possibility that the “hereditary dark one” had drugged me or drugged me with some kind of rubbish. Any nonsense is based on what is known, but here…

I suddenly wanted to look in the mirror. But there are mirrors in this ritual… well, not the hall, obviously! Ritual closet? In general, there were no mirrors, and there was no powder compact or lipstick with a mirror in the pockets. It's generally depressingly empty. Only a single key, however, on a very unusual keychain. A round matte white plaque, similar to a large coin, glowed slightly or – what is it called?! – opalescent? I turned it over in my hands for a long time, trying to understand what kind of material it was. Perfectly smooth, pleasant to the touch. Not ceramic. Too heavy for plastic. Not metal. Bone? There are no such bones! The unknown material fascinated me, and I did not immediately notice the inscription, not embossed or applied on top, but as if fused inside, into the very depths of the keychain. ?PCiHBI. Abracadabra… ah, no, that's not all. ?PTsiHBI im. Panacea G. Hmm. Well, at least one word is familiar. It turns out that something related to medicine is already information.

Turning the strange keychain in my hands, I thought about moving again. If I am in the body of this hysterical ghost, and the ghost… well, he is a ghost – what about my dear and rightful body? Unconscious? In coma? Died? Not this! We must return to it when the ghostly girl understands where she made a mistake and corrects everything! Otherwise, it turns out that I’m looking after someone else’s apartment, and in the meantime there’s a fire, a flood and an invasion of robbers in mine?!

– Hey, how long should we wait? – I screamed. What if he hears? – Where are you? Are you thinking of bringing me back or not?!

– I don’t think so, because I can’t. “The girl floated right out of the wall, seemingly the same, white and translucent, but her voice sounded different. Smooth, muted, without hysterical notes. Otherworldly or something. It was completely freezing. – You won't come back.

– How can I not return? Why?! “I started to think wildly about everything at once: about the charlatan witch who probably had a hand in this outrage, and the ticket to Sydney bought last week. ? unfinished projects and materials not delivered on time, even about brazen red-haired Alice, whom she promised to feed and brush while Mrs. Wilburn sunbathed on the beach in Brighton.

– Wrong paths, dark,