The Ghost of Dulai by Anonymous (pg

By Anonymous

Word around town is that the stars never shine on the grounds of Dulai. Fitting, it seems, that even the ever-growing, ever-gaining universe knows not to venture near the infamous gates of the once beautiful countryside manor.

“When God blessed the world, he meant the world excluding Dulai,” the villagers often say. “There is no good in Dulai—not even a breeze. Everything, from the roses to the raindrops, has been made tangible from a deep and ancient evil.”

No one who dares to walk the gardens of Dulai Manor ever returns the same. Though they appear to be fine, one look into their eyes can confirm their demise; what once held the glimmer of hope, the glimmer of life, becomes empty. Empty and desolate and dark and pained—the eyes of one who has seen and heard far more than they ever needed to know.

The children of the village have known all this about Dulai from the day they were old enough to listen and understand.

“Do not go to Dulai. Do not speak of Dulai. Do not so much as look at Dulai.” This is recited like a prayer, like a mantra by which to live one’s life.

So, it is impossible for the villagers to understand why you stand so boldly at the entrance of Dulai’s forbidden gates. Impossible to understand how you refrain from flinching when you take your first step onto the starless walkway.

At first, their shock is all you can hear, and you are surprised, for you expected something much more exciting to occur when you crossed the border. You continue walking, and as you do, the murmuring voices of the astounded villagers slowly fade, mixing in with the whispers of the wind.

Soon there is nothing but darkness and quiet. The trees sway gently to a soft breeze that you cannot feel. No sound is made as they rustle. No sound is made as your feet sink into deep snow. The absence is eerie; shivers run up and down your spine without relent. You pull your coat tightly around your arms, but it is useless against the invasive cold.

You feel her before you see her. All of the sudden, you cannot remember the last time you felt happiness. You cannot remember the last time you felt warmth. Inside you, there is a tiny hole growing. At first, it is the size of a pin prick, but you can feel it growing larger. In that hole is nothing; a hole of nothing is growing within you.

Dulai is a black hole, you think. Not a forgotten wasteland—a black hole. A black hole that sucks in the light that the world has to offer, and destroys it, because that is the closest thing it has to having light for itself. - 12 -

A dark cloud drifts across the sky almost aimlessly, and it tells you that you are correct.

And then you see her. She stands under the shelter of the trees, her form as uncertain as the shadows of a lightless forest—but she is there. She is tall and translucent white, with long, weak, black hair. Her dainty white dress hugs the outline of her thin legs as an invisible wind pulls it this way and that. Every visible bone of her body—her cheeks, her wrists, her collars, seems to glow faintly, further contrasting the dark inevitability that makes up her eyes.

She stares, devouring the essence of you with a feral hunger. What life you have, she claims. With time, your curiosity and wonder abandon you, and you fall to your knees on the soft snow.

Ida Dulai. As your heart grows numb and your soul grows dim, you ask her name with a joyless murmur.

And so, she tells you her story. Ida Dulai, the beautiful maiden daughter of the wealthy Lord Dulai. The girl who was once young and bright and curious, with an infinite infatuation with the stars.

Ida loved the stars, until they watched her die and didn’t so much as blink. One winter night, many years ago, Ida fell ill with terrible pneumonia. The doctor warned her not to leave her bed, and especially not to go out into the bitter cold. Ida did not listen, for her love of the stars was so great that she was convinced they’d heal her.

Out there in the cold, under the watch of the stars, Ida’s life slipped from beneath her grasp and she passed the border between the land of the living and the land of the dead. But Ida loved to live, and so she refused to die. She stopped at this border, pressed herself flat against its wall and planted her feet firmly into the snow.

How terribly paradoxical, how terribly sad, that ghosts long so badly to live that they tie themselves to the Earth, never moving forward, never moving back.

And so they wander, searching and searching for the one thing that can never be found: light. They are not quite alive, and not quite dead. They are anomalies of existence that will never know what it’s like to be illuminated. This, Ida resents.

You watch all your light as it swirls in the air, soaking the ghost in a small pool of fire. You darken, and think how ironic it is that Ida darkens too.

When you can no longer discern her from the night, or yourself from her, you stumble back to where you came, wondering if this sad, sick tale is all that will become of you and of Ida Dulai.

But that will never be known, for that secret has died with the stars.