The Staring of The Souls

*This story contains smoking*

“Aunt Dolores, who’s that?” Kristen Joei muses, observing a guy wash a car. He doesn’t have a recognizable face, yet his aura is something she’s seen before… something similar to a ghost lost in her dreams. A ghost she knows, but its face is blurry.

The elderly woman hums, taking a break from the flowers to rub her gloves.

Kristen peers into the new man; a well-built fellow whose clothing is soaking in soap. His hair hides underneath a weathered baseball cap, but his shoes stand out the most. In near one-hundred degrees, he’s wearing stocky workboots. The leather is fading, the soles are too thin… She cocks a brow at his attire, but it doesn’t explain the stillness around him.

His head is empty.

Kristen can’t hear his thoughts.

Something about it is so freeing, yet an alarm rings out in her head. From a young age, Kristen could always hear people’s internal dialogue. Even if she doesn’t mean to intrude, people’s thoughts come to her as though they’re her own. Nobody knows where it comes from, but Kristen came to know it’s a double-edged sword.

“Aunt Dolores?” She calls, snapping her aunt into reality.

“Oh! Oh, yes, dear. That’s Lincoln. He’s quite good-looking, isn’t he?” Dolores giggles, brushing sweat off of her brow.

Kristen averts her gaze from her.

“Is he new? I’ve never seen him before.” She sighs, trying to get a better view of him over the shrubbery.

He stands, overlooking his silver vehicle until he catches Kristen staring at him.

Her heart skips a beat, immediately going back to the flowers that need her attention. Her staring is unwanted as she ducks behind the overgrown bushes.

Dolores laughs softly.

“Sweetheart, you’ve been here for a week. Lincoln and his family’s been here for years. His mother comes over for tea sometimes. Nice woman.” She dusts off her sundress before trailing in the house.

Kristen searches for Lincoln again, but his presence is gone. His car glistens in the blazing sun. She exhales, following her aunt.

“Does she talk about him?”

The ginger watches as her aunt freshens pillows on the couch. The ocean crashing against the rocks seeps through the windowscreens. Salt whisks through the warm wind.

As Kristen goes to speak, a sharp metal screeches through the stillness. She quickly shuts the windows.

“Aunt Dolores?” She raises her voice, but her words are still swept away from the opposing sounds.

“That boy is a carpenter. Nice young man, but that thing is so loud.” She heads to the kitchen, letting out a soft sigh. However, she points to Kristen. “You’re a creative person. You paint and write those stories for the news, yes? Not too far from woodwork.” She starts searching the kitchen for something important.

Kristen sinks at the kitchen table with a frown. She tugs at the ends of her damp braid.

“Not exactly…,” Her words hang in the air disparagingly. Her heart aches from her ability taking her life away, and from the nagging at why she can’t hear his thoughts. She’s so used to hearing what people think—and not that she wants to hear—it’s why is Lincoln’s head off-limits? Something is too familiar about him, and the freedom of it sends unease through Kristen’s body.

“Oh dear, what did I do with my apron?” Kristen catches herself reading into her great aunt’s head.

With dark eyes, she points over to the pantry where a green apron hangs.

“Ah, yes.” She grabs it with a warm smile, yet her niece isn’t reciprocating the cheerfulness. However, her expression drops before sitting across the ginger woman. “You’ll find another job, sweetheart.”

Kristen’s face sags in sorrow.

Her ability—or her “sixth sense” as aunt Dolores believes it to be—ran her out of a good journalist career. Only a few colleagues knew of her telepathy; it made her a good asset for finding hard facts, but they grew abusive towards Kristen’s ability. Political people started accusing her for blackmailing, or was an undercover spy. Despite undergoing a lot of threats she still attempted to bottle herself up into something professional. No matter what she did, Kristen’s presence made the news company look awful. The cruelty of people bruised her heart—the knowledge of being unwanted is still a painful topic to endure.

So she traveled to Maryland for a while. Somewhere to help her aunt take care of a house too large for one person, and to get away from being told she doesn’t belong.

“You’re not gonna have any nails left if you keep biting them.” She advises before Kristen places her hands on the table hesitantly.

The woodcutting machine finally dies out. The softness of the ocean below is a soothing balm to their ears.

Dolores chuckles slightly.

“That kid’s up until eight cutting wood sometimes. I don’t know how it doesn’t bother him.” She shakes her head, smoothing out the tablecloth.

However, the elderly woman’s words don’t make it to Kristen’s ears. She’s too busy staring blankly at the calm ocean.

“Lincoln doesn’t get many visitors, you know.” She cocks a brow.

Kristen quickly flickers to her aunt, her mouth agape.

“Oh, no.” She murmurs, swatting her aunt’s impending idea away.

Dolores nods, standing to her feet.

“Yes. Say hello. Introduce yourself.”

Kristen sits up straighter.

“I don’t wanna go someplace where I’m not wanted, aunt Dolores.”

The elderly woman sighs.

“Saying hello is not a crime, dear. How can you not be wanted if he doesn’t know you? Trust me, it would mean a lot to him.” She brushes her hands against Kristen’s shoulders.

The ginger exhales sharply.

Her heart is going in opposite directions: one part is warning her to stay away. He doesn’t know her; he doesn’t know of her ability, and a part of Kristen wants to keep it that way. Nonetheless, something else isn’t letting go that he’s different—that Kristen can’t hear his thoughts like the rest of the world.

She gazes at her aunt whose brows are raised. Kristen’s mouth forms into a straight line.

“Fine. I’ll go say hello.”

“Lovely. Tell him he’s welcome to come by anytime.” Dolores intertwines her wrinkly hands together.

She nods sheepishly, getting up from the table.

“Oh, wait. Before I forget.” Dolores grabs a notebook and pen from a drawer. “You’ll need it.” She grins warmly.

Cocking a brow, Kristen takes the gesture.

“Why?”

Dolores doesn’t hear as she’s busy taking out ingredients. It’s barely afternoon, and she’s starting to fix dinner.

“Shoo, dear. You have places to be.”

Kristen shakes her head before forcing herself out the door.

Over itchy grass and scorching pavement, she makes it to Lincoln’s door. The white wood of the house is peeling. The rusty screws barely hold from years of strain.

Biting her nails to a pulp, knocking slips from her mind.

The number one question lingers in her mind, yet she knows Lincoln would call her crazy. He’ll furrow his brows before scolding her, sending her into a pit of isolation again. The pit that still hovers in her corners, murmuring in her ear that she’ll never have a place ever again.

The door nearly swings off its hinges, spooking Kristen out of her trance.

A woman stands in the frame smoking a cigarette like the world owes it to her. Her thick blonde hair covers her days-old makeup. Yet, her hard features and sunken eyes is a stark image to Lincoln.

“What do you want?” She puffs out a smoke.

Kristen’s words die in her throat as a ring of smoke fans her face. She stares blankly at the woman.

“Dumb girl. Like a fish out of water.” The woman thinks, eyeing Kristen up and down.

The ginger snaps out of it, tugging on her disheveling braid.

“Is Lincoln here?”

The woman freezes.

“You’re here for Lincoln?” She scoffs. “Hey ma. Lincoln has a visitor.” She calls back, chuckling deeply. “Don’t go anywhere.” In a dark hum, the woman shuts the screen door.

Kristen watches in horror before quickly flattening her outfit. Through the hot air, her clothes start choking her skin; she should’ve chosen more professional attire instead of a tang-top over stretchy shorts.

She eyes her blissful aunt’s house from the painful waiting. A part of her prays that Lincoln is the loner type, yet she doesn’t escape the porch.

“Yo. Here he is.” The blond points to the stiff girl. She bites her cigarette, eyeing Lincoln and Kristen before shutting the door.

Kristen gives a nonchalant wave, trying to peer into his thoughts—all she finds is a wall. Her eyes trail to his blue eyes… Identical to the woman. They must be twins.

He rubs his arms stiffly, staring into her. His cap faces backwards, yet Lincoln stands in that same pair of workboots. However, something about his attire is softer than what Kristen saw earlier; his worn-out style is more endearing than she cares to admit.

“I’m Kristen.” She clears her throat. “I… live next door.” She gestures, but he’s unblinking.

Randomly, he points to her before rolling his pointer fingers in a backwards motion. He raises his brows.

Color drains from her fair face.

From his cargo shorts, he pulls out a notepad to jot something. He reveals what he wrote: “Nice to meet you. I’m deaf. I use ASL, but don’t feel bad for not knowing it. I saw you earlier. Are you new?”

She’s slack-jawed.

Pieces about him fall before her very eyes, yet that does not answer the sense of familiarity about him. It’s something else about him that does not meet the eye.

Kristen fumbles with her own notepad, writing: “Yes. I’ve been living with my aunt.” She forgets how to stand properly.

He nods, glancing over her writing. Lincoln taps his pen against the paper, continuously flickering his attention from Kristen, and his hand.

However, nothing else gets written besides peering into each other. The atmosphere is simmering in tension. The silence is killing them both, suffocating Kristen from getting to the truth.

She shakes her head. Even if she averts her gaze, his staring lingers on her soul.

That familiarness is closing in on her. She can’t tell if it’s the weather or her reluctance for criticism that’s making the humidity more sickening.

Kristen bites her tongue before forcing herself to write: “Do you like thinking?”

Before she can show him, footsteps echo behind the raggedy house. Kristen can see his sister come around with a lawnmower.

He doesn’t notice at first, but the fuming heat of the mower catches his attention.

“Weirdos. They’re still standing there… That blockhead better not scare her away. His ugly boots might send her to the hills though… Should’ve sold them when I had the chance.” The woman’s thoughts echo in Kristen’s head.

The ginger shakes her head before the lawnmower kicks on.

Lincoln sighs deeply, running his hands down his face.

From his sister’s criticism towards his footwear, something in Kristen breaks. She realizes the strange endearingness of his boots is because it’s a free choice of his… Worn-out with fraying laces, a pair of shoes she never saw at the news station. A place where she needs to hide herself from threats and posing looks, yet Lincoln walks freely. He doesn’t worry about being put in a bottle.

“I think your boots are pretty neat.” She quickly writes to him.

Lincoln pales before scrambling to his own paper. He keeps scribbling and erasing until he shows his paper: “I was just thinking of my boots.”

Her heart skips a beat.

She slowly points to his sister who’s oblivious to the world. The lawnmower roaring does not compare to the ringing in Kristen’s ears.

Lincoln’s expression drops as though he’s receiving devastating news.

He jots something in his notepad so quickly his writing is cursive: “Did you understand Linda’s thoughts too?” He hesitates to show Kristen.

Her heart stops.

The sweltering heat shifts to a chill that cuts them both.

Lincoln’s revelation is a mirror at what she’s been running from. She’s worrying about someone with the same curse turning her away when she’s the one rejecting herself.

They stand in an eerie stillness, yet their staring isn’t intrusive anymore—it’s a newfound form of understanding neither of them thought is possible. That familiarness from before finally shatters.

Kristen thinks away from criticism to write freely: “I can’t hear your thoughts.” She shows, but he’s already writing something of his own. Kristen reads: “I can’t feel your thoughts.”

Holding both of their notepads, they realize they’re the same coin, but different sides; they cancel each other out.