Shortly after I saw the Ghost, I met Lily.

This was before The Ellis Incident, so we still got the occasional rainstorm or freezing cold day: even during the summer up in the Catskills. This day was like that. Thousands of droplets poured down from the grey skies above the pink house in the woods. Rainwater pooled along the roads and flowed down the asphalt towards the lakes and rivers. A chill ran through the air, the type that crawls deep within your skin and turns your bones to ice. 

Aunt Cynthia and Dad were standing out in the yard under an umbrella, staring off into the distance towards some faraway point on the horizon. Both had grim faces and tired eyes. The rain, which was pooling around their feet and soaking their shoes, didn’t seem to bother them. They had been spending late nights and long hours up in that tower, and didn’t seem in the mood to play with me; so I avoided them and set out on my own adventure.

First, I grabbed my yellow raincoat and galoshes. A true adventure wasn’t to be spent indoors, after all. And, as mom had always said, “You don’t want to catch your death.”

I wasn’t sure how I could catch my death-- I didn’t have a catcher’s mitt, after all-- but I was pretty sure it was probably best that I don’t go out without a rain jacket and galoshes, elsewise I might get home and Aunt Cynthia would take a fit about how soaked I was.

Aunt Cynthia, by the way, was a lot different than what I had expected my first time meeting her. She was nice, for sure, and could be very excitable when she wanted to be, but she was also quick to anger and certainly always a bit on edge. She always seemed worried about something, too, like something was gnawing at the back of her mind. An idea, or a problem. It was as though her cheerfulness was some sort of mask, an easy way to keep her from letting out that monster deep inside her psyche.

Dad had changed too, by then. He was still my father, always putting on a big grin and working at keeping me cheerful, but he seemed exhausted. His body hung down like a wet cloth, with every part of him drooping or dragging itself around. He would also, often, forget where he was or what he was doing. He would stand in one spot for so long that he seemed to become a statuette on the mantle. The mind was there, but the soul just didn’t seem to be.

I caught myself thinking too much and looked back out the window. Aunt Cynthia and Dad were still out there, silent and still as the rain pitter-pattered around them, forming lakes and rivers and oceans in the asphalt driveway.

I sighed: a long one that only a child on the precipice of his teen years could make, and set off out the door into the rainy day. Almost immediately, the raincoat and galoshes were glistening with cold water, freezing my skin underneath. Water was pouring down my face from my already soaking wet mop of brown hair, turning my vision blurry. I should have worn a hat.

“Yoo-hoo! Freddy! Are you okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to go play,” I said, looking up to see Aunt Cynthia’s smiling face staring at me from down the driveway.

“Okay, be safe! Don’t wander off too far!”

“Have fun, Pal!” 

I was turning away to go wander around the yard when I heard Dad call from behind me. “Fred! Go build me a fort, Pal! I want to see you build your old man a fort!”

And so, I set out into the woods to gather materials. 

The key to a good fort is a good foundation. Most people would say that the key is actually the roof or walls, but without a solid foundation, the whole thing will blow over come the first good gust of wind. You have to have a strong foundation for a strong fort, and that means as big of rocks you can carry.

I was a bit of a scrawny kid, so carrying rocks was hardly my specialty. I did find a few stones the size of volleyballs that I could lug all the way back to the yard, swaying one way or to the other as I carried them. I created a neat pile off in one corner of Aunt Cynthia’s expansive lawn, setting the rocks in a pyramid shape for ease of access. Best to keep them in such a way that I wouldn’t have a rock roll down and crush my toes.

I was soaked, now, and shivering from the cold water glistening my raincoat and my skin. My hands were turning to those of an old man, all wrinkles and none of it baby smooth anymore. My galoshes were sinking into the dark mud of the forest floor. I should head back inside, I could catch pneumonia like this, I remember thinking to myself. But, father asked me to build a fort, so build a fort I must.

The second part of the fort, and nearly as important as the foundation, are the sticks and branches that make up the walls and the beams that close the fort in. You need a lot of sticks, all of varying lengths and widths. So, I set to work scrounging the forest for some suitable lumber.

Crawling on my hands and knees, getting covered in mud and grime in the process, I compiled as many pieces of wood I could find. I needed them all if this was to be a fort that would impress Dad. He may not seem like it, but sometimes he can be hard to impress. When he says he wants to see me build a fort, he means a fort.

Suddenly, I could feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand a bit on end. Something was standing near me. A bear? I try my best to keep still and control my breathing, thinking it might leave me alone if I keep still.

“Hi there!”

It was a bright, cheerful voice, reminding me of Aunt Cynthia but without that darkness behind it. It seemed to echo through the leaves and the branches, a bird’s song from the mouth of a young girl. A warmness that cut through the cold rain and wind that still turned my body to ice. I looked up to see from whom this warmth was coming from.

It was a girl, that much was certain. She might have been a little younger than me, but not by much. A couple of years, at most. Her porcelain skin shone brightly even in the dark clouds of the day and her hair came down in a wet flow from one side of her face, a brown the color of the mud beneath me but not nearly as unpleasant.

“What’s your name?” And, with that, she smiled. Her big, blue eyes narrowed from her cheeks widening and turning a bright rose color. Her teeth flashed in that smile and reflected a bit of the light from around us at me. It was an honest, real, and true smile. The type that only a girl of that age can make. The type that lacked secrets, sadness, or worry. 

“Fr-Fred,” I stammered a little, from shock and awe. She giggled.

“Well, Freddy, stay there too much longer and you’ll be down in China!”

She was right, I was sinking into the mud. I just couldn’t take my eyes off her. To do so might have been a sin.

“Here, lemme help you up.” And with that, before I could protest, she had grabbed a hold of my arm and was pulling me up beside her. Mud splashed her puffy pink jacket, making her gasp before bursting out laughing.

“Boy, Daddy is going to be some upset with me!” Only because I suppose it no longer mattered, she knelt down and grabbed a hunk of mud, smearing it on my face before putting war paint on her own.

“ Now Freddy, tell me: whatcha doing in my neck of the woods?”

“I’m- I’m building a fort,” and then, realizing what the girl had said, “Your neck of the woods? This is my--”

The girl pushed me back down again and stepped up so I was laying between her legs, her army boots only inches from my ribs.

“Yes, it’s my neck of the woods. I live here, y’know. Now, apologize to me.”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“Say ‘I’m sorry, Lily.’”

“I’m sorry, Lily.”

“I’m sorry, Princess Lily”

“I’m sorry, Princess Lily.”

The girl giggled and stepped away, extending her arm to help me up. I took it graciously and stood up beside her.

“So, what are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“I was, uh . . . I was building a fort,” I hoped that didn’t sound stupid.

She beamed. “Building a fort, eh? Well, why don’t we build it together?”

“Okay.” She started to turn away.

“Okay, Freddy, what’s the next step? I’m so glad I met you today, it’s been so lonely, and I hardly--”

“Um, excuse me?”

“What?” Reeling back.

“I uh . . . I don’t really go by Freddy. Just Fred, please.”

The girl seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook her head.

“No, I don’t see you as a Fred. But, I do agree that you should like the name I call you. Hmmm . . .”

She paced back and forth for a bit, mud splashing up and dirtying her pant legs. Every so often she would look at me again, with those ocean-like eyes, as though studying me as some sort of biological specimen or newly discovered species. She would then shake her head, murmuring something, and continue pacing.

Finally, she sighed, defeated,.and whined, “well, I guess you’re going to have to be Fred. I can’t think of anything else.”

I shrugged and turned away to go until she yelled behind me again.

“I’ve got it! I figured it out!”

Turning towards her, I saw the corners of her lips turn into the smile again as she giggled.

“I think I’ll call you dahling!”