21. PoltergeistsDemons
Poltergeists Or Demons
My house feels cavernous the second I walk in, like the silence itself is waiting. After a whole day wrapped in noise, Zosia’s laughter, Piotr’s teasing, Aga’s music spilling from the kitchen, this silence feels too big, empty.
I flick on the TV just for the sound. Some talk show drones in the background while I change into sweats, toss laundry in, boot up my laptop. The glow of open charts fills the room, the rumble of the washing machine dull, ordinary. Then I hear it.
A few soft notes that cut straight through the noise, the same melody I thought I’d escaped.
My head jerks up, it’s that song, the one he covered.
On screen, Szklane Serce the Polish band I grew up listening to on Mama and Tata's radio, the ones that made the original famous in Europe, sit in a TV studio, grinning under bright lights. I freeze. The captions scroll: Polish band’s song skyrockets after viral English cover.
International collaboration in the works!
The interviewer asks a question in Polish, and the lead singer laughs. “We’re heading to the States soon,” he says. “To record a new version with The Riven Altar, invited by Obelus himself. We really can't believe it!”
My hand flies to my mouth. The words blur. Obelus, studio, collaboration, success. The song he covered because he met me, the song that was the background to my entire childhood... is going to number one. Now he’s making them famous too? This can't be happening.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I whisper, laughing, half-reeling.
I grab the remote and shut it off. I try to keep myself busy, move the laundry, fold things that don’t need folding and take a too-hot shower. My brain won’t stop spinning. Every path circles back to the same place: the sound of his voice saying Kasia.
Finally I slam the laptop shut, crawl into bed. Toss, turn, check my phone. Stare at the ceiling, adjust my pillows and then finally, it breaks. I grab the phone and type before I can stop myself.
That song is everywhere now. I can’t get away from it.
It’s almost 2 a.m. He probably won’t even see it until morning, I tell myself. I drop the phone onto the nightstand, already regretting it and the buzz comes instantly. A new message lighting the dark.
she lives.
I had my doubts.
A startled laugh bursts out of me, a snort mixed with disbelief, followed by a small gasp. Because for some reason, it feels just like oxygen. I sit and stare at the text. I decide it's time he stops being an Unknown Number and finally type in Rafe.
I’ve been busy.
same. studio, meetings, chaos.
not much sleep.
the song keeps finding me too.
guess we’re both haunted.
You don’t get to be haunted.
You started it.
maybe
I didn’t expect it to follow me home. does that make it a poltergeist?
I laugh even as my chest tightens.
I can’t say I know the ghost taxonomy, but I seem to recall they don’t travel.
Maybe it’s a demon.
that would explain a lot.
possession. grabs the soul of all who sing it?
Possibly.
It’s always been a beautiful song, even before you touched it.
touched it.
interesting word choice.
Heat floods my face even though he can’t see me.
I meant musically, obviously.
of course.
what if the song chose me?
I think people choose what hurts them most and call it art, so it’s easier to admire the beauty in it.
There’s a long gap. So long I think he’s gone. Then—
maybe that’s why I chose it. why I choose a lot of things. people too. pain and beauty sharing my head space like old friends? that tracks.
My breath catches. I stare at the words until they blur. Before I can reply, a new message arrives, a voice note. Just a soft exhale, then his voice, rough from sleep and something else.
“It was never my intention to haunt you with this, but I guess that’s a happy coincidence I’ll take, since it got you to message me.”
The message ends, silence again. I press the phone to my chest, eyes burning, every rational thought screaming at me to put it down. Instead, I hit record. My voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper.
“Goodnight, Rafe.”
I send it.
The dots appear again, fast this time. Then they vanish. Somehow, I know he won’t reply tonight. Because he’s somewhere on the other side of this story, listening to my voice the way I listened to his. Because we both keep writing this song together, even when we shouldn’t.
The morning light cuts across the room before I’m ready for it. My phone lies face-down on the nightstand, a small, magnetic curse I can’t stop thinking about. I stare at it for a long minute, debating whether I even want to know.
When I finally flip it over, there’s no new notification. Just the same last message sitting there. My stomach twists. Part of me expected it, maybe even needed the silence. This is what I wanted, distance, sense, the grown-up thing to do.
I throw the blanket off, head into the kitchen, start the kettle.
Steam fills the room, the following scent of coffee is both bitter and rich.
Zosia’s drawing she gifted me still sits on the counter from yesterday, bunnies and carrots smudged at the corners.
I run my thumb over the page, trying to focus on the simple brightness of it.
The phone buzzes. My heart jumps before I can stop it.
didn’t mean to leave you with ghosts.
or demons. whichever we decided.
hope you slept anyway.
if not at least tell me the coffee’s strong enough to keep you standing.
It’s Polish coffee. Kawa parzona. Strong enough to wake the dead.
then pour me a cup.
I don’t answer, I set the phone facedown again, lean against the counter, and close my eyes. I could tell myself I won't reply but I know that's a lie.
From there, Sunday unfurls slowly, soft and endless, sunlight stretching through the blinds like a lazy cat. I tell myself I’m going to get things done, laundry, charts, groceries, but somehow, my phone keeps finding my hand.
Rafe keeps messaging. First, a meme about a disastrous art exhibit, then a clip of an old band he loves, playing live.
By noon, we’ve wandered into a thread about favorite painters, dog-eared books, the smell of vinyl sleeves, how the air in museums feels heavier because of all the history it holds.
Hours slip by, every time I set the phone down, it lights up again. Banter, curiosity, that strange feeling of having a connection in my brain restored that I didn't even know was missing. Maybe I never even knew it was there.
Dominik’s name pops up midafternoon and suddenly I realize I forgot all about anything else but the back and forth between Rafe.
good afternoon, moja kochana. did work and laundry steal you from me already?
My pulse jumps for an entirely different reason. I snap a quick selfie with my long-cold coffee and type back:
Good afternoon, Moja si?a (my strength). Sorry, so much to catch up on, my brain is gone. How are you and Zosi?
He replies instantly with a photo of him and Zosia, both mid-pancake bite, Zosia’s mouth covered in syrup.
she wanted breakfast for early dinner. i cant deny her. missing you here.
I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
This is fine, I tell myself. Perfect, even.
Rafe is… what? A friend. That’s all, I can have both.
Rafe is the one who talks about books, lyrics and obscure poetry.
Dominik is the one who brings me sunshine smiles in photos and devours me against kitchen counters.
There’s no rule against talking to both, none at all.
By evening, the thread with Rafe trails off naturally. He’s off somewhere, probably rehearsing or recording, and I sink into the couch, thinking I might actually get some work done. Then Dominik calls.
The moment I hear his voice, everything slows. It’s deep, rougher than usual, that teasing drawl already pulling me under.
“Kochana,” he says. “I miss you.”
“I saw you last night,” I tease, but my voice is already softer than I mean it to be.
“Never enough,” he murmurs. “I miss the way you sound, the way you… feel.”
I roll my eyes even as my pulse quickens. “You need to calm down. Right now I have charts to close and actual sleep to attempt. Maybe if you’re good I’ll visit you this week."
“You’re such a cruel woman.” We both huff a laugh before the tension in the silence catches up.
Both of us are thinking of things we’d rather be doing with each other than talking.
Finally, he speaks again, “Alright, goodnight, moja kochana.” His voice softens, like he’s kissing the words before sending them.
"Goodnight moja si?a.”
When the line clicks off, I stare at the ceiling for a moment, the warmth of him still wrapped around me. Then my phone buzzes again. Rafe.
you disappeared.
need a Polish tutor asap.
before this collaboration makes me sound like a fool.
I groan, smiling despite myself. I decide a taste of his own medicine is in order.
“Let’s start with the practical. Goodnight. Dobranoc, Rafe.”
I send it before I can overthink it, set the phone down, and start toward the bathroom. It buzzes again almost instantly. A voice message. His tone is intimate, like he’s pressed too close to the mic.
“You learned that little trick from me, Kasia.”
The sound of my own name in that voice sends heat crawling up my spine, the entire last half of my name is just an exaggerated sigh, the same way he's sung so many songs I've fallen asleep to. It’s too close, I feel the heat of his breath against me.
I go completely still. Then throw the phone onto the bed like it might burn through my hands or infect me with some sin.
It lands face down, silent now but I swear I can still feel him there, whispering from the other side of the screen, close enough to touch.
Monday hits like a slap. The minute I walk into the clinic Conrad is already waving a chart at me like it’s Exhibit A in my trial. “Dr. Sawadzka!” he barks. “This is from Friday. You missed the follow-up note.”
I bite back a sigh, smile with my teeth instead. “Good morning to you too, Dr. Conrad.” I slide the file out of his hand and head for exam room three before he can start a full sermon. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, the only small mercy of the morning.
Rafe.
Dominik.
Both.
It starts to feel like juggling at first, like spinning plates while Conrad watches for cracks.
But after an hour it’s just… rhythm. Rafe’s messages about Polish grammar, about a book of poetry he found in a Warsaw flea market years ago on tour.
Dominik’s texts about Zosia spilling her cereal, about the smell of motor oil on his hands from helping Piotr on Saturday, about what he’d like to do to me if I don’t stop sending him certain selfies during clinic hours.
Nothing tips into the inappropriate with Rafe.
All the dangerous real estate in my brain is already claimed by Dominik.
Ever since Friday, that side of us has been cracked wide open, and now we can’t stop teasing and tormenting each other.
Two worlds, two men and for a few stolen seconds in the middle of a Monday at the clinic, it almost feels easy.
After work I do all the sensible things, hydrate, stretch, work on charts.
I sigh, take a long shower, pull on a clean shirt, climb into bed.
When I plug in my phone, the screen lights up with a new message from Rafe.
are you still up?
I could use some help with this one line.
Sure. I can be up for a minute. What is it?
My screen flashes. Incoming call.
I blink. A call? From him? It’s just Rafe. Just a voice I’ve heard before, a face I’ve literally stared at, eyes I focused on. This will be easy, simple. I take a breath and answer.
“Hey.”