When I open my eyes and wring out my hair on the other side of the falls, I see the exact same city I just walked out of. Except now two things are very different. One is that everything is reversed. Instead of the creek winding to the left, now it winds to the right. It’s like being on the far side of a mirror. And that isn't even the weirdest part. The other thing that’s different is that the city isn’t empty anymore. It's now completely packed with people. It looks like any bustling city during the midday rush. There are shops and vendors and people dragging livestock through the street, just going about their day. I’d think I was in a completely normal city on the surface except for the latest weird thing in a rapidly growing list of really peculiar shit. All of the people here are translucent.

  I can see right through every one of them.

  I look down at Gerard and whisper, “I don’t know about you, but this is freaking me the fuck out.” The horse blows out a sigh and then anxiously ambles forward.

  The apparitions don't pay much attention to us. When we trot out of the creek and into the street, I expect them to all sidestep around us but instead they just keep right on walking, straight through Gerard and me. It’s like we’re not even there. Or they’re not. I don’t know what the fuck is going on. “Alright, what do you make of this? Are these ghosts or what?” Gerard is as clueless as I am.

  Some of them glance up at me as they pass by. They can clearly see me despite being able to walk through me. When I try to wave at an elderly woman traveling next to me, she just averts her gaze and increases her pace. Apparently see-through folk aren’t too fond of outsiders.

  After a couple more failed attempts at social interaction, Gerard and I wind our way through a few busy streets to an area with lighter traffic. Emerging from one of the more ornate buildings is an old man with a long, gray beard who's using a cane to carefully walk down the big staircase at the front. When he spots me, a big grin peeks out from between his beard and mustache and then he starts shambling his way toward Gerard and me. I pull on the reins and stop in the middle of the street when I realize he’s coming our way.

  When he gets to where we are, he stops and points his cane up at me while spouting a bunch of gibberish. I interrupt to tell him, “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Oh, the Eastern Dialect! I said ‘Welcome Traveler.’ You must be a long way from home.”

  Finally, some answers. “Yeah, tell me about it. So are you people ghosts or have I just finally lost the last of my wits?”

  He leans forward against his cane with both hands while he rubs his see-through thumbs together. “How should I explain it…This is a place for those of us who, for one reason or another, get lost on our way to the next world.”

  I twist around in the saddle to scan the street. The spectral masses look like normal people going about their lives. “…Hmph. So am I dead, then?”

  He hoarses out a laugh and says, “Well, let’s see.” Then he takes the cane into one hand before walking over to prod Gerard and me with it. Despite the fact that the cane goes right through both of us, he declares, “You seem solid enough to me. Looks like you’re just visiting. You came in through the falls, did you not?”

  “Sure did.”

  He points his cane in the direction we came from. This seems to be a habit with him. “We left that door open so we could travel back and forth. You may see one of us from time to time where you’re from.” I look back over my shoulder toward the falls but now it’s concealed behind buildings. He introduces himself while I’m still glancing around, “I am Melchar. What do people call you?”

  “Darion Halstead of Valencia. I’m a...was a knight in the king’s Royal Beast Brigade.”

  “Beast Brigade?” He mumbles for a second before wrinkling his ghostly brow and pointing his cane up at the ceiling of the cave. “Come, you can update me on the goings-on of the land of the living. It’s been an awfully long time since our last visitor came calling.”

  So then I fill Melchar in on the last couple centuries-worth of world history while he shows me around Spooksville. It’s nice to have a conversation with an actual person, even if he happens to be dead. Gerard isn’t the chattiest of equines.

  When our tour brings us back round to the waterfall, I ask Melchar, “You happen to know the way back to the surface? I’m a little lost down here.”

  He points to his left with the cane. “Take the path that leads out just past the bazaar. Then it’s two lefts and a right. Less than a day’s ride. Or actually…” His eyes go up for a second before he finishes, “...I suppose it’d be two rights and a left when you get yourself turned back around on the other side of the falls.” His gaze wanders a bit while he thinks about what he just said. “…Yes. Yes, that ought to do it.”

  “…Hang on, I’m confused. Is it two lefts and a right or two rights and a left?”

  “It’s two rights and a…wait, which was the first one I said?”

  I knead the reins between my fingers. “Goddamnit Melchar, which one is it?”

  “Just a moment…” He strokes his ghostly beard while he mumbles to himself for a distressingly long amount of time. “...Two rights and a left. I’m sure of it. You’ll come out in the Temple of Hapsimun. Or perhaps what’s left of it. I’m not aware of its current condition.”

  I blow out a chestful of air and tell myself to just hope for the best. “Well, thank you. It’s been a real…well, it’s been something.”

  “Likewise.”

  I stop him as he’s turning to walk away. “Hey, before you go, you ghost people wouldn’t happen to have any magical gems you’re hiding down here would you?”

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  He gives his beard another stroke. “As a matter of fact…” My eyes bulge in their sockets. But then he finishes, “Come to think of it—no, actually. Haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

  “…If you weren’t already dead I might’ve killed you for that.” He just smiles and leans forward against his cane. “Well, do you know anything about killing sorceresses? We’ve got a nasty one upstairs we’re trying to deal with.”

  “Sorceress, you say? Well, I imagine you would want to silence her, would you not?”

  “Sorry, do what now?”

  He pulls his can aside to make it clear that he’s ready to be on his way. “Render her mute. Prevent her from speaking her spells.”

  Gerard shuffles his feet underneath me. “Okay, well, how do I do that? How do I silence a sorceress?”

  The ghost just shrugs.

  Thanks.

  It takes a moment to reorient myself on the non-inverted side of the waterfall. But when I do, I quickly find the path Melchar pointed out. My torch is still burning on the ground where I left it so I go ahead and pick it back up before making my way to the exit. Then I take one last look at the again-empty underground city before heading back into the tunnels for yet more wandering.

  Despite the ghost’s abominable directions, Gerard and I are able to find the way to Hapsimun’s temple easily enough. The tunnel dead-ends at a big staircase that leads up. At the top is an opening that’s half covered in debris. I have to shove some of it aside to fit us both through and then we emerge in what I assume is the temple’s altar room. I don’t know what the place looked like the last time Melchar was here, but it’s in complete ruins now. Daylight is peeking in from holes all over the roof and there are shattered columns and statues everywhere. It looks like it may have even been the site of a battle at some point. There are arrows and broken swords strewn about all over the place. I spend a minute digging through the rubble until I find a fully intact, albeit extremely rusty longsword. Then I strap the weapon to my back and make my way out into the daylight.

  My first objective is to find food. Anything but mushrooms. Which turns out to be pretty damn easy because I’m standing in the middle of an overgrown forest. Apparently it’s been a while since anyone’s paid their respects to Hapsimun. The temple has been completely reclaimed by wilderness and there are insects and flowers and cuddly little forest critters everywhere I look. So I use my new sword to decapitate a squirrel and then Gerard and I have a nice breakfast together while we both take in the scenery.

  I can actually see the sun now. Once I establish the direction it’s headed across the sky, I head due east. The same language is conveniently spoken in all the countries situated along the Western bank of the Etherean Sea and Melchar said I had an eastern dialect, so I figure this is my best bet at getting back to Fornia.

  It isn’t long before the landscape gets less wild and I start to see flooded rice fields and rustic little farmhouses dotting the horizon. I make it to a village and then struggle my way through a language barrier before eventually determining that I’m in Kakua, an isolated nation northwest of Fornia. No one cares enough to fuck with these people so they typically steer clear of global affairs. I adjust my heading and spend two days galloping through quasi-wilderness to get to Fornia’s Northern border.

  No one pays me any mind as I invade their country yet again. Third time’s a charm, I guess. This section of the border stays relatively quiet so I’m able to enter without arousing suspicion. The fornian army is leagues away from here and in this part of the country I look like any other nomadic traveler.

  Now, I’ve managed to get away with some pretty ballsy shit lately, but I still have enough self-awareness to know when I’m woefully underequipped for the mission I’m on. If I want to get anywhere near the palace I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more than some rusty-ass sword and the clothes on my back. Seeing as I’m completely broke and have no way of making money without drawing unwanted attention, it looks like I’m gonna have to steal some shit.

  The first town I come across is the border city, Palenth. I quickly learn my way around and then hitch Gerard to a rail outside a shady-looking pub that’s just around the corner from an armory. Then I do my best to blend in as a vagrant until nightfall. Which isn’t hard considering I haven’t shaved or changed clothes in weeks and must smell like I’ve never seen a bathhouse in my life.

  By the time the sun is about to set, I’m leaning against a wall in the alley by the pub with my arms crossed, trying to case the joint as inconspicuously as possible. Turns out I’m not great at the ‘inconspicuous’ part. Edging up next to me, trying to get my attention is a fellow dirty hobo—or what Piper would respectfully ask that I refer to as a dirty ‘unhoused person.’ The derelict inquisits, “What’s your story, lad?”

  Based on the smell of this guy’s breath, I’d guess that his diet consists entirely of old bologna and three-hundred proof paint thinner. I don’t take my eyes off the armory when I tell him, “No story here.”

  He punches me in the arm and it catches me off guard. “Oh, everyone’s got a story! Let’s hear it, then.”

  It seems I’m breaking some dirtbag drifter code by not talking to this creep. I sigh and tell him, “I was a soldier.” There, that’s all he’s getting.

  He staggers about before clicking his heels together and drunkenly saluting me. “A soldier! Well, my good armsman, just outta curiosity—” He points at the armory before finishing his query, “What’s so interesting over there yonder that you been eyeballing it all damn day?”

  Fighting the urge to tell this guy to fuck off is physically strenuous. I might actually be starting to sweat. I force air out through my nostrils, remind myself that I’m trying to keep a low profile, and then tell the degenerate, “The owner’s a friend of mine. I’m keeping an eye on the place for him.”

  His mouth curls down in mock-reverence. “Oh, are ya now! Well, if you’re the one keeping an eye on the place, then I guess old Patches will be out of a job, won’t he!”

  I drag my eyes off the armory to look at him. “Patches?”

  He motions toward the shop with his head and almost falls over. “Yeah, Patches. He waits just inside the front door after shopkeep leaves for the night. Watches over the place after dark. But I guess you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  Well, I’ll be a hunchback’s uncle. Turns out that not telling people to fuck off has actual benefits. I drop the ruse and ask him, “Is there a back door into that place?”

  He shakes his head. “No back door. Plenty’ah windows though. Unless you wanna go in through the tailor’s shop next to it. They got an adjoining door.”

  This is shockingly good intel. I ask the drifter, “So why do they call the guy ‘Patches?’”

  He squints at me as if I’ve suddenly gone out of focus. “Because that’s his name.”

  Whatever.

  I give the lowlife a nod and then watch him wander off to go drink himself into a coma or whatever the fuck these people do at night. Then the sun sets and the street quiets down until it’s nothing but dirtbags and doormen out and about.

  And then the doormen go home.

  Time for thievin’.