She misses a couple of classes. Gail's not sure they happened at all anyway. The school is slowly becoming a chaotic gathering of lost lunatics. They still come there in the morning, as if performing an ancient ritual that no one remembers the meaning of. Teachers, classmates, parents...

  The latter still occasionally arrive to pick up their children and park crookedly on the concrete greenless lot. On all faces Gail sees the same thing. Confusion. A widespread progression of dementia. The classes are gradually thinning out, the teachers are more and more likely to freeze halfway through a sentence. Then a dumb, blind and clammy silence hangs in the room. No one laughs, no one talks, no one is doomscrolling his phone.

  Still their minds are in place. When Gail draws someone into conversation, the obsession passes. They chat lively, discussing popular musicians, bloggers and the latest gossip, freaking out about upcoming exams. Just normal teenagers, just a normal school day. But then again - plop.... Silence. Empty, mangled, dementing.

  Gail looks round the classroom carefully. Checking if anyone else has disappeared overnight. Shifts her gaze from one sleep-deprived face to another. Turning his back to them, a maths teacher explains something in an incoherent manner. Gail puts her pen down on the table with regret, for there is no way to write down this rambling. She stands up and moves to the first row - to Nicolas.

  The teacher's muttering does not break for a moment. Gail would welcome some remark. Any reaction beyond this total somnambulistic ignoring.

  ‘What level?’ she asks as usual.

  Nicolas is a skinny nerd with braces on his teeth that haven't gone away in all two years she knows him. A badass gamer and the only diamond brains in the entire school. Gail doesn't understand why he's even here. He's four years younger than all of them. Or is it five? Gail doesn't know for sure. She knows the answer in advance, though.

  ‘Fortieth,’ Nicolas’s voice sounds unconcealed pride.

  Gail closes her eyes in disappointment for a moment. So he's been driving that rider all night again. To herself, she calls him a level forty rider.

  Not all ghosts make their victims climb walls, dance on street lamps, pull faces, or just shoot each other. Some are quiet, some are violent. Gail seems to think it depends on the person. Weaknesses are possessions. Not all possessed people leave the house at night.

  Every night of Nicolas is about the same game, the same character, the same quests and the same damn level forty. Why the ghost is stuck in this particular one Gail doesn't know. She doesn't try to exorcise him. He's like a watchdog. At least Nicolas stays at home, relatively safe. At the thought of dogs, Gail wrinkles her nose.

  ‘You?’ inquires Nicolas with interest.

  ‘Thirty-three.’

  For a fortnight now, Gail has been telling him every morning what happened to her overnight. To keep herself from going insane. And because Nicolas somehow remembers everything she told him the day before. Perhaps because he's smarter than the others? Gail doesn't know. Nicolas, however, thinks it's a game and writes the name down again every time. The City of Owl...

  ‘I screwed up,’ Gail admits, fighting a momentary flash of anger at herself.

  That woman... Gail can still see her eyes in front of her. Hope, fear, darkness... Possession is like running away. Maybe that's why it has such a power. People want to escape to another world. Become someone else. Don't go back. Never go back.

  Nicolas listens with a matter-of-fact expression on his face.

  ‘I still don't understand. You can turn into some kind of hell horse, right?’

  ‘A pony,’ Gail corrects him.

  ‘How exactly do you become this pony? Does your body change?’

  ‘No, not like that. It's more of a mental thing.’

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  ‘A mental thing?’

  ‘Yes...’

  'If it's only a mental thing - how do you get these special abilities?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  'I do know. In the same way that ridders can give people the ability to climb walls. You're possessed. Think about it.’

  Gail thinks for a moment. He's probably right. Nicolas, that annoying, quiet nerd is right as usual. Or is he?

  ‘Hyacinth only comes when called. And leaves when it's done.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that other ghosts break in uninvited?’

  Gail doesn't know. Perhaps he's right again. Perhaps there is an invisible sign on each shoulder inviting them.

  ‘You should know better,’ she mutters softly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don't know about the ghosts,’ she replies, ‘but I hope I don’t need your invitation tonight.’

  ‘You’re always welcome – you know that.’

  He thinks she has a problem with physics. She knows he has a problem with dinner. His mother disappeared a week ago. Nicolas doesn't remember much about her, though. Gail's parents disappeared that very first night. It was for their sake that she went out into the sudden and unannounced hell that just began. She tries not to look at the ghosts faces. She hopes she'll never recognise those crazy masks as her family's. Until she does not knows for sure, she has hope. Hope is everything.

  Gail pushes open the unlocked door of Nicolas's flat at exactly seven in the evening. She is greeted by the usual semi-darkness and mess. The busy clacking of a keyboard can be heard from the room. She puts the grocery bags on the floor and locks the door. It's a good thing they both have their own income. As strange as it is.

  Every fair earned cent is valuable now. Otherwise, they'd be looking at, at best, a not-always-legal part-time job in evenings. Which means no sleep at all. At worst, foster carers. And the same roulette every night. In between, theft, looting and adult entertainment. A nightlife you don't remember during the day. Maybe it's for the best.

  Crisp green onions and sausages look cheerfully at her from the grocery bag. While she composes an improvised nasi in the kitchen, Nicolas makes himself comfortable on the back of a chair. The crochet hook flickers nimbly in his fingers. The green puffy scarf grows longer each evening.

  Gail marvels at how quickly that kid can progress. In everything he takes on. She taught him to crochet. Now they share a hobby. In a world where psychotherapy is just another form of possession, balls of wool can save the mind. At the very least, give you a break. As if all was well and the night ahead only promises rest. For Nicolas, though, Gail hopes that would be it.

  ‘If riders are afraid of water,’ she hears his voice through the predatory hissing of oil in the pan, ‘then we need to understand why. I so think it does damage to the Owl. Why else would she interfere?’

  Gail nods without looking. She remembers the dull, lifelessly indifferent eyes full of not fear, no. She hadn't noticed the Owl was afraid of anything yet. More like cold interest. An otherworldly attention that would not let go for a moment. But Nicolas has a point.

  ‘I think the purpose of your mission is to get to the little birdy herself. It would be good to know what connects her and the ghosts. The way I see it, the owl is a necromancer. The ghosts are her army. Have you even tried to destroy them in any way?’

  ‘Eat,’ Gail places two plates on the table, her and Nicolas's.

  It smells appetisingly of sausages and spices. They eat in silence for a while.

  Destroy the ghosts... How can you destroy something that's already dead? The only way is to exorcise them. If you're lucky.

  ‘Or so,’ Nicolas intervenes in her thoughts. ‘You destroy the Owl, you destroy the whole army.’

  ‘And how do you suggest to do that?’

  ‘I don't know. Call a downpour?’

  Nikolai nods towards the window, at the dreary autumn rain. The window looks like a grey blur. Gail knows the rain will pass soon. Not a drop has yet leaked from the coal black skies since this hell began.

  ‘I'm an exorcist, not a weather spellcaster.’

  ‘Then find a weather spellcaster.’

  ‘I'll try.’

  Gail smiles tiredly.

  The rest of the evening, a normal evening, Nicolas hangs out on the computer testing something, and she just waits. Night ripens outside the window like a black boil.

  The ghost appears just in time. He walks casually into the room and sinks into the chair next to Nicolas. For a while, the two of them stare at the screen together. Gail examines him, trying to find a weak spot. Tall, pale, unhealthy skin colour, as if he hadn't seen the sun in a long time. How would he have seen the sun, anyway?

  Gail doesn't know where ghosts spend the day. The underworld is probably not such a strange answer. She tenses when the ghost places a skinny, pale hand on Nicolas's shoulder. The next thing that happens is exactly the same like before. Her friend's face goes sallow. He switches off the programme he's been working on all evening and launches the game. That's it. All night just chasing this bloody level forty.

  The ghost smiles at her with a gnarled mouth. She gives him the middle finger.

  ‘Keep him inside. Otherwise, I promise - I'll find you.’

  Gail quietly slips out of the flat. Locks the door with the key. Checks it. Checks it again. Let fall a few drops of water under the threshold with which she personally washed one of the many dead yesterday. In the morning twilight, they sprout through the city like pale mushrooms. The ghosts are not attracted to the dead. She hopes this water will take away the scent of life and their sense of smell at the same time.

  Gail throws her hood over her eyes and glides silently down the stairs.

  Sometimes she even envies Nicolas. One tiny chamber in the Underworld is probably calmer than the myriad of frightening halls she have to walk through. All night. Night after night.

  Night after night…