Being dead was such a strange thing and not at all like Eric had been expecting. Well, perhaps that last part wasn't entirely true, as he hadn't really known what to expect, but whatever the case death was... strange. It was strange to be at your own funeral, it was strange to see people but not be able to interact with them, it was strange to feel so empty and incomplete, and it was strange to feel so very, utterly confused. He could remember so much and yet he felt as though he had forgotten even more. How he died he could not remember-- was it an accident? Had he gotten sick? Had someone killed him? Had he killed himself? Had it hurt or was it painless? That was one memory that seemed to have been plucked from his mind. That and other memories, though which memories were missing he couldn't stay, he simply knew that they weren't there, like a puzzle that looked complete yet still had pieces missing from it. Yes, strange.<br/><br/>Stranger still was that, in a way, he couldn't even entirely recall how it felt to be alive. Oh, he knew that he had been alive not all that long ago, and he could recall pieces of it, but the feeling of life, and warmth, the feeling of a beating heart, of the inhalation and exhalation of breath, of blood flowing through his veins, such simple things that, all together, meant being alive were things he had so quickly forgotten about. He was dead now, he had no heartbeat-- he didn't even have a heart, or a brain, or any other physical part-- he had no blood, and he no longer breathed. It was like he was a completely different being now. And perhaps that's exactly what he was.<br/><br/>He missed his life, he missed his family and most of all he missed his sister, Caillen. He had his sister had been close as any brother and sister should be. Sure, they had their occasional fights and arguments but his love for her never faded, nor did his somewhat over-protective nature. There had been so many things that he should have told her when he was alive, so much he should have done for her, and for the rest of his family. But that was impossible now. And yet, despite no longer having any physical form, he found himself unable to move on. He found no path to Heaven, or Purgatory, or Valhalla, the River Styx, or where ever it was that the dead went to. He felt no calling or pull directing him anywhere. Was he still tethered to this world for some reason?<br/><br/>Then, some nights after his death-- how many nights he wasn't sure, time seemed to blend together when it no longer had any meaning-- his sister returned to his grave with an assortment of items, and he watched her curiously as she sat them about, placing candles and other things about in a seemingly strategic manner. She chanted something that he couldn't understand but he kept his eyes fixed upon her, wishing that he could reach out and touch her, or even just talk to her. But then he felt something shoot through him like a belt of lighting that made him cry out in pain, his vision went white and he felt himself going unconscious (was that even possible for a spirit?). Flashes of feeling and emotion washed over him, though he could not make out how or why, feelings of pleasure, of bliss, unlike anything he had ever felt before, but everything around him was white, was blank, was empty. But this feeling, this sublime, delicious pleasure...<br/><br/>When he came to he wasn't sure how much time had passed, and when his vision cleared he realized that he was no longer in the grave yard that he had been stuck in for so long. All around him was white, nothing but white, white floors, white walls, white ceiling, all blindingly white until wall couldn't be distinguished from floor, or floor from ceiling. Up or down, left or right, it all looked the same, felt the same, and Eric felt fear. He ran. What was he afraid of? This emptiness. This blankness, this nothingness. After what seemed like an eternity of running he was met with another unexpected experience: a door appearing out of nowhere, rising like steam from a pot of boiling water. He reached out for it, the door was solid, he pushed it open and, the moment he did, a hard hit on his back as though someone had gave him a hard shove sent him stumbling through the door. It slammed closed behind him; the whiteness faded...<br/><br/>When his eyes adjusted yet another sight was before him, one that he had become quite familiar with indeed. It looked like home. Even more, it looked like the inside of Caillen's bedroom. But how could such a thing be possible? Was that strange ritual just some sort of strange dream or a hallucination? But if that was the case then how did he end up back home? A familiar voice drew his attention and he caught glimpse of her: Caillen, his sister! She was staring at him as if she was staring at a ghost. Which he was, of course, but did that mean that she could see him? Or that he was alive? Could he really be alive? He had to be! Didn't he? How else could it be explained? Maybe his death had all just been some sort of bad dream, it had to be!<br/><br/>"C...Caillen...?" said the very confused brother. "I, uh... I don't know how I got here... Um, maybe I was... s-sleepwalking?" He'd never sleepwalked before so it was an unlikely story, but if he really was alive and if he had no memory of willingly walking into the bedroom, then that was the only explanation that he could think of.