Authors: Jamieson Wolf
"It is only because I love you that I have not killed you yet," she said, smiling. She looked down at Eileen and Kieran. "Say hello to your brother, guys," she said. "Say hello!"
* * * * *
"Your mother and Jose seem so happy," Poppy said to David, who had offered to drive her home. It was late in the day, dinner time, and Poppy's stomach rumbled. Alicia was already home, the lights on inside.
"They're ecstatic. I hope that parenthood is as good to us as it is to them. I just can't see myself having kids yet."
"Never?"
"No, never say never. But I don't feel ready for them yet. I don't know how
Orlando
feels, but that's just my opinion. In a few years yeah, but I'm not at a stage where I can appreciate children."
"You and Orlando will have kids someday. Just wait for it. No rush, alright?" David nodded. "Love you, David."
"Love you too."
She got out of the car and turned to wave at David until he drove off. When he had, she turned to go into the House on Harrow Hill. Because her attention was elsewhere, she didn't notice her shadow on the walk way. It stretched and moved of its own accord, almost as if it were trying to free itself from her body. When she reached the door, her shadow was back to normal.
Chapter Six
Bittersweet Romance
Moe heard Poppy. He had been watching from his bedroom window on the third floor. Not that he needed a bedroom, but he liked to pretend to sleep. He knew that dinner was in preparation downstairs, but he wasn't hungry. Ghosts didn't need to eat as often as the living.
Dusk was coming and it was his favourite time of the day. That time between light and dark, day and night, that held the world in its balance. It was a poetic time to him, a romantic time. He was disappointed that he never really got to experience romance, but that was the way of the world, wasn't it?
He had been married, for three days, in the spring of 1986. She had been a lovely girl and they had driven to
Las Vegas
on a whim and had been seduced by the slot machines and the gold and glitz. They had married while drunk on beer and free cocktails. The next morning, they tried to pretend everything was alright, that they had wanted to get married. But it didn't last. They had the marriage annulled three days later. It had been a bittersweet romance. After that, Moe had roamed the world on his own, taking odd jobs where he found them and getting lodging where he could. He was happy living the life of a nomad, a traveler. To make money on the side, he helped people with their gardens.
His mother, God rest her soul, had always said that he had had a gift with the green thumb. Even as a baby, born in 1969 during the hot summer, Moe had been content to sit in the grass and flowers and not make a sound. "That one will have a gift," his mother often told his father. They had died when he was in his late twenties. They had had him late in life. He missed his parents, missed them more now that he was dead. They had died of natural causes, but that didn't make their deaths any easier to handle. He had no family to speak of and his parents had been all he had in the world. When they died, he only had himself. He didn't mind, really, but felt cheated now that he had died, knowing he would never find the love that everyone was due. He sighed and turned away from the window. He sat down on his bed and flopped onto his back. He was becoming entirely too morose lately.
That's what happens when you're dead
, he thought. Wasn't he supposed to be morose and depressing? Wasn't that what ghosts did? But he didn't feel like a ghost. Perhaps because Lucia had brought him back to life so soon after he had died, he didn't really get the feel of being dead, hadn't had a chance to get used to the fact that he had died. It was a confusing situation he had been thrown into, all because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He still had nightmares about what Jethro had done to him. His thoughts haunted him in the darkness sometimes. He would live forever now. He had no unfinished business holding him here, so it wasn't like he would be ‘crossing over’ any time soon. He was dead but alive and trapped inside a house that was already haunted. The irony of this wasn't lost on him.
He heard a sound, then. He sat up, straining to hear it. It came from above him. A low, soft crying that sounded like whimpers. The sound seeped through the floorboards, tinkled softly on his ears. He remembered hearing the crying earlier the other day. Moe got off the bed slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast that the crying would disappear, that it would leave him. He followed the crying to the attic door, two flights up. The attic was in the small, pointed roof that crowned the left side of the house like a tower. The door opened to steps and you went up a curving stair case, winding your way to the top. He had never been in the attic before; even dead, attics scared him. He stood in front of the stair case; listening, seeing if had misheard. He could hear Alicia and Poppy through the vents; they were having dinner, probably, laughing about something that had happened in the world outside this house. Honey had had the twins. He wished he could see them. Then he heard it again, that soft crying, whimpering. It called to him.
He went up the stairs slowly, listening to them creak beneath him. The higher he went, the darker it became but he didn't concern himself with that. Ghosts had excellent night vision. A single bare bulb dangled dimly and he swiped at it, watching as the shadows he caused stretched and moved across the wooden steps, the wooden walls.
Once at the top, he tried to locate the sound of the crying. It was in the corner of the attic's small main room. He went over only to discover another door, locked. The crying came from the other side of the door. Moe tried the handle; it turned but didn't budge. "Hello?" he called. "Is anyone there?" The crying stopped. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to call out. He should have just floated through the wall instead, caught whoever it was unaware. He pushed his head through now, hating the feeling of the wood inside his body but tolerating it none the less. He opened his eyes when his head came through the other end and gasped. In front of him was a room of beauty. There was a canopy bed made of oak and draped with purple gauze. There was an antique armoire, flowers strewn around the room and the sweet smell of Honeysuckle.
Sitting on the bed, staring at him open eyed, was the most beautiful child that Moe had ever seen. She had pale hair, so blonde it was white and eye lashes so long they almost brushed her cheeks when she blinked her eyes at him. Small, red lips were parted in an ‘o’ shape and she clutched her blue and white gingham dress to her throat. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, husky, and too deep for a girl.
"Who are you?" she said.
"I could ask you the same thing," Moe replied.
"I asked you first."
"What's your name?"
"What's yours?"
"Are we going to play this game all night?" Moe said. He pushed himself all the way into the girl's room. "My name is Moe. Moe Seaswell."
"That's an odd name."
"Yeah, it is. What's yours?"
"Monica." She smiled. "Monica Rowan."
Moe smiled back. "Pleased to meet you." He stuck out his hand and she shook it with her fingers.
"Pleased to meet you, too," she said.
Moe paused before asking: "Do you mind if I ask why you were crying?"
"I was crying because I am sad."
"Why are you sad?"
"Because I cannot find a way out of here. I have lived here for centuries."
"How is that possible?" Moe asked, his tone unbelieving.
"This house has stood for eons," she said. "I have been dead for some time," she said. "This house is my prison."
* * * * *
"You are trapped here?" Moe asked.
"I am trapped here as any ghost is trapped upon the earth. I am trapped in the place of my death, able to watch the world go by, but not able to stop it." She smiled. "The afterlife isn't all it's cracked up to be."
"How long have you been dead?"
"Does it matter?" She got up off the bed, her light cotton dress flowing softly around her legs. The flowers printed on the dress reminded Moe of his greenhouse. He thought it was fitting that she was wearing flowers. "I have been dead long enough to have forgotten how long it's been; but I have not forgotten how I died."
"How did you die?"
"Isn't that a rude question?" she said. "After all, we just met. How did
you
die?" she asked.
"How do you know I'm dead?" Moe said.
"Hello? You just put your head and body through a door. That seems pretty dead to me. Besides, like recognizes like. You have no aura around you."
"You can see auras?"
"Sometimes, sometimes not." She lay down on the bed. "Come talk with me. It's been so long since I've had someone to talk to." Moe sat down on the bed beside Monica.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Well, I died in 1915, so you do the math. I've been here a long time. I was thirteen when I died."
"Who was the last person you spoke to?"
"The person who killed me. I have not seen a soul since."
"And you haven't seen anyone since?"
"Afraid not. My body is buried in the backyard, with the other bodies. But I rest here. The door that you passed through has remained locked for eons, no one knows it's there, no one even knows that this room exists. So here I remain."
"But you'd be able to wander the house, right? You could leave this room if you wanted to?"
"I could, but I am shy." Monica batted her eyelashes. "I have been alone for so long."
"You could come and talk with Poppy and Alicia, they wouldn't mind you at all, I think."
She touched his hand, her fingers cold as ice. "Please don't tell them I'm here yet."
"Why not, I think it would do you good to have company."
"Then YOU are my company, please, just for a bit. I'm not ready to meet living human beings yet." She frowned. "I think they would be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Well, maybe I'm afraid of them," she said. "I can't, Moe, not yet, alright? Can't I be our little secret? Surely one more ghost in a haunted house isn't too bizarre."
"You know the house is haunted?"
"Oh, yes, I hear the house at night. It speaks to me sometimes. I am comforted by the dead lately, it seems. Even ghosts can be afraid."
"I'm afraid of lots of things," Moe said. He took her hand.
"It's been a long time since I've had a friend," Monica said. "Would you be my friend, Moe?"
Moe looked into her blue eyes, bluer than the sky itself, and nodded. "I could use a friend right about now, too," he said.
"Only, don't tell anyone yet, alright? Everything is so much more fun if it's kept a secret."
Moe nodded again. Smiling, Monica leaned against Moe and let him rock her to sleep. As he was humming a little lullaby, he watched the sun lower itself behind the hills, until the land was covered in darkness.
Chapter Seven
The Dragon’s Lair
Mondays, in Poppy's opinion, should be shot. They should be dragged out of the weekly line up and replaced with something like Funday or Happyday. Mondays were gloomy and hated; the dreaded to life, to living. Poppy had always hated Mondays. They announced the beginning of another five days of working for Daphne McGowan at Spandoosh; in Poppy's opinion, this was her own personal hell. She knew that, in the end, she should just get a new job, that working for Spandoosh was not healthy for her mentally, physically or spiritually. She just couldn't walk away from the art, though. The art was what she looked forward to, what surrounded her day after day. The art kept her coming back; one piece in particular. It was a statue, carved out of soapstone, black and grey and green. She could see the grains of stone and sand in its smooth surface. The stone was shaped into the form of a woman; she stood alone on a rocky cliff, her feet bare. She reminded Poppy that, though we are surrounded by others, ultimately we are alone.
Poppy let herself into Spandoosh ten minutes before 9am. She would be working till 5 today and wasn't looking forward to it. Closing the thin glass door behind her, Poppy locked it again until opening time, and looked around her. McGowan sat behind the desk in the back office, as if it were the Dragon's Lair. When Daphne heard the door close and lock, her head snapped up quickly and her eyes thinned and focused on Poppy.
"Oh," she said. "Decided to show up early today, did you?" There was ice dripping from her words.
"Yes," Poppy said. "I thought I'd take the time to straighten out the paintings before we opened."
"You should have done that on Saturday before you left. It's part of your job."
"I did straighten on Saturday before I closed."
Daphne looked around the gallery. She stood and walked into the main room, her gaze judgmental. "Everything looks horrible. Fix it. You have five minutes." She walked back to the back office, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.