Living Ghosts

Seeing is believing in this mysterious short story by Kitty-Lydia Dye.

Spirits would appear to anyone, if they wanted it badly enough . . .

WHEN others asked me whether I truly did see ghosts, I merely smiled. In my line of work, it was better to make them wonder.

The truth was I couldn’t be certain myself.

At Briarwood Manor, a breath of wind might blow across the back of my neck and my hair would go as taut as an arching cat.

The shadows thickened and darkness would wrap its fingers around candle flames.

The pounding of my heart steadily climbed to settle in my throat, then shivers fluttered over my shoulder, anticipating the touch of another’s hand.

Soon I wouldn’t have to worry and could flit into the night. The thought made my throat tighten.

I went on tiptoe, running my cloth along the books and trinkets on the library shelves.

The candles I had lit flickered, like the flash of a cat’s eye slowly waking.

I paused by the edge of the rug, turning aside the bulging corner with my shoe. A coin had been placed beneath.

I picked up the sovereign. I’d been warned of this trick: the coin would most certainly be missed by the housekeeper.

If it was left alone, I would lose my position for not cleaning properly.

If it vanished, I would be charged with stealing. “Good evening, Tessa.” My slight shudder wasn’t from the cold. Heat fanned my cheeks.

There was another reason for my heightened senses and it wasn’t always ghosts.

I looked to the window, where the figure of a man stood. One of the young masters.

Sunset’s brittle fingers cradled wisps of his dark, curling hair and half of his face.

A single green eye caught the light like glass, his full lips stretched into a grin.

Thomas came and went as a trail of smoke did. I had yet to work out whether he did it on purpose.

I swore I caught him laughing the first time he made me jump in fright.

I righted myself, but made no other move of acknowledgement.

It was a game we played, which I had lost too many times.

Maids weren’t meant to speak, or even be noticed. We were hired as living ghosts.

I knew how impossible this was. Tessa did not exist. No-one must discover who I really was.

Thomas almost fell back as I rounded on him and thrust out the coin.

“I found this beneath the carpet, sir. Here, have it back.”

Brazenly, I took his hand and pulled open his fingers. He was warm, the flesh notched and slightly tanned.

Doors slammed downstairs and a table scraped. Thomas’s smile vanished as I broke free.

“Finally,” he murmured. “We might be able to clear things up now.”

The medium had arrived. Thomas strode down to the drawing-room. I followed behind, bearing a candle.

Paintings lined the walls of the corridors, the master’s family regal and narrow-eyed.

Light passed over the glistening oils, cracked from age.

I glanced a second time at one fan-bearing lady, thinking she had smirked at me.

As we approached, I heard raised voices.

Thomas sighed despairingly, rubbing between his furrowed eyebrows.

Within the room, most of the furniture had been pulled aside, leaving only a round table and chairs.

Candles flickered in various states, obscuring the woman sitting there, making her face writhe.

Wax spilled down the holders like bark peeling from pale trees.

Harold and Benjamin, the eldest, and twins, had been the cause of all the banging. One of the chairs lay between them.

“Clumsy oaf,” Harold snapped, patting furiously at his jacket where some melted wax had caught him.

“Do you want to frighten the spirits away?”

“You’re a belligerent fool. As if some ghoul is going to come floating over our heads!”

“I’d rather think Mama is at peace.” This was James, who was already sitting and quickly emptying the brandy

decanter. “Rather than rattling at the windows, desperate to be let in.”

“How about we all calm down?” Thomas suggested, righting the chair. “Mother would hate to see us arguing, especially if she is visiting tonight.

“You are certain she is here, Madame Granville?”

The medium arose, her face no longer distorted. I wavered in the doorway. Madame Granville bulged in robes of speckled silver and black.

Her face was powdered, her white streaked hair was wrenched into a bun and her eyebrows plucked to make her widow’s peak more pronounced.

At the centre of her throat was a dark red jewel, which I knew was made of paste.

“I am hopeful, my child,” she told him in a scraping, papery wheeze.

She glanced at me, her eyes narrowed in disapproving creases.

“It is better this one does not remain. Only those who knew the deceased can be here.”

I should have stayed away; the ghost wasn’t due to come out yet.

I left, hurrying to my room where the veil and ectoplasm had been hidden, waiting for the arrival of Madame Granville, or as I knew her, my aunt Mrs Spinks.

None of the other maids were here. They were hiding in the kitchens, while Cook probably told them not to be so superstitious.

I was going to miss them. I always did, but I’d be working in another household by next week.

Quickly, I changed. I pulled the white robe over myself, the skirt so long it hid my scuffed shoes.

The wispy veil flared around my head, making it seem as if I had no eyes.

Celebrities such as Mr Conan Doyle were greatly involved in the spiritualism movement. Those who wanted to emulate him sought out mediums.

My aunt was always willing to tell people what they wanted to hear. For a small fee, of course.

Vagueness and lucky guesses were becoming more difficult to pass off as a message from the dead.

People wanted more than knowing their loved ones were at peace.

They wanted moving glasses, floating tables and a ghostly apparition.

I used a small pot of rouge to redden my lips. Another pot’s contents glistened and began to ooze as I unscrewed it.

I dipped rags into the mixture, wrapping them around my hands. The pungent odour of soap mixed with rotting egg whites seemed to burrow in my mouth and choke me.

I was the eldest of five sisters. Our father ran out on us after Mother died in childbirth, abandoning us to his debts.

The only person I could turn to was my aunt. Playing at ghosts meant I could keep the roof over our heads and our plates full.

My aunt sent me to work in big houses she thought worthwhile targets.

Maids were always leaving their posts due to indiscretions. I was her little bird, whispering the family’s secrets.

I passed through the house unseen, and crept back into the drawingroom.

They had their heads bowed, hands held in a circle, while Mrs Spinks loudly beckoned for spirits to approach.

More specifically, Mrs Adelaide.

Mrs Adelaide passed away last year, before I took this post.

All I had to go on was what Thomas had told me, when he was willing, and her portrait in the library.

She had seemed a kind woman. She reminded me of my own mother.

Mrs Adelaide was also far older than me. Aunt had an answer for the discrepancy.

“She is here! Your mother has pulled away the shackles of her mortal body and returns as the beautiful young woman she once was.

“Do not fear. So long as the circle remains unbroken, all will be well.”

A snuffer was tucked in my hand. I snuffed the candles I passed, making it seem as if the flames were stolen in my grip.

The whites of the brothers’ eyes shone as they watched in shock.

How could they not know? Their own need to believe tricked them.

Slowly, I unravelled the rags, letting them hang. Drops of the fake ectoplasm hit the floor, turning luminescent.

The cloth splattered on the table, writhing as I pulled it back.

Harold whimpered, cringing, while Benjamin made a soft sound of disgust.

I dared not look at Thomas.

I came behind Mrs Spinks, resting my hands upon her shoulders. More of the ectoplasm dribbled down her robes.

She tilted her head, eyes rolling up as she puffed her chest.

“Ask your questions,” my aunt commanded, and no longer did she whisper but boom furiously. “This woman shall be the vessel for my voice!”

It was Thomas who leaned forward and spoke first.

“We need to know where you put the pocket watch, Mother, and all the other things you hid to stop Father pawning them.

“Harold is due to marry soon and needs proof he can support his wife.”

“Are we certain James hasn’t already bet the lot on the horses?” Benjamin sniped.

“Do not argue, my children,” Mrs Spinks interrupted.

“My memories are misted. I will bring my answer soon. Shut your eyes and pray for my return.”

I slipped out in the darkness, hurrying through the corridors as I hitched my gown and pulled away my veil.

The ghost would not be returning.

My aunt would make up a story, answer a few more questions, then her fee would be paid and she would leave.

It was never enough for her. If any valuables went missing from the houses we visited, it could always be blamed on spirits.

My few months working here meant I knew where the silver and gold were kept.

My aunt would stall long

The whites of the brothers’ eyes shone as they watched in shock

enough for me to ferry them away.

I paused as I passed one of the windows, not quite recognising my reflection.

Entangled in my disguise, only some of my face could be seen. Behind a gossamer cloud the full moon pulsed.

I had to forget Thomas. My sisters needed me.

A twisting sensation, like a key sharply turning, formed in my chest.

It hadn’t felt so wrong at the start, when all Aunt and I did was offer sympathy and sweet words for the bereaved.

I knew the truth now. All along we’d been frauds.

No matter how many séances I assisted, not once did I see my mother. It was impossible for me to believe in ghosts.

Outside in the gardens stood a tree, a lush cape of leaves engulfing the spindly arms.

Shadows rippled amongst the forming purple berries, tiny sparrows snatching the glistening orbs and darting back into hiding.

Spiderwebs, bright with moonlight, shuddered.

As I sighed, my breath misted across the glass. I wiped at it, but a pocket of fog stained the area just over my shoulder.

I rubbed harder, tiny lumps of raised flesh crawling up my arm.

It was summer; I shouldn’t feel so cold.

The shrill chitter of

the birds warned of something.

As they faded, it was replaced by my ragged breathing – and another person’s footsteps.

Quick, furious taps of a woman’s heels approached.

I tensed, certain I felt a crinoline skirt brush against my hand.

Were a pair of eyes looking back at me in the window? They no longer seemed alive.

The footsteps receded. I looked back and all I saw were pinprick dust motes floating.

Stories about ghosts always spoke of their past torments and turning that pain on others.

The smile on Mrs Adelaide’s portrait made me think otherwise.

If ghosts did roam, was it not because they had something that needed to be said?

Perhaps my penance would be righting whatever wrong Mrs Adelaide felt.

I followed the sound. She took me to the small stairway only the servants used.

My descent was halting and careful. The toes of my shoe teetered over the edge, the step only half the size of my foot.

In the shadows the stairway became endless.

My only sense of balance was my steadying hand on the wall, which seemed to be closing in.

The footsteps stopped. Then came an impatient tap.

“I cannot,” I whispered. I didn’t dare take another step. Even with a light these stairs could be treacherous. A misstep and the drop would be fatal.

My teeth gritted together. One London household invited Aunt to do a séance after one of their maids tripped and broke her neck on stairs such as this one.

The ghost’s footsteps started to move away.

“No, don’t leave me!”

I had once skulked in charnel houses to scare my clients. Was a simple stairway going to unnerve me?

Still clinging to the wall, I risked edging my foot out.

Empty air met me, until my heel knocked against the step.

Hesitatingly, I reached the next one. I was getting closer to escape.

The door stood open slightly, a sliver of light coming in. Now I was in the servants’ quarters.

Another door opened to an empty room no-one slept in.

It was small and barren, and the bed draped in a dust sheet slightly twisted and misshaped.

Rattling noises came from beneath. Dust billowed as I lifted the sheet and pried at the floorboards.

One came free.

My hand dived into the cubby. I scooped out necklaces, rings and coin purses until my lap heaved with treasures.

Mrs Adelaide had been quite the magpie.

I could take all of this now. I could leave my aunt behind and start a new life with my sisters.

I paused as I was about to crawl out from under the bed. The pocket watch dangled from my fingers, swinging gently.

From behind me a floorboard creaked.

Even though I was alone, I felt watched. Just the same as when Mother judged me for doing something dishonest.

In that moment I had a choice. I could cling to what I was or start anew.

For once, I was going to do what was right.

****

The ghost returned to the séance. Mrs Spinks paused mid-chant at the sudden presence looming behind, her knee still raised to tilt the table.

She peered up, mouth pursed and dark eyes darting. But she could not break from character.

“Welcome, spirit. What do you have left to say before you depart?”

I went around the table. My skirt was held close to me, barely keeping hold of what I carried.

Thomas craned his neck to watch. My freezing cold hand pressed against his cheek and he let out a choked cry, shuddering.

James shifted his chair away hurriedly.

Mrs Adelaide’s hoard spilled over the table. My aunt gasped in disbelief.

Furiously, she drew back her painted lips in a soundless snarl.

Harold broke the circle, picking up a necklace.

“My Sarah must wear this on our wedding day. Oh, thank you, Mama!”

James had been about to slide towards him the coin purses when Thomas gripped his arm.

“Thank you, spirit,” Thomas said, looking to me with his eyebrow lifted curiously.

“I never thought I’d see my grandfather’s pocket watch again. Rest now.”

All Mrs Spinks could do was dismiss me, breaking one of her smoke bombs beneath the table.

Before they could discover me, I vanished in the smoke.

I undressed in my room scrubbing the ectoplasm from my arms and face in the water bowl.

My roommate arrived afterwards, whispering she had seen a ghost at the bottom of the stairs.

I sat with her until I managed to convince her it was only a shadow.

****

My aunt did not betray my secret. If she had done so, then she would have revealed her own deception.

She left with her fee and a healthy tip from an overjoyed Harold. I knew how angry she would be at missing out on Mrs Adelaide’s hoard.

She would also have to get another girl to be her ghost. I would remain here as a maid.

The work was long and boring, but at least it was honest. I could not distort my entire life with lies.

A few days later, I was cleaning in the library.

“Morning, Tessa,”

Thomas said.

I kept dusting.

“Are you going to keep ignoring me?”

Turning to face him, I plucked at the end of my sleeve. It seemed easier to speak with ghosts rather than the living.

“Have you and your brothers settled your differences?” I asked.

“Some of it. The wedding will be going ahead soon.”

“Good. Family need to stick together.”

“I actually wanted to thank you,” he went on. “What? Why?”

“Did you see the ghost Madam Granville summoned?”

“Ghosts do not exist,” I told him and made to go back to my work.

The library doorknob rattled, revolving in place. An open book ruffled its pages wildly. Footsteps were coming, pounding furiously.

I gasped, not knowing what might happen. Thomas lunged, his arms protectively embracing me.

The window burst open, something grazed my forehead and I shut my eyes.

It was a gentle sensation, like the brush of a person’s fingers. For some reason, gratitude flooded my chest.

Winds rushed not inside but out. Birds in the trees scattered, flying into the horizon. It felt as if more than just the wind had left.

Thomas still held me. I knew I should push free, but my body would not obey.

The emerging day shone into the room, haloing a glow about our faces.

Thomas peered at me, concerned, and his hand came to rest on my cheek. “Are you well?”

I nodded and he grinned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you directly in the light, Tessa. You’ve always kept to the shadows.”

The warmth of his touch burned through my face. Seeing his eyes up close and reading the kindness in them made me believe.

For ghosts, real or imagined, it was better to reveal all. Thank you, Mrs Adelaide.

“Thomas,” I began. Hopefully he would still want to kiss me.

“My real name is not Tessa, but Virtue.”

The End.