The Haunting of Alexandra Blackwood

The moment I died, I knew something was wrong. It wasn't the fact of dying itself—though choking on a piece of brie at my own book launch party was hardly the exit I had imagined for Alexandra Blackwood, bestselling mystery author.

No, it was the sudden eerie silence that engulfed Oakwood Manor, my beloved Victorian monstrosity of a home.

Hovering near the ornate crystal chandelier in the grand foyer, I gazed down at my lifeless body sprawled rather gracelessly across the antique Persian rug. I felt an odd weightlessness, like I had been freed from gravity's hold entirely.

The room seemed different—colors were muted, yet I could perceive subtle hues I’d never noticed before. The sounds around me were distorted, muffled, as though I were submerged underwater, making the murmurs of my shocked guests seem distant and unreal. 

"Well," I muttered, my voice echoing strangely in my new spectral form. "This is certainly an unexpected plot twist."

It didn’t take long for my dear relatives to descend upon the manor like vultures circling a fresh kill, eager to claim their spoils. Cousin Edna seized my prized doll collection as soon as she arrived.

She paraded through the sitting room, cradling one of the dolls as if it were a cherished child, while muttering about how perfectly it would complement her own collection back home.

Uncle Boris, the family’s notorious failed magician—far more skilled at making martinis disappear than performing any real magic—laid claim to my beloved collection of antique clocks.

He wandered through the halls with a glazed expression, seemingly waiting for one of the ticking relics to reveal a secret trick that might resurrect his long-forgotten career. 

But the manor—my beloved Oakwood Manor—went to Zoe, my bright-eyed niece and an aspiring writer.

Zoe reminded me of myself at her age—sharp-witted, curious, and with an untapped potential for storytelling. When I learned she was moving into the manor, I felt something close to relief. At least I wouldn’t be alone in death. I wondered how would she react to her ghostly housemate?

I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

***

Zoe’s first night in Oakwood Manor was predictably chaotic. Boxes piled high in the grand foyer, her mutterings echoing through the halls as she unpacked. She’d set herself up in my study, arranging her laptop and notebooks on the old mahogany desk.

The soft glow from the Tiffany lamp bathed the room in warm amber light, casting long, dancing shadows along the rows of leather-bound books.

“Okay, Aunt Alex,” she said to herself, her voice a tad uncertain, “inspire me. I’ve got to have a bestseller in me somewhere.”

I couldn’t resist. “Try the liquor cabinet. That’s where I got most of my ideas,” I quipped, out of sheer habit, forgetting she couldn’t hear me.

To my shock, Zoe froze. Her eyes widened, darting around the room as if she sensed something. Then, they landed on the exact spot where I hovered.

“Aunt Alex?” she gasped, stumbling back and nearly knocking over a stack of books. “But… you’re… you’re…”

“Dead?” I supplied with a smirk. “Expired, pushing up daisies, posthumously challenged? Take your pick.”

Zoe blinked, her face a delightful mix of terror and disbelief. “This can’t be real,” she muttered, pacing. “Maybe it’s the gas station sushi from earlier…”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound reverberating eerily. “Oh, darling, if you’re going to hallucinate, at least imagine me in something more flattering than this cardigan. Now, be a dear and pour us both a drink. You look like you need it.”

Her eyes darted around, still unsure, but curiosity got the better of her. With shaky hands, Zoe poured two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and I drifted down to sit—well, mostly through—my favorite armchair.

“So,” I said, my voice carrying a strange echo through the study, “I suppose you have questions.”

Zoe swallowed, her voice trembling but determined. “I have a million questions right now. How did this happen? Why did it happen? And, please, for the love of all things holy, tell me you're not the Poltergeist kind of ghost, because I am not ready for that level of drama.”

I chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, darling. I’m more of the Casper variety. The friendly ghost, just with better hair. As for the how and why... well, that’s where things get murky.”

Zoe leaned forward, her expression shifting from fear to curiosity. She perched on the edge of my old desk, her fingers tracing the grooves in the wood. “Aunt Alex, the police said you died from ingesting peanut oil. But that doesn’t add up—you were always neurotic about avoiding peanuts. Like, wouldn't-touch-anything-remotely-peanut-level careful.”

A chill ran through me—not that I was capable of feeling temperature anymore, but the thought was enough to unsettle my very essence. “Peanut oil? That can’t be right... I distinctly remember choking on a piece of brie. The overly fancy kind, mind you.”

Zoe’s brow furrowed as she shook her head. “Not according to the autopsy. They said it was anaphylactic shock, not a brie-induced disaster. And... well, I can’t help but wonder if someone... you know, did it on purpose?”

I floated back slightly, letting the gravity of her words settle. “You think someone... murdered me? Oh, how deliciously ironic, considering I spent my life writing about murders.”

Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, come on, Aunt Alex. You’re...were... a bestselling author with a cutthroat rivalry in the world of mystery writers. You had more enemies than most villains in your books. And none of this adds up. What if someone wanted you dead?”

"Quite right," I said, a grin spreading across my ghostly face. "Time to unravel this twisted plot."

"I can't believe we're really doing this," Zoe said, shaking her head in disbelief. "My aunt, the famous mystery writer, and me - solving a real murder case together."

I chuckled, floating a bit closer to her. "Life does have a way of imitating art, doesn't it? Though I must say, being the victim is a new experience for me."

***

Zoe tilted her head slightly, deep in thought. "Aunt Alex, tell me about the book launch party. Where did you get the brie cheese?"

I paused, thinking back to that fateful night. "Ah, yes. The cheese. I ordered it from that quaint little cheese shop in town - you know, the one with the red awning? They always supplied the most exquisite selections for my events."

"And where was it placed during the party?" Zoe pressed, her eyes sharp with focus.

I gestured towards the foyer. "Come, I'll show you." We moved to the grand entrance of the manor, and I pointed to an elegant side table. "The food was laid out here, including that deadly brie. It was quite the spread - I spared no expense for my guests."

Zoe nodded, taking mental notes. "Speaking of guests, who was here that night? Did you invite anyone who might have... well, wanted to harm you?"

I let out a rueful laugh. "Oh, Zoe, you'd be surprised. The literary scene can be as cutthroat as any of my murder mysteries. Success breeds admiration, yes, but it also cultivates resentment. And I'm afraid I had my fair share of both."

"But if these people were your rivals, why invite them to your book launch?"

I sighed, a hint of my old mischievousness gleaming in my spectral eyes. "Ah, well, that's part of the game, my dear. In our world, you keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Inviting them was part professional courtesy, part strategy. It's always wise to know what your competition is up to. Plus," I added with a ghostly wink, "there's nothing quite like celebrating your success in front of those who doubted you."

"That seems... risky," Zoe said, shaking her head.

"Perhaps," I conceded. "But it made for livelier parties. And truthfully, I never imagined one of them would go so far as to... well, you know." I gestured vaguely at my translucent form.

Zoe nodded slowly, processing this information. "I see. So, give me names, Aunt Alex. Who exactly are we talking about?" 

I sighed, floating in a small circle as I recounted the guest list. "Well, there was Victor Mansfield, that pompous literary critic. His reviews nearly derailed my early career, you know. Then Juliet Pierce - we used to be friends, but her envy grew as my success overshadowed hers. And of course, Cordelia Wyndham was there."

"Cordelia?" Zoe raised an eyebrow.

"My fiercest rival," I explained. "Always a step behind me in both popularity and success. She has quite the temper, particularly when it comes to losing."

Zoe's eyes widened. "So all of these people were here, with access to the food?"

I nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Any one of them could have tampered with the cheese. It seems we have our list of suspects."

Zoe sat down on the stairs, her mind clearly racing. "We need to investigate each of them thoroughly. There has to be more to this story."

***

In the weeks that followed, Zoe immersed herself in the investigation, alternating between her laptop and my old letters. She spent hours at the desk, her eyes flicking between the glowing screen and the scattered pages of my notes, literary reviews, and scribbled thoughts.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she researched online, then paused to jot down connections in her notepad. Every so often, she flipped through a worn letter or highlighted a key passage, the sound of the pen scratching paper the only noise in the otherwise silent room. 

Occasionally, she would bite her lip, tapping the pen against the desk as she sifted through each clue with sharp, deliberate movements. I hovered nearby, watching as she pieced together fragments of old rivalries, betrayals, and grudges.

The investigation took us through a labyrinth of literary connections. Zoe meticulously reconstructed my social calendar for the months leading up to my death, cross-referencing it with publishing events and book signings.

She discovered that Victor Mansfield had attended three of my readings in the week before the launch party, which was unusual for him.

What raised even more suspicion was a review Victor published just a day after my death. Zoe found it in a local newspaper, and its tone was chilling. Rather than expressing shock or sadness at my sudden passing, Victor seemed to revel in it.

He wrote, "Alexandra Blackwood's final chapter has been written, and oh, what a deliciously ironic ending it is. Her death at her own book launch party is a plot twist worthy of her mysteries, though perhaps a bit too on-the-nose. One might say her success finally proved fatal." The thinly veiled glee in his words was unmistakable, making us wonder if he had known more about my demise than he should have.

Juliet Pierce's involvement took an interesting turn when Zoe stumbled upon a food blog Juliet had started. In recent posts, Juliet had been experimenting with various recipes involving nut oils, particularly peanut oil. One post, dated just days before my book launch, detailed a "delicious brie recipe with a secret ingredient."

Zoe's suspicions deepened when she noticed that Juliet had been asking questions in online writing forums about incorporating food allergies into mystery plots. In one thread, she had specifically asked about the plausibility of using peanut oil to trigger a fatal allergic reaction.

But it was Cordelia Wyndham who captured most of our attention. Zoe discovered a series of letters in my desk—letters I had forgotten about. Cordelia had sent them in the weeks leading up to my death. In them, she raged about my latest book outselling hers, about the endless comparisons between us.

I remembered receiving Cordelia's letters—three of them, to be exact. They were filled with the usual vitriol, her words dripping with jealousy and frustration, but I had simply stuffed them into the back of my desk drawer.

At the time, I brushed them off as just another one of Cordelia's tantrums. She'd had plenty of those over the years.

It never occurred to me that one of them might do more than vent on paper or write a scathing review. What can I say? I've always had a soft spot for the dramatic types. But it seemed that in my final chapter, that dramatic flair had turned deadly.

***

Zoe's plan was brilliant, I had to admit. She invited our three suspects—Cordelia, Victor, and Juliet—to Oakwood Manor, dangling the promise of gifts from me-an unpublished manuscript, a personal letter, a secret to success.

The night arrived, an our guests filed into the dimly lit library, their expressions ranged from impatient to unsettled.

Cordelia broke the silence first, her voice sharp. "Zoe, darling, what's all this?" She gestured at the candles and round table. "I thought we were here for Alexandra's bequests."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Indeed. This seems rather theatrical."

"I understand your confusion." Zoe smiled.

Juliet, fidgeted with her necklace. "Can't we just collect what Alex left and go?"

"I'm afraid not," Zoe replied, her voice steady. "Aunt Alex's will had an unusual stipulation. Before I can reveal your bequests, I must conduct a séance."

"A séance? Preposterous!" Victor scoffed.

Cordelia's laugh was brittle. "Classic Alexandra, making us jump through hoops even from the grave."

"Is this really necessary?" Juliet asked, her voice small. "It seems... morbid."

Zoe raised her hands, silencing them. "I know it's strange, but it's the only way. Please, take your seats."

Exchanging wary glances, they complied as Zoe dimmed the lights and lit the central candle.

"Join hands," she instructed, her voice low and commanding.

As their hands linked, I felt a surge of pride. My niece was quite the actress. She closed her eyes and began to chant, "Spirit of Alexandra Blackwood, we call to you. Make your presence known."

On cue, I swept through the room, extinguishing several candles. Cordelia gasped, Victor's eyes widened, and Juliet let out a small shriek.

"She's here," Zoe intoned. "Aunt Alex, if you can hear us, give us a sign."

I obliged, rattling the chandelier. Books slid off shelves, thudding to the floor. Victor jumped, his chair scraping back.

"This is absurd," he sputtered.

Zoe's eyes snapped open, but when she spoke, it was my voice that emerged. "Oh, Victor," she said, dripping with my signature sarcasm, "always the skeptic. Tell me, why did you attend so many of my readings before my death? Planning something, were we?"

Victor's face paled. "I... I was researching. For my review."

"A review you seemed all too eager to publish mere hours after my death," Zoe-as-me pressed.

Cordelia scoffed, finding her voice. "Oh, please. If anyone had reason to want you gone, Alexandra, it was me. You were always one step ahead, weren't you?"

I couldn't resist. A gust of cold air swirled around Cordelia, and she shivered violently.

"Careful, Cordelia," Zoe warned in my voice. "Envy is such an ugly emotion. Almost as ugly as murder."

Juliet, who had been silent, suddenly burst out, "It wasn't Cordelia! It was me! I... I put the peanut oil in the cheese. But I swear, I only meant to make Alex sick, not... not kill her!"

The room fell silent. Even I, in my ghostly form, was shocked.

Zoe broke character, her own voice returning. "Juliet, what are you saying?"

But before Juliet could respond, Cordelia let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, you foolish girl. You think you killed Alexandra?" She turned to Zoe, her eyes glittering. "I saw what Juliet did. But I knew it wouldn't be enough. So I added more. Much more."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Cordelia's confession hung in the air. Victor and Juliet stared at her in horror.

I manifested a cold spot next to Cordelia, causing her to shiver uncontrollably. In that moment, I realized that my death had been the result not of one person's actions, but of a twisted combination of jealousy and opportunism.

***

Following Cordelia’s arrest, Zoe threw herself into writing, chronicling our investigation in what would surely become her debut bestseller. I watched over her, offering advice from time to time, and occasionally throwing in a pun or two for good measure.

“You know,” Zoe said one evening as she put the finishing touches on the manuscript, “I think I finally get it, Aunt Alex. It’s not just about telling a story. It’s about finding justice, even if it’s just on the page.”

I smiled, feeling a warmth that I hadn’t felt since my death. “That’s my girl,” I said softly. “Now, what do you say we brainstorm your next novel? I’ve got a few ideas about a charming ghost detective…”

Zoe laughed, and as she reached for her notebook, I knew that while my life had ended, my story was far from over. After all, every good mystery deserves a sequel—even if the detective happens to be slightly transparent.