The Young Ghost of Montgomery Manor

My name is Ellie Greer. I died in 1927 of the Spanish Flu. I was only eight years old. I lived with my uncle, William Montgomery, at his manor house, aptly named, Montgomery Manor. He took me in after my parents died and raised me like his own daughter. Uncle William was a rich and successful businessman but also a widower. He lost his own wife and the child she carried shortly after delivering her. Uncle William and I were all each other had until illness left him alone once again.

To my dying breath, I could not stand that thought. So even though I departed my earthly life, I was enabled to continue dwelling in my uncle’s manor. At best, I could watch over him and his house as life went on without me in-person but, for the longest time, this was an even harder task than I realized. The first thing I remember after my last breath was standing across the room from my uncle, who was mourning at my bedside all night after I succumbed to sickness; his face in his hands, muffling his moans as his shoulders shook under his grief. I moved to his side to hold and comfort him but he didn’t respond. I forgot myself; he couldn’t see or feel me but I wanted so much to help him.

I forgot myself the most in the days right after I died. The doleful atmosphere about the manor preoccupied me like crazy but I’d quickly realize I couldn’t do anything about it. In the days following, all I could do is watch house servants quietly go about their tasks along with preparing for my funeral or friends and acquaintances coming to call. All their faces solemn and long as they offered their respects and condolences and felt the holes left by my passing.

Many of which seemed deep, which I started to realize as the somberness continued through the months. Days were never the same without me. Everything seemed brighter before I got sick; the halls, the rooms, all the faces I’d see. Everything was suddenly darker, grayer, stiller. I know for a fact that even the staff were hesitant, if not slow, to continue the upkeep of my room after the fact. I’ve been in there with them without their knowledge and I’d hear them talk about me.

“I remember when she first came to live with us,” One of the senior maids recalled one day, “her eyes were saucers looking on the Manor. She turned to his master and exclaimed, ‘It’s like a castle, Uncle Will!’ How I miss the patter of her feet running down the halls…”

‘It’s Mister Montgomery’s name to the house, but little Ellie certainly ruled the place,” Another maid admitted, recalling various instances of seeing Uncle Will, the butler, and others dote upon me. “She was always so kind and sweet, as if she were Cinderella, which I know she’d love to hear if she could.” Their stories died off as they poured their focus into their work, possibly to distract from their own tears, but I saw glistening eyes and tear streaks on some of their faces, and their consoling touches with one another on the way out that day.

And quite vividly, I’d remember the brighter days myself. One moment, I’d see the maids tending to my room for the first time since I died; the next, I’d see a warm-glowing room at night as I was prepared for bed. They told me fairy tale stories or we’d make up our own sometimes. In my mind, I relived some of those days, like I still saw myself traipsing through the manor like I did when I played, hearing my own laughter as I enjoyed myself or encountering an occasional dodge from almost colliding with a servant. In nearly every part of my uncle’s manor I had these experiences. I’d still see myself sitting in the library with my governess doing schooling or drawing as my uncle tended his business paperwork, or I’d gaze around the great hall awestruck at the great hall’s magnificence at Christmas, even though I knew it was far from the season.

But every once in awhile, I’d collide with reality, unintentionally scaring anyone who might be around. I’d be living a memory of sneaking into the curtains while playing mischievous games of hide-and-seek, but instead of being found, I’d hear gasps or whispers from across the room because all a maid saw was the curtains moving. Or visitors or passersby might hear unusual thuds on the stairs when I was reliving an accident where I fell down them. Again, there wasn’t much I could do about it and it bothered me.

I used to think I was scaring them off until I learned my uncle was negatively affected by the stock market crash and war, which entailed him downsizing the servants, selling belongings, and eventually abandoning the manor altogether. At least, I wouldn’t bother anybody anymore as I lived out my memories, but I still felt utterly alone. And the thrill-seekers and ghost hunters who have managed to intrude in the manor after all these years do not help.

I can’t stand them! They come expecting to be scared like I’m a frightful monster or they want to connect with me or capture me somehow, like I’m something wild and untameable. I’ve heard their conversations about wanting to see demons or shadows, or hear shrieks and cries or feel some odd energy or weight or whatnot. For one thing, I can’t help where or how I relive my memories, so only by luck do their funny machines ever pick up on my presence at all. Even then, I’ve never had such a troubled day in the manor before I got sick so they’re in the wrong place for anything dramatic. Instead, I get the empty, helpless feeling that I’ve had before. I have so much I want to articulate, but I can’t. I want to tell them I’m just an eight-year-old girl who’s only troubled by not knowing what’s happened to her uncle and the others who took care of her. Besides the prodding like I’m a show animal, I can’t stand not knowing. All I have left are this house and drifting memories of them.