Alive

CW: Family death, murder

It doesn’t matter what sort of fight it is, my father often repeated. Always bring a gun.

Everything you could want to learn about my father could be answered to the fullest by referring to that phrase. It became something of an adage, one he lived and operated by.

That phrase was the reason I now stood before the gates of this dilapidated house.

The sun beat down on my face as strongly as it could for springtime in England. Taking a deep breath of humid air, I braced both hands against the wrought-iron fence and pushed with the full weight of my body. It resisted at first, coming at no surprise, groaning and complaining for the rust in its hinges. I managed to force it open just enough to allow my body to squeeze through and slipped into the yard.

I approached the looming stone house with caution, reaching for the revolving flintlock in my makeshift pommel holster. I took pride in this gun. I’d shot with it a few times, back before my father’s untimely death. It was the first thing I’d nabbed from his collection once the news was delivered, and while I hoped to never use it on a person, I had full confidence in my aim. So sure, in fact, that I’d come to this house without escort or aide. 

I was equally certain that if word of my exploits reached the ears of fine society, I’d be turned out for my behaviour, but growing up in a house unable to understand the concept of ‘shame’ will do that to a body.

I crept up the stone stairway and tested the heavy doors. Locked. 

My shoulders sank with relief. Hopefully this meant I wouldn’t have to come face-to-face with a trespasser or vagabond, but just to be sure, I kept one hand wrapped around the stock of my gun. I unlocked the knob with the skeleton key I’d brought and admitted myself inside.

My eyes had anticipated adjusting to a gloomy, dark room, but the interior was anything but. 

Immediately, the house’s grandeur struck me in the face. Compared to the exterior finish, one would be forgiven for thinking you’d slipped into a different world altogether, one of bright colors, varnished woods, and decadent outfittings. The enormous bronze chandelier hanging down from the ceiling shined, as if recently polished. A carpeted imperial staircase rose from the center of the room, and I’d be hard-pressed to find a speck of filth in the fibers. Portraits of stern figures appraised me from the walls, sitters from all walks of life, all eyes on this newcomer who dared disturb the quiet. As if they couldn’t decide what to make of me.

I couldn’t decide what to make of this, either. I struggled to consolidate my expectations of a ramshackle country residence, abused and left to rot. Obviously, sometime between the death of its owner and my little escapade, someone had been here. The only hint of imperfection I detected hung in the air; the smell of mildew and must. It set me on edge.

“Hello?” I called. My words rang in the empty house. “Is there anyone at home?”

Only my echoes responded.

I shook my head to clear its wariness. You are here on business. Get to it.

I began my inspection by ducking through the corridor to my left, noting the dimensions and workmanship of the space for any other information I could glean. This was probably unnecessary, as the folded paper tucked into my bodice listed everything one could want to know about the house’s features in detail, and I’d memorized the key points on the hour-long carriage ride over. 

Estate name: Blackthorn Park. Previous owner(s): The late Earl of Carmichael. Date constructed: July 19th, 1800. 120 acres of land, spanning orchards, vineyards, and parks. No tenants, no current staff. The house served as a main residence for ten years, but for poorly-documented reasons had since been abandoned. Won from aforementioned Lord Carmichael in a game of cards between himself and the late Baron of Saxby. Suspecting his opponent to have cheated, he challenged the Baron to a duel, where he sustained fatal injuries and died without an heir. Saxby suffered a stroke not a week later, leaving all of his properties to his only child.

I tapped my bodice, only half invested in my environment. A distant portion of my mind worked feverishly to explain what was wrong with this building, why it caused my palms to sweat. 

The floor creaked behind me. I whirled on my heels and pulled out my pistol.

Nothing. Just the space I’d previously occupied, whispering with the motes of dust that danced in my wake. 

I sighed and dropped my hand, but didn’t holster the pistol. My chest rose in uneven pants, but I made myself take deep breaths until my pulse stopped hammering in my ears. I reminded myself that even if a trespasser did show his face, I could easily deal with him. The reassurance rang hollower than before.

A draft blew through the room, tugging at the end of my skirts. The skin on the nape of my neck tightened into horripilation. I thought I’d closed the main doors. 

“What are you doing?” A voice asked testily from behind.

I gasped and cocked the hammer. “Who’s there?”

“Relax,” the figure rose from a velvet upholstered chair. He lifted his hands in a placating motion. “I intend no ill will.”

“State your name and purpose on this property,” I demanded, my hands shaking. “You are on privately owned land.”

The figure appeared to lift a brow, but it was hard to tell, as his body was semi-translucent, a fact that I’d overlooked in the sudden scare. As this registered, I almost dropped the firearm in my hurry to back away. He stepped closer, and I yelped in fear as his hand grabbed mine.

“See?” His fingers passed through my wrist like smoke. “I can’t hurt you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, back pressed against my escape route. Everything screamed for me to run, but my legs had morphed into lead and I couldn’t think straight. A chill scurried through my veins as the air in front of my face grew cold, and in my mind’s eye, the figure stood only inches away. 

“Don’t act like that,” he sighed, his every word laced with melancholy. “It’s so awfully dull. Come, open your eyes.”

Hesitantly, I did as he said, half-expecting to see a knife in his hands– but of course, he’d just demonstrated the impossibility of that, so I straightened my spine and tried to conceal how my frame shivered with fear. His face manifested more sharply than the rest of him, which gave me something to focus on, even if I could only guess at some of his features. His eyes were likely green at one point, and his hair parted at the side. It curled and looped over his forehead like he’d only just woken up.

“There,” he said. “Alright. I’m not so frightening, am I?”

“Yes, you are,” I challenged. 

He pursed his lips. “Well, I apologize for the manner of my introduction, but there isn’t exactly a better way to reveal myself to those still living.”

“Those still livi– are you a spirit?” 

“I think so,” he shrugged. His body looked more corporeal the longer I stared at him. “No one’s told me differently.”

I motioned for him to give me some space, which he obliged. “Right. Of course you’re a spirit. Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I come downstairs to find my front doors wide open, and a young lady tracking the mud across my floors without any realization that her boots are soiled. Her dress is stained, her hair unkempt, and most worrying of all, she is entirely alone. I felt it my duty to ensure your safety.”

My cheeks heated. I glanced over my shoulder, and sure enough, I’d left an obscured trail of prints behind me. “Sorry.”

His lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. “Don’t be. Although, my curiosity hasn’t yet been satisfied. Who are you?”

I drew myself up. “My name is Juniper Gateshead of Saxby. I came here with the intention of surveying Blackthorn’s damages to prepare for my moving in, but it seems the estate has been cared for in the Earl’s absence.”

“Moving in? Who gave you the right?”

“Lord Carmichael, when he made the bull-headed decision to challenge my father to a duel,” I brushed past him, holstering my revolver. “It was meant to be our family’s second residence, but through a series of events, has landed solely in my care. Now. Why are you here?”

“I am– was– Charles Carmichael, son of the apparently late Earl,” the man swallowed. “I’m saddened to hear of his passing.”

I blinked, glad to be facing away so Charles wouldn’t see the way my face twitched in my effort to maintain nonchalance. “You were… close with your father?”

He forced out a laugh. “The opposite. I had simply hoped there was someone in the outside world who still remembered me. With his death, I am completely forgotten.”

“Oh,” was about all I managed. We grew quiet, and I changed the topic before he could ask me anything more. “If it isn’t indelicate of me to ask, how did you die?”

Charles came to my side. “The official report says I died of typhoid fever. I’d always been a sickly child, and people expected it as a matter of time before something got the best of me.”

“The official report?” 

“Yes,” he glowered. “The actual cause of death was poisoning.”

I turned to face him. “Accidental?”

“Deliberate. Unless my memories are faulty, the Earl spooned the mixture into my mouth himself, when no one was supervising.”

My stomach dropped, and my voice wavered. “The villain. His own son?”

“His third son,” the spirit scoffed. “My two brothers stood to inherit, and what use was there in keeping the spare alive? It was no secret that my mother spent a fortune on medical care, and he’d threatened to do something about it if she didn’t dismiss my doctors. My father was many things, insane being one of them, but he was no bluffer.”

“Nor mine,” I cast my eyes down. I don’t feel so conflicted about the duel’s outcome, at least. 

“My mother made plans to move immediately, but Lord Carmichael had to carry them out in her stead. She and my brothers died in a carriage collision only a month after my funeral.”

“I’m very sorry.” 

He exhaled softly. “Thank you.”

We stood together for a minute, watching the light filter through the parlor’s windows. It might have been imagination, but he seemed less tense than before. 

After the sun had sunk visibly lower in the sky, Charles asked, “What about your father?”

I smoothed the creases in my skirt. “Also dead. He had a stroke the week after the duel, and I wasn’t altogether heartbroken over it.”

Maybe the spirit’s silence wasn’t meant to be taken a certain way, but to me, it seemed like an invitation to continue. 

“We were never close. The only time we ever spent together was the daily cleaning of his firearms collection. He was obsessed with guns, you see. Every evening he would sit at his favorite chair, meticulously clean his prized possessions, and teach me about the world through his eyes. With no mother to shoo me to bed, or wife to keep him otherwise occupied, he subjected me to his unsolicited advice and opinions until my early teenage years. Until he realized his prolific luck, that is, and decided gambling was the life for him. 

“In those years, I saw less of the man. Whist and quadrille left him too busy to wax philosophical about mercy, honor, or Those Damned Whigs, and the estate became something of my own responsibility to manage. He refused to hire any more servants than absolutely necessary, so once I learned the ropes, I assumed the role of honorary housekeeper. The place still fell to pieces around us, try as I might– For being a baron, you think he would care more about appearances, but I suppose he was too wrapped up in his own life to pay attention to mine,” I pursed my lips. 

Charles’s eyes tracked a swallow’s flight outside the window, then lowered to meet mine. “I’m sorry.”

I leaned my forehead against the glass. “We managed. At least he wasn’t entirely good for nothing. He taught me how to shoot this, after all,” I gestured vaguely towards my hip. “I– I could never understand his love of weapons as a child. All I knew was that my father sometimes had to fight other men over money or accusations, and it was a real possibility that each time he left, I’d never see him again. One time I asked him why he went away so often, and his response was, ‘Some men can’t learn how to accept a loss.’ I then asked if he’d ever lose a fight. Word-for-word, he answered, ‘I could never lose to a coward.’”

Charles rested his hand over mine. I felt nothing on my skin save for the weight of a sudden coolness, but I glanced up gratefully. 

He said, “Our fathers were both cowards. Perhaps the world is better off without them.”

I nodded slowly. “Maybe the world could learn something from them. Like how pride is blinding, or that losing isn’t a fault.”

“Or that mercy is divine.”

“Or that forgiveness is possible,” I bit my lip. “Do you think… You could ever forgive your father, after how he wronged you?”

He furrowed his brow in thought. “I’m not sure. Could you? Is it possible to forgive and resent, all at once?”

“It’s possible. Few emotions are one-note. It’s commonplace for two opposing sensations to coexist, right?”

“Love and distrust.”

“Joy and grief.”

“If that’s the case, maybe I could, one day,” Charles rubbed his chin and smiled sheepishly. “Maybe that’s why I’ve yet to see heaven. I’m still too strongly attached to this plane.”

“Does that bother you?”

He shrugged again. “Not as much as it should, actually. I’ve grown fond of this house in my years of posthumous stewardship, and with new life coming in, I’m not so eager to leave. Perhaps it would be in my best interest to forgive and move on, but for the first time in a decade, I feel alright with where I am now.”

I smiled at the levity in his tone. “Me, too. You know, if it interests you, I could use some company while I fix this place up. No one knows the ins and outs of Blackthorn as well as you do, I’d wager.”

“Why?” He tilted his head, annoyed. “Does the interior need fixing? The only thing I’ve done for the last ten years is cleaning.”

“The inside is lovely. The rest isn’t,” I countered teasingly. “Besides, I’ve never lived with a ghost before. It sounds dreadfully exciting. There aren’t any other surprise guests, right? No poltergeists in the cellar?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m insulted you’d think so.”

“I see. Just keep in mind that if a banshee crosses my path and you don’t warn me, I might put a hole in one of your paintings.”

“Trust me, Miss Gateshead,” he smiled with a row of perfectly defined teeth and offered the crook of his arm. “Well, if you must survey the rest of the property, allow me to accompany you. My services may prove to be useful.”

I lifted my hand onto his shoulder to accept the gesture, even if I didn’t expect anything there to support it. 

It came as a great surprise, then, when I touched a solid body of flesh and bone. 

My eyes widened. “How is that possible?”

Charles’s shocked face mirrored mine. “I have no idea. I only offered out of lingering habit. I– I couldn’t tell that anything was different.”

  “How odd!” I examined his figure, now animate as any other. He flushed pink under my scrutiny. “At first, you bore more resemblance to a reflection than to a human. What could have changed? Do you feel different?”

He paused for a breath, introspective. Then, he looked directly into my eyes, wearing an expression that said more than words ever could. 

It said, I feel more than I have in the last decade combined. I feel the hatred, the longing, the forgiveness, the contentedness, the warmth, like I never dreamed I would again. I feel at peace with myself even as I’m conflicted, like I never did while living. 

I knew wholeheartedly I felt that way, too.

When he did open his mouth, he found the three words to sum it all up. “I feel alive.”