Stories Untold

What happens when a ghost, a specter, an undying presence returns home after a century of travel? How different and eerily familiar the old houses must look to her. Autumn leaves crunching under pedestrians heavy boots, scarves and thick coats enveloping the good citizens, hiding them from the cold November wind.

The townspeople walked by the hospital and round the corner, scarcely looking up from their raised collars. The somber building had changed little after all these years. With it’s thick, white walls the hospital looked like a fortress, guarding the sick and the dying. It certainly didn’t protect Melanie.

About a century ago she sat at the window, gently patting blots of coughed up blood from the pages of her favorite book. Regretting nothing more than having seen and experienced so little in her awfully short life. Longing took her breath away, tightness in the chest made it hard to breathe. It burned her alive and threw her into cold sweat. Melanie did not know in the end, if it was the incurable illness or the regret that consumed her. So she became a shade, a spirit taking shape and given voice only once a night, at the witching hour.

Now people were leaving the hospital, as visiting hours were ending. Melanie listened as they passed. They talked about Doctor Jansen. A good enough doctor, but maybe a little too cautious. They talked about Father Antonio, who according to popular opinion should take better care of himself. The late night hospital visits couldn’t be good for him. “Father is not getting younger you know.” - people said.

Melanie liked eavesdropping. It was the curiosity and desire for knowledge that kept her soul from leaving this earth. Now Melanie felt a desire just as strong to share what she had seen with others. With someone who could make use of it, and make thousands of stories lingering in her mind live, gain colour and take shape by passing them along. Melanie doubted no longer whether it was right for her to return, because now she knew who exactly to turn to for help. 

• The Father

Father Antonio would never get used to nights like these. Last rites brought great comfort to those in his care, but always took a toll on him. These solemn duties had whittled away most of the night and Father Antonio had given up on the notion of going to bed. Instead he opted to ease his mind with work.

Sitting down at his table he took a sip from his wineglass and reached for his notebook. Over the years he’d meticulously filled countless notebooks with ideas for sermons, thoughts on church dogma and musings on the divine. Now he fingered through this particular one for inspiration for Sundays mass, feeling like he’d said it all many times before.

‘‘There’s always new ways to reach them…’’ he muttered to himself. Absentmindedly he traced circles around the rim of his wineglass with his left index finger, producing a high tone that appeared to linger in the air.

‘‘Father..’’ a voice suddenly sounded from across the room. It was as if somewhere just out of sight there were dozens more glasses. Glasses that were all being manipulated to produce different notes, to form something akin to a voice made of pure crystalline tones. Father Antonio recoiled in his chair.

‘‘Who’s there?’’ he demanded of the empty room.

‘‘Please, don’t be afraid Father, I came seeking your guidance. My name is Melanie, I grew up in this town.’’ The voice spoke musically, harmoniously, like the slow plucking of a harp. ‘‘I hear the people in town talk, they say you are a just and righteous man. They say you, unlike so many others, practice the kindness that you preach. That you share advice when you have it and compassion and a caring word when you do not. Will you help me Father?’’

Father Antonio was utterly gripped by fear. He no longer had any notion to ask who was there. The voice was ethereal. Its otherworldliness disturbed Father Antonio into his very bones, like a sailor carving scrimshaw.

‘‘I know of nobody named Melanie..’’ - Father Antonio haltingly got up, his panicked eyes darting across the room anxiously.

‘‘This town is older than you are Father, so am I for that matter. You have seen me before, in a way. A headstone you pass by on your morning walks bears my name.’’ There was a lengthy pause then as Melanie gave Father Antonio some time to digest this information.

‘‘You… you’re…’’

‘‘A spirit Father, a specter, a ghost, pick one.’’ Melanie interrupted. She needed this man to listen. ‘‘I believe we can help each other Father. For a century now I’ve traveled the world. I’ve seen beauty and cruelty, hope and despair, the best and the worst of mankind but… I’m in no position to tell my tales, I have no way to reach people. But you, you could spread the good I have seen through your sermons. We could make this tiny corner of the world just a bit better together!’’

Father Antonio backed against the wall and steadied himself with one hand, the other clutching the cross around his neck. ‘‘This is impossible.. souls go to heaven or to hell, they do not stay on our worldly plane.’’ between sentences his lips moved in soundless prayers. ‘‘I know who and what you are! You are an unclean spirit, the devils servant who came to do his bidding. To deliver me into his hands, to make me his voice poisoning the hearts of the very people the Lord entrusted into my care!”- Father’s voice trembled with rage - “To tempt me with flattery to assume the guise of a young girl, whose grave I pass on my daily walk? A soul returned to God too early, defiled by your trickery. A soul I’ve been praying for all these years! How cruel! And this cruelty is what shows your true nature! Begone!” - he cried out.

Melanie watched as her once so dearly held faith was weaponized against her. She said nothing as she turned and left the house. Feeling beaten and bruised, as much as a ghost could, she turned towards the hospital and a hopefully more willing aide.

• The Doctor

The long hospital hallways had seen their fair share of ghosts. None of them had hung around for very long though. Melanie could see why. It was gloomy, even to her. There might not have been ghosts but there certainly was somebody haunting the corridors.

Doctor Jansen roamed the hospital day and night. She’d only been there for four years, straight out of med school but ever since then it had been like she lived there. The thing she disliked about the hospital most were the patients. Not as people, she liked people. For the most part. But the stubbornness of patients was something she had a lot of issue with. Had they just listened to her, half the broken bones, dislocated shoulders and concussions wouldn’t even be there. Where Melanie saw empty halls doctor Jansen saw the crowded rooms.

It was in one of these rooms where Melanie stood waiting. She’d learned from the Father Antonio incident. She had a lot to say yet Melanie quietly stood there in anticipation of the doctor. During the witching hour she could shift her spectral non-mass to become at least partially visible to the mortal eye. She’d start there.

Doctor Jansen passed by the empty room 2.07 in a huff. On her way to yet another reckless case of broken bones that good judgment could have prevented, when from the corner of her eye she saw something. Slowly Doctor Jansen halted and took a few steps back.

Oddly enough when she directly looked at this vaguely girl shaped silhouette, the figure appeared less clear than it had from the corner of her sight. She rubbed her eyes. The ghastly figure was still there. As was the faint glow surrounding it.

Melanie eagerly waited.

Doctor Jansen took a few steps into the dimly lit room and closed the door behind her. ‘‘Look…’’ she sighed wearily ‘‘I don’t have time for a mental breakdown right now, I have patients. I’m going to need you to go away.’’

Melanie was old. She thought she'd heard it all. This one was new though.

‘‘Nervous breakdown, psychosis, whatever this is, it can wait until my shift is over.’’ Doctor Jansen checked her pulse, and waited for Melanie to dissipate.

She did not.

‘‘Fine, if you’re here anyway…’’ the doctor dropped into a chair in the corner of the room. ‘‘You might as well listen.’’

Melanie turned to face her, mouth agape, unsure how the roles got reversed on her.

The doctor suddenly looked exhausted, slouched in the chair. Her eyes seemed impossibly old then, the circles underneath them appearing dark and heavy. Her features showing every bit of the weight she'd been carrying.

“I’m tired, so very tired that I don’t feel it half the time anymore. They, these people come in.. They complain and demand, while there, in the nearest ward Lydia, the nicest, kindest old lady, who actually needs me, would lie quietly and wait. For me, for her grandchildren that never visit, for death. While I’m stuck explaining that you don’t need either hospital or antibiotics when you have a cold! I have to be there for all of them and I desperately, desperately, need more strength for that. I have no time for hallucinations!”

Realizing this doctor wasn't the best choice, Melanie opted to slowly drift towards the window. The quiet, cold, night air suddenly seemed very inviting.

‘‘Yeah, yeah, go on then.’’ said the doctor ruefully. ‘‘You’ll be back..’’

Once outside Melanie contemplated her choices and decided they both lacked something: innocence and an open mind.

• The Child

Melanie seeped into the child’s room quietly, trying not to disturb the voile curtains, pale and translucent, as if ghosts themselves. Sanne stirred. It was that hour of the night when the giant Snake Asmodeus and ghoulish Spirit Bear from her books seemed closer and more real than mom sleeping soundly only a one door down.

They are not real, they live in the books. - thought Sanne, but still she did not move. Just in case. She just needed to lay very still and wait. To trick herself, as she often did, into thinking that she’s waiting for mom to come. To make herself believe that mom could come in at any moment and in that hopeful expectation let sleep slowly pull her back into it’s gentle arms.  

‘‘Don’t be afraid.’’ whispered Melanie cautiously. Her whisper carrying itself across the room not just as sound but joined by a lingering chill that penetrated the child’s protective covers.

Sanne gasped.

‘‘I came to ask you" - started Melanie floating closer, but halted at what she saw.’

Little Sanne was clutching the corner of her blanket. The blanket was so big that Sannes’ hands looked tiny, no bigger than a monkey’s little paws. Her eyes were big and very still, her mouth twisted, in an unconscious effort for a smile. A cruel gift of nature to its youngest children - a look so tender and nonthreatening, that what is coming from the dark might think twice before ripping them apart. 

‘‘Mommy, I’m scared" - Sanne said almost inaudibly. Because it, the unknowable, the terrible finally came for her. The look in the girls eyes, her lightly trembling hands and the voice struck Melanie to the core.

‘‘I’m sorry!’’ she cried and let herself fall through the walls, the floors and down, down, onto the stone paved road. ‘‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’’ whispered Melanie to herself. 

How dared I ask a child for help? - Melanie thought. 

Now relying on Sanne’s inexperience seemed unforgivable to her. The child had no knowledge or experience to cling to, which meant there was nothing that could create a wall of misunderstanding between them. But this also meant Sanne had nothing to hide behind. That she was unprotected.  

“This couldn’t have ended in any other way! Had I thought a little more, I would have known instantly!” cried Melanie in vain. She stopped. Melanie was far away from Sanne’s house by now.

Are they not all children, compared to me? They have so much yet to live and to experience. They have people to help and to care about. What could they need me for? And I don’t think I need myself, not really - suddenly realized Melanie - The stories unshared, what are they for? And what have I been doing all of these years collecting them? To what end…

This was the first time that Melanie lost her will not only to share, but even to experience and be present. She no longer sensed any meaning in either.

• The Duo

The witching hour had only just began, there was still plenty of time to undertake something. But Melanie just stood there, in the middle of the street feeling lost and strangely abandoned. Suddenly a pitch-black shadow separated from the garden wall and a yellow-eyed cat in a lazy stroll approached Melanie. Looked at her as if examining, as if comparing with dozens of lost souls she undoubtedly witnessed wandering around town at night. 

‘‘Can I help you?’’ ventured Melanie carefully. The cat did not reply. They often didn’t in her experience. Instead it turned around and dashed up the street. Melanie did not hesitate long and chased after the animal. The habit for curiosity was too strong. Ghosts, unburdened by corporeal shells, move faster than mortal men, and almost in the blink of an eye Melanie found herself standing next to the feline. In front of them was the brightly lit window of a bookstore. There golden lettering of a vaguely Gothic font proclaimed: “Eline & Eduard: The Lighthouse Library”

Melanie slipped through the glass and across the room, which was more of a bookshelf maze really, to the heavy round wooden table at the center. It had piles and piles of books on it, an ornate samovar, a black coffee kettle and an innumerable multitude of colorful teacups. 

There were two people sitting at the table, both wearing dress shirts and formal trousers, because who wouldn’t in the middle of the night? One was a very tall man with light wavy hair. The other a woman, with bright, expressive eyes had her chestnut hair tied with a big green bow. They talked, alternately flipping through pages looking for the passages to point to, making expansive gestures and reaching for coffee or tea. 

What on Earth could captivate them so? - thought Melanie

‘‘Don’t you think the absurdist take that Slaughterhouse 5 has, has aged a bit better?’’

‘‘Lacks the emotional intensity though. Unlike All Quiet on the Western Front,’’ - the woman laid her hand on a book as if it being there supported her point somehow. -

‘‘Weren’t we all traumatized into an anti-war worldview by good art? Remarque does it better I think, exactly because his wring is more straightforward.’’

‘‘Well yes, if this is the only book you’ve ever read’’ - the man smirked. - "Otherwise it gives off that antiquated image you know."

They were discussing stories! They were talking about how stories could be helpful! Melanie almost came foreword, almost spoke, but stopped herself.  

Many good people dived so deeply into the imaginary worlds, they lost any interest for the real one. Others yearned for the wondrous, only to recoil at the sights of something slightly different to what they were used to. - Melanie thought. - Over the last three days I brought grief, fear and frustration to enough people. Do I want to bring out the worst in these two as well? Melanie felt it was time to leave, yet she didn’t. 

‘‘You don’t even know the half of it..’’ - started she, making a split second decision. Oddly enough this was one of the scariest decisions she had to make in her life and after. 

Melanie’s voice ringed in all of it’s piercing unearthly tones. The two people at the table raised their heads. They looked at her, quiet and inquisitive. Until suddenly the woman spoke: 

‘‘And here I was wondering if you’d talk to us!" - she smiled - "My name’s Eline and this is Eduard. What is your name?"

Eduard quickly got up:

‘‘Come join us,’’ - he said, moving a chair for Melanie - ‘‘..can you share with us the half we don’t know?’’

Melanie didn’t need the chair of course, but still she gratefully floated to the spot. This felt somehow right. This felt a little like returning after a long journey and having people asking about why and how it took so long. It was nice to talk to somebody who listened, somebody who wondered and argued because they understood. So they talked, and talked and talked more until suddenly Melanie stopped, her face getting very still. 

‘‘What is it?’’ asked Eline, leaning closer.

‘‘What’s the time?’’ inquired Melanie anxiously, because she knew she talked for too long. The witching hour would be over soon and she didn’t tell them, she didn’t ask for help. She didn’t even ask if she could come back tomorrow. Trying to keep her composure Melanie clarified: ‘‘I’ll be gone after the hour is done. You won’t see me anymore. Quickly, what time is it?’’ 

‘‘It’s five in the morning,’’ said Eduard pointing at the hand watch "You joined us at about three twenty.’’

Only now Melanie noticed that light of an early November morning imparted the room with a gentle glow. Reflecting from the polished surface of the samovar, it sparkled in blue little stars in the dusty air. Melanie motionlessly tried to comprehend what this all meant.

‘‘Melanie..’’ - said Eline, her voice raising with excitement - ‘‘We can still see you!’’