queendilettante
🤍 Heart Problems 🤍
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Realistic or Modern Summer Ghosts (In Character)
- Thread starter queendilettante
- Start date
queendilettante
🤍 Heart Problems 🤍
Sweet votive smoke filled the air of St. Agnes Cathedral in Western Baltimore. Midsummer’s sticky humid heat clung to the packed congregation currently finishing mass. Joseph Healy's liturgical robes clung to his sweat-drenched body. He hated the summer.
Joseph bowed his head as the ever-expanding congregation filed out for the day. The previous week marked the first time in Joseph's entire tenure there wasn't enough room in the pews for the number of parishioners. He'd have rejoiced at his renewed wealth of faith if it felt deserved. But, no; alas, it was not. Something vile was haunting the people of this city.
Were he but stronger, Joseph would have been able to take action sooner. He’d have seen the darkness behind the influx of parishioners. He wouldn’t have viewed it as an opportunity.
But Joseph was not strong. He collected his things from the altar and gazed upon the thinning crowd. He smiled at the crowd and waved, stifling a guilty grimace. His eyes fell to Victor, his friend and one of many faithful parishioners. He nodded to the man from the altar and gestured for him to follow. It was time for Joseph to stop wallowing and put his confessionals into practice.
During mass, Victor had spent his time listening intently to the service delivered by Joseph like all the weeks before. He’d been devout in going to church since he was young, and found the long winded speeches about a great divine comforting. Alongside him, notably less interested but still present, was his wife Elle. It was clear her faith was not as great as his own, but she still went with him most of the time, which was good enough for Victor. She admired the architecture of the building, stared at her shoes, or otherwise investigated every facet of the environment around her except paying direct attention to the sermon.
It was due to this that Elle had not noticed the motion from the priest to follow him once the service had concluded. Victor waited patiently for a time, finishing his own silent prayers, much to the dismay of his ever busy wife looking to continue with their plans for the day. Most others had stood and left the sweltering chapel, and Victor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt while rising from the bench. His wife too stood, unaware that Victor was to see Joseph Healy, the priest he’d known for so long.
“I’ll be just a moment,” He told her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Wait for me here or outside. I won’t be long, I don’t believe.” Victor stood, getting a strange glance from his wife.
“Is something wrong?” She spoke soft and low as the rest of the room had fallen silent. “Are you hearing them again?”
“No. Just wait for me, dear.” Victor stepped out from the rows of pews and headed for the same direction Joseph had disappeared to.
Joseph had hastily made way for his office, quickly putting his books and supplies away in their proper places. He discarded his drenched green liturgical robes and made sure his collar looked presentable as Victor walked in. "Hello, Victor, thanks for joining me." He gestured to a seat in front of his desk as he took his own. "Please, please, sit."
Victor gave a subtle nod, wordlessly sitting in the chair beckoned by Joseph. He rested back against the rest before responding. “I hope you’ve been well, Father. I feel it’s been ages since we’ve last spoken.”
“It has, it has,” Joseph responded, smiling at the man. “Our parish has grown quite large recently, don’t you think?”
“Almost uncomfortably so,” Victor said with a light chuckle. “Not enough space on the pews for everyone to sit. Me and the missus had to stand last week. Of course, I welcome anyone looking to join the congregation.”
"I only wish their reasons were under better circumstances," Joseph sighed. “The rumors of hauntings have spiraled far out of control. You’ve heard them, yes?”
Victor raised an eyebrow at the mention. “I’ve heard them, yes. Had a few approach me personally. Asking if I could speak with them. The visages, that is.” Victor furrowed his sleeves higher up his arms and wiped his brow. “I haven’t accepted any requests yet. But I was thinking of looking into one or two. Are you… alarmed by the whispers?”
“Victor, my friend, may I speak frankly with you?”
This line caused Victor to pause. Once he spoke again, his voice was a touch softer. “Of course, Father. Anything.”
Joseph reached back into his old wooden desk and pulled from it a journal, leather bound and cracked along the spine. He opened it about a third of the way through and read aloud, “August 18th, 1879: A young woman spoke of the pale visages of two children in the windows of an abandoned home across the street from her.”
Joseph briefly glanced up at Victor before turning further into the journal. “June 7th, 1880,” he continued, “An old Frenchman came with bread for donations. He had recently returned to Baltimore from an extended visit home. On the way, he noticed two children, seemingly in pain, banging on the windows of an abandoned home from inside.” Joseph paused and looked up at the man across from him. “There was another in September and one more this May. Victor, it was the same estate.”
The mention of two children instantly caused a reaction from Victor. It was subtle, slight, but to any who know the quiet man, they were telling of the shock he felt. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “Oh. I see, Father. This is why you wanted to talk with me. Are you… intending to look into this? These sightings?”
“I fear I have no choice!” Joseph closed the journal and tossed it back onto his desk before standing up from his chair. He pulled at his shirt, heavy with summer sweat, and fanned at his neck. Damn this heat.
He couldn’t tell Victor that he viewed these rumors as a blessing until recently, the man would surely lose all respect for him. “I have a responsibility to my congregation,” he finally stated. “But I’m uninitiated in these sorts of happenings. I am a man of the book, not of occultism. I… I wanted to believe this could not be true.”
Joseph sighed. “I am requesting your help, Victor. Please, assist me in these matters I am disenfranchised to. Not just for our congregation, but our home.”
Victor listened to the priest as he spoke in short bursts. The Bouchard man sat in contemplation of what he was being asked. He should have known his… unique stance and skills in dealing with the departed would be called upon by the church sooner or later. At least, in Victor’s mind, it was a good friend of his making the request.
Victor stood, giving another signature nod. “Of course, Joseph. I’ll do what I can. For the church. For those who are departed, looking for peace. But, Father… I’ve told you in the past about my complications with spirits. I can speak to them, hold conversations… But we may be in need of other skills. Otherwise, we may be stepping into the domain of the dead ill prepared.”
Joseph clasped the man on his shoulders. “Thank you, Victor, thank you!” He lowered his arms, but his relief remained palpable. “You are an expert in these fields, my friend, and I trust your judgment. Please, gather those you deem worthy to assist and bring them here this Friday evening. We may speak at greater lengths when we have a group of your choosing.”
“Of course.” Victor gave a curt nod. “I’ll be here. Friday evening. I’ll see if I can reach out to a few with similar experiences to me. I have a few I know of already.” Victor and Joseph shook hands before the former left the room, a new determination in his soul. He would save others, lost and trapped on this Earth.
Upon exiting the room, he found Elle, impatient with arms crossed. “I’ll just be a moment,” She quoted Victor, who ushered Elle out.
“Let us continue our day, love. I have a long week ahead of me.”
Joseph bowed his head as the ever-expanding congregation filed out for the day. The previous week marked the first time in Joseph's entire tenure there wasn't enough room in the pews for the number of parishioners. He'd have rejoiced at his renewed wealth of faith if it felt deserved. But, no; alas, it was not. Something vile was haunting the people of this city.
Were he but stronger, Joseph would have been able to take action sooner. He’d have seen the darkness behind the influx of parishioners. He wouldn’t have viewed it as an opportunity.
But Joseph was not strong. He collected his things from the altar and gazed upon the thinning crowd. He smiled at the crowd and waved, stifling a guilty grimace. His eyes fell to Victor, his friend and one of many faithful parishioners. He nodded to the man from the altar and gestured for him to follow. It was time for Joseph to stop wallowing and put his confessionals into practice.
During mass, Victor had spent his time listening intently to the service delivered by Joseph like all the weeks before. He’d been devout in going to church since he was young, and found the long winded speeches about a great divine comforting. Alongside him, notably less interested but still present, was his wife Elle. It was clear her faith was not as great as his own, but she still went with him most of the time, which was good enough for Victor. She admired the architecture of the building, stared at her shoes, or otherwise investigated every facet of the environment around her except paying direct attention to the sermon.
It was due to this that Elle had not noticed the motion from the priest to follow him once the service had concluded. Victor waited patiently for a time, finishing his own silent prayers, much to the dismay of his ever busy wife looking to continue with their plans for the day. Most others had stood and left the sweltering chapel, and Victor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt while rising from the bench. His wife too stood, unaware that Victor was to see Joseph Healy, the priest he’d known for so long.
“I’ll be just a moment,” He told her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Wait for me here or outside. I won’t be long, I don’t believe.” Victor stood, getting a strange glance from his wife.
“Is something wrong?” She spoke soft and low as the rest of the room had fallen silent. “Are you hearing them again?”
“No. Just wait for me, dear.” Victor stepped out from the rows of pews and headed for the same direction Joseph had disappeared to.
Joseph had hastily made way for his office, quickly putting his books and supplies away in their proper places. He discarded his drenched green liturgical robes and made sure his collar looked presentable as Victor walked in. "Hello, Victor, thanks for joining me." He gestured to a seat in front of his desk as he took his own. "Please, please, sit."
Victor gave a subtle nod, wordlessly sitting in the chair beckoned by Joseph. He rested back against the rest before responding. “I hope you’ve been well, Father. I feel it’s been ages since we’ve last spoken.”
“It has, it has,” Joseph responded, smiling at the man. “Our parish has grown quite large recently, don’t you think?”
“Almost uncomfortably so,” Victor said with a light chuckle. “Not enough space on the pews for everyone to sit. Me and the missus had to stand last week. Of course, I welcome anyone looking to join the congregation.”
"I only wish their reasons were under better circumstances," Joseph sighed. “The rumors of hauntings have spiraled far out of control. You’ve heard them, yes?”
Victor raised an eyebrow at the mention. “I’ve heard them, yes. Had a few approach me personally. Asking if I could speak with them. The visages, that is.” Victor furrowed his sleeves higher up his arms and wiped his brow. “I haven’t accepted any requests yet. But I was thinking of looking into one or two. Are you… alarmed by the whispers?”
“Victor, my friend, may I speak frankly with you?”
This line caused Victor to pause. Once he spoke again, his voice was a touch softer. “Of course, Father. Anything.”
Joseph reached back into his old wooden desk and pulled from it a journal, leather bound and cracked along the spine. He opened it about a third of the way through and read aloud, “August 18th, 1879: A young woman spoke of the pale visages of two children in the windows of an abandoned home across the street from her.”
Joseph briefly glanced up at Victor before turning further into the journal. “June 7th, 1880,” he continued, “An old Frenchman came with bread for donations. He had recently returned to Baltimore from an extended visit home. On the way, he noticed two children, seemingly in pain, banging on the windows of an abandoned home from inside.” Joseph paused and looked up at the man across from him. “There was another in September and one more this May. Victor, it was the same estate.”
The mention of two children instantly caused a reaction from Victor. It was subtle, slight, but to any who know the quiet man, they were telling of the shock he felt. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “Oh. I see, Father. This is why you wanted to talk with me. Are you… intending to look into this? These sightings?”
“I fear I have no choice!” Joseph closed the journal and tossed it back onto his desk before standing up from his chair. He pulled at his shirt, heavy with summer sweat, and fanned at his neck. Damn this heat.
He couldn’t tell Victor that he viewed these rumors as a blessing until recently, the man would surely lose all respect for him. “I have a responsibility to my congregation,” he finally stated. “But I’m uninitiated in these sorts of happenings. I am a man of the book, not of occultism. I… I wanted to believe this could not be true.”
Joseph sighed. “I am requesting your help, Victor. Please, assist me in these matters I am disenfranchised to. Not just for our congregation, but our home.”
Victor listened to the priest as he spoke in short bursts. The Bouchard man sat in contemplation of what he was being asked. He should have known his… unique stance and skills in dealing with the departed would be called upon by the church sooner or later. At least, in Victor’s mind, it was a good friend of his making the request.
Victor stood, giving another signature nod. “Of course, Joseph. I’ll do what I can. For the church. For those who are departed, looking for peace. But, Father… I’ve told you in the past about my complications with spirits. I can speak to them, hold conversations… But we may be in need of other skills. Otherwise, we may be stepping into the domain of the dead ill prepared.”
Joseph clasped the man on his shoulders. “Thank you, Victor, thank you!” He lowered his arms, but his relief remained palpable. “You are an expert in these fields, my friend, and I trust your judgment. Please, gather those you deem worthy to assist and bring them here this Friday evening. We may speak at greater lengths when we have a group of your choosing.”
“Of course.” Victor gave a curt nod. “I’ll be here. Friday evening. I’ll see if I can reach out to a few with similar experiences to me. I have a few I know of already.” Victor and Joseph shook hands before the former left the room, a new determination in his soul. He would save others, lost and trapped on this Earth.
Upon exiting the room, he found Elle, impatient with arms crossed. “I’ll just be a moment,” She quoted Victor, who ushered Elle out.
“Let us continue our day, love. I have a long week ahead of me.”
Lixy
In Denial That I Have an Internet Addiction
Dust motes float in saturated orange light that peeks through the heavy drapes that obscure the grand but grimy windows of the Hackney estate. Elijah Strickland, regular party attendant, rises with the sun, following a trail through the house in order to collect his discarded things. As he holds up a scrap of garish fabric, contemplating whether it was his or something he’d light-fingered during the night, his gracious host groans.
“Elijah, God’s sake, keep it down,” he moaned, rolling over in his tangle of sheets on the floor.
Ah, the delight of Peter Hackney’s company after a long night of drink.
“Feeling alright, old fellow?” Eli ribbed, pressing the toe of his boot into Peter’s side.
“Go to hell,” was the ever-so-eloquent reply he was given, Eli only able to laugh loudly in response.
He picked his way through warm and sleeping bodies to find his coat, draped over the back of an overstuffed chaise lounge. One satisfied he'd been reunited with all his things, he returned to the foyer, ready to head home and recuperate. As Eli suppressed a yawn with the back of his hand, reaching for the crystalline door handle that led outside, he felt the crunch of paper in his breast pocket. Momentarily confused, he stopped and pulled it out. It contained an address and a name: Victor Bouchard.
It all came back to him; a handsome but rather dour man seeking him out at last night’s soirée, bemoaning the difficulty of finding Elijah, a man who was rarely at home and even less likely to read his mail. Apparently, talk of his abilities had wormed their way out of his circle and to associates of the church. He could only imagine what they were saying about him. A brief and drunken conversation that bordered on argument had ensued – Mr. Bouchard wanted Elijah to join some kind of investigation for some priest and Elijah flat-out refused, his eyes drifting to the persistent dark shadows that already bothered him without him needing to seek them out. But the man was nothing if not persistent, and Elijah didn’t want to draw more attention than he already had. He’d reluctantly agreed to at least come to the meeting before he decided, then drifted into a conversation with Lisette as he insisted, nay, begged, she come along with him in the morning.
“Shit,” Elijah mumbled, turning the paper over in his hand. It wasn’t surprising he’d forgotten, but now he had to rush across town to pick up his companion, and then make his way to this mysterious meeting that he wasn’t all that keen on attending in the first place. Not to mention that he had to find a moment to make himself at least somewhat presentable in that time. He pressed his fingers to his temple, departing the estate without even a parting word to Peter. It was time to change plans from a lazy morning at home to a dash across town to Lisette’s.
Elijah was a great fan of Lisette’s apartment, not least because it had a newfangled elevator that he could throw himself into, rather than confront the stairs so early in the morning. He hoped he’d accidentally left some clean clothes at his friend’s home, because the enclosed space quickly reminded him that he’d spilled some kind of sweet drink on himself last night and it was mixing unpleasantly with the smoke from his second morning cigarette. Fussing with his creased shirt, he rapped his knuckles on her door.
“Oh, Lisette, my fresh morning flower,” he called, absently pulling his pocket watch from his coat and grimacing. She was not going to be happy having a gentleman caller at this hour. He could already hear the screeching of that infernal parrot inside. He knocked again, leaning against the door frame. “Lisette my sweet, if you don’t let me in, I’ll wake the neighbours! It’s a glorious morning, come walk with me in the sunshine.”
“For the love of God, will you keep quiet?“ Lisette hissed as she opened the door. She looked even worse than he did, remnants of a coiffed up-do falling in knots around her face, the skin around her eyes dark and sallow with the remains of last night’s grease stick. Likewise, the faded red line around her lips stained in a laughable shape. She was in nothing more than a light slip, not having fully undressed from the night before, though she had at least managed to toss on a moss green velvet robe before opening the door. Altogether, the appearance suggested that she hadn’t fared much better since the evening last than her companion did.
The pair looked to the side at the sound of number 907’s door creaking open. Lisette’s beloved neighbor, an old Hag from Dorchester whose personality was as shriveled as her frown lines and prickly as her eyebrows, popped her head out the threshold to glare at the source of the early morning racket.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lovett,” Lisette forced a smile and a half-hearted wave, knowing she couldn’t do much more to make the crone despise her any more than she already did, and thus only giving a percentage of the effort to be cordial.
“Mrs. Lovett, you are as radiant as usual,” Elijah cooed dramatically, sweeping his arm out in a deep bow. He looked to Lisette and flashed a wink.
She didn’t stop smiling until Mrs. Lovett resigned, silently returning to her apartment and closing the door with an annoyed thud.
“Get inside,” Lisette growled at her friend, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and tugging him into her rooms.
One could best describe Lisette’s apartment as exotic, decorated richly with vibrant blues, greens and golds. Everything from the wallpaper to the bamboo bookcase to the parrot in his cage by the window, recalled the botanical lushness of the jungle. When one considered the added decorations of a leopard skin rug in the parlor (“the poor thing! But he was a gift, how could I refuse a gift?”) or the gold-gilded clawfoot tub in the bathroom, one could not deny that Lisette’s taste ventured far from what was considered “tasteful.” More so, she had sprinted with abandon into the eclectic. Despite its eccentricities, Lisette’s home was also cozy, seats always plush and windows bright.
Lizzy let go of Eli as soon as she closed the door behind them, giving him a look that could’ve killed him were willpower enough. The succession of all the sudden movements after such a deep, inebriated slumber had started her head pounding.
“Do you know what time it is? … and heavens, what is that stench?” She leaned forward, her nose inches from his collar as she dared another sniff. “Is that you?”
Elijah glanced once more at his pocket watch, more pointedly and theatrically. “Why yes I do,” he says, snapping it closed. “Do you? Maybe you forgot that you agreed to go with me to Mr. Bouchard’s little get-together today?” He ignored her comment on the smell and swept past her further into the apartment, shedding his coat. “Did I happen to leave any clean clothes lying around?” He wondered aloud, picking through the furniture, nosing about to see if he’d left any cleaner clothing tucked away in some corner.
Lisette tsked as Elijah, like always, made himself quite at home. “If you did, you certainly don’t anymore. Claudia likely tossed anything you’ve left.” Claudia. Her newest maid. Not so quick to be enraptured by her mistress’s scandals but quite stupid otherwise.
Elijah sighed dejectedly, dropping the throw pillow he’d been looking under. “Well, I can’t blame her. I do tend to leave my things soiled.”
She shrugged off her robe, shoulders bare as she turned from Elijah. She had no reserved sense of modesty around him, at least not anymore. She knew his tastes and that she was quite apart from them. She padded back to her bedroom and called out from the open door. “Make yourself useful and make us some coffee, will you?”
As she pulled the pins from her hair and brushed out the mess, Lisette mulled over the fuzzy memories of last night, finding significant gaps there. Who was Bouchard? Bouchard, Bouchard… the name brought up no image, neither vivid nor vague. “Darling, you know it’s unfair to ask me to such things once we’ve opened a bottle. Who’s Bouchard?”
Making himself busy in the kitchen, Elijah prepared coffee – mostly for Lisette, but enough for the both of them regardless. “Bouchard, Lizzy, Victor Bouchard. That handsome and very married chap who was going on about the destruction of the town or some such,” he stirred cream and whiskey into his cup thoughtfully. “He mentioned a priest. That one that’s been talking about spirits to his congregation.” He glanced to the corner of the room where Lisette’s second shadow stuck, like it had forgotten to follow the body it was once a reflection of. The man he didn’t ask about and certainly didn’t mention unless asked. He tore his eyes away from it and followed Lisette into her bedroom, placing her cup on the vanity. He perched on the bed, one leg hooked over the other as he sipped.
“I have no idea how he knew that I had anything to do with such things, but he just wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed. And I’m quite sure you volunteered to come, darling. Something about it sounding ‘fun’.”
“Yes, well, everything sounds fun after a bottle of Pinot, doesn’t it?” Lisette muttered around a bobby pin in her teeth, securing her braid in a twist with one hand while working to fasten it down with the other. She glanced through the mirror at her friend on her bed. “Feet off.“ And then paused and backtracked. “Which priest?” There were not all too many in Baltimore to begin with, what with the Protestant populations being as prevalent as they were, and well… there was only one who had made such a fuss about ghosts as of late. A certain one Lisette had been in the company of before, spilling sins and prayers alike, as Elijah so very well knew. “Please tell me you don’t mean…”
“It’s not touching!” he protested, wiggling his foot in the air at Lisette’s command. He’d kept his shoe carefully away from the bedspread, as experience dictated. As he watched Lisette slowly put together what she’d agreed to last night, he glanced into his coffee and pursed his lips. “It could be a different Father Healy?” he peeked up at her in the mirror, putting on his best pleading look.
“No. Absolutely not. You know I don’t believe in such nonsense as ghosts.”
“Please, Lizzy? I don’t want to go there alone. Who knows what the church will try and do to me?” he stood, walking over to stand next to Lisette, leaving his cup on the floor. “What if it’s some trick to try and exorcise me? Or burn me at the stake? Or worse, send me back to the priesthood?” he clasped his hands as if in prayer. “You know I hate going to church! Please, for me?”
“If God truly wanted to strike you down, He wouldn’t need a church to do it.” She bit back, standing next to him, silently holding out the strings of the loosened corset she’d fastened but not tightened. “Would you please?”
“I haven’t spoken to Father Healy in ages. He was quite lovely, but all this ghost hogwash… I mean, really, Eli, you want to get mixed up in all of this?”
Eli took the corset strings and carefully tightened them, making sure the pressure was even all the way down. “Lizzy…” he started, sighing. He didn’t really know where to start. He might’ve mentioned his experiences with the supernatural in passing, but it was clear his friend didn’t believe him. In truth, he really would rather not get tangled up in this business, but in reality there wasn’t much he could do about it. The supernatural appeared to find him, whether he liked it or not. He tied off the corset strings and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Believe me, I really don’t want to get mixed up in it, but…” He squeezed her shoulders once before dropping them. “I don’t get much of a choice in the matter.” He reached down for her hand, tugging her upright. “Come,” he says, shushing any of her arguments.
He leads them both into the living room once more, pushing Lisette into one of the seats. Lisette was glad enough to have taken up her coffee before he toted her away, taking an amused sip as he prepared himself, as if about to watch a stage show.
He takes a steeling breath, then looks to the corner where the shadow still lingers. “There’s a man,” he says slowly. He doesn’t want to frighten Lisette, or make her think he’s only her friend for the scandal that follows her. It was the main reason he’d never spoken too deeply of it before now. “He’s…” he closes his eyes. Communing with the spirits was always uncomfortable, but those who died violently even more so. “New York,” he says. “You met him in New York?” he asks, opening his eyes. “And he’s handsome. You have a good eye.”
Lisette played along, sure that Elijah was simply toying with her by using the law of basics. “A handsome man, Hm?”
He glanced at the spirit, which was now drifting closer. Flashes of the violence pound in Eli’s chest. “And he was killed.” He fidgeted with his fingers. He didn’t know how much was too much. “By another man? That man… He… was afraid of him. Jealous? He felt guilty, but… indignant?” The feelings of the moment were beginning to wash over him, like the spirit was egging him on, trying to speak through his mouth. “He wanted to marry you, but he couldn’t ruin your life like that. He’s sorry.”
The shattering of porcelain cut through his voice, dropped by a trembling hand and spilling creamed coffee across the hardwood. Lisette looked up at him. Even while annoyed at his morning antics thus far, a playfulness had consistently been there. But now, her hazel eyes had gone dark, her expression a cross between furious and heartbroken. “Where did you hear that?”
Abruptly, Eli pulled away sharply, putting a hand out to steady himself and lower himself into the closest chair. “Sorry, Lizzy, I didn’t mean to…”
“Where did you hear that, Elijah? This isn’t funny.”
Eli shrunk away. This was just about what he should have expected. “No, Lizzy, I swear, I didn’t hear it anywhere.” He glanced at the spirit again. “He’s always here, in the apartment.” He pointed a shaky hand at the corner the spirit inhabited. “I wouldn’t make something like this up.” He pulled his hand back, resting it on his own shoulder. “I have one too. My sister.” Just the mention of his shadow makes him clam up and look back down at his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I knew it was a bad idea.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister…” Lisette mused, voice still void of amusement.
"Had." With a grim smile, he stood. “Truly, I’m sorry. You don’t have to come if you don’t wish to, but–” his voice wavers a little. “Maybe they can help me be rid of this. I hope you know I would never try to hurt you.” He swept down in a theatrical bow once more, trying to smile the mood away.
Lisette still wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Above most other things, she was as stubborn as a mule. But, she thought with a strange warmth as she looked to the corner where Elijah had pointed, that in that very corner hung a painting of a macaw, a piece of art Henry had brought her from Brazil. No matter if she could reason that Elijah had found mention of Henry’s death in the papers, perhaps even a leaked account from the police, in some sick attempt at a cruel prank, there was no earthly way he could have known about the painting.
She cleared her throat briefly, trying to push the humor back into her tone. “Fine. But only if you buy me breakfast at Rourke’s. Now help me clean up this mess. Claudia will have a fit.”
The relief of his friend not immediately kicking him out was so palpable Eli practically collapsed into a heap where he stood. “Of course. Thank you – just, thank you.” He smiled meekly, feeling too vulnerable for the early hour. He shifted and dusted himself off, trying to regain some of his lost dignity. The day’s plan was set – clean, breakfast, clean again (this time at Eli’s home – he still stunk and needed those clothes), then head to this mysterious meeting. He only hoped he wouldn’t regret dragging Lisette into all this.
“Elijah, God’s sake, keep it down,” he moaned, rolling over in his tangle of sheets on the floor.
Ah, the delight of Peter Hackney’s company after a long night of drink.
“Feeling alright, old fellow?” Eli ribbed, pressing the toe of his boot into Peter’s side.
“Go to hell,” was the ever-so-eloquent reply he was given, Eli only able to laugh loudly in response.
He picked his way through warm and sleeping bodies to find his coat, draped over the back of an overstuffed chaise lounge. One satisfied he'd been reunited with all his things, he returned to the foyer, ready to head home and recuperate. As Eli suppressed a yawn with the back of his hand, reaching for the crystalline door handle that led outside, he felt the crunch of paper in his breast pocket. Momentarily confused, he stopped and pulled it out. It contained an address and a name: Victor Bouchard.
It all came back to him; a handsome but rather dour man seeking him out at last night’s soirée, bemoaning the difficulty of finding Elijah, a man who was rarely at home and even less likely to read his mail. Apparently, talk of his abilities had wormed their way out of his circle and to associates of the church. He could only imagine what they were saying about him. A brief and drunken conversation that bordered on argument had ensued – Mr. Bouchard wanted Elijah to join some kind of investigation for some priest and Elijah flat-out refused, his eyes drifting to the persistent dark shadows that already bothered him without him needing to seek them out. But the man was nothing if not persistent, and Elijah didn’t want to draw more attention than he already had. He’d reluctantly agreed to at least come to the meeting before he decided, then drifted into a conversation with Lisette as he insisted, nay, begged, she come along with him in the morning.
“Shit,” Elijah mumbled, turning the paper over in his hand. It wasn’t surprising he’d forgotten, but now he had to rush across town to pick up his companion, and then make his way to this mysterious meeting that he wasn’t all that keen on attending in the first place. Not to mention that he had to find a moment to make himself at least somewhat presentable in that time. He pressed his fingers to his temple, departing the estate without even a parting word to Peter. It was time to change plans from a lazy morning at home to a dash across town to Lisette’s.
Elijah was a great fan of Lisette’s apartment, not least because it had a newfangled elevator that he could throw himself into, rather than confront the stairs so early in the morning. He hoped he’d accidentally left some clean clothes at his friend’s home, because the enclosed space quickly reminded him that he’d spilled some kind of sweet drink on himself last night and it was mixing unpleasantly with the smoke from his second morning cigarette. Fussing with his creased shirt, he rapped his knuckles on her door.
“Oh, Lisette, my fresh morning flower,” he called, absently pulling his pocket watch from his coat and grimacing. She was not going to be happy having a gentleman caller at this hour. He could already hear the screeching of that infernal parrot inside. He knocked again, leaning against the door frame. “Lisette my sweet, if you don’t let me in, I’ll wake the neighbours! It’s a glorious morning, come walk with me in the sunshine.”
“For the love of God, will you keep quiet?“ Lisette hissed as she opened the door. She looked even worse than he did, remnants of a coiffed up-do falling in knots around her face, the skin around her eyes dark and sallow with the remains of last night’s grease stick. Likewise, the faded red line around her lips stained in a laughable shape. She was in nothing more than a light slip, not having fully undressed from the night before, though she had at least managed to toss on a moss green velvet robe before opening the door. Altogether, the appearance suggested that she hadn’t fared much better since the evening last than her companion did.
The pair looked to the side at the sound of number 907’s door creaking open. Lisette’s beloved neighbor, an old Hag from Dorchester whose personality was as shriveled as her frown lines and prickly as her eyebrows, popped her head out the threshold to glare at the source of the early morning racket.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lovett,” Lisette forced a smile and a half-hearted wave, knowing she couldn’t do much more to make the crone despise her any more than she already did, and thus only giving a percentage of the effort to be cordial.
“Mrs. Lovett, you are as radiant as usual,” Elijah cooed dramatically, sweeping his arm out in a deep bow. He looked to Lisette and flashed a wink.
She didn’t stop smiling until Mrs. Lovett resigned, silently returning to her apartment and closing the door with an annoyed thud.
“Get inside,” Lisette growled at her friend, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and tugging him into her rooms.
One could best describe Lisette’s apartment as exotic, decorated richly with vibrant blues, greens and golds. Everything from the wallpaper to the bamboo bookcase to the parrot in his cage by the window, recalled the botanical lushness of the jungle. When one considered the added decorations of a leopard skin rug in the parlor (“the poor thing! But he was a gift, how could I refuse a gift?”) or the gold-gilded clawfoot tub in the bathroom, one could not deny that Lisette’s taste ventured far from what was considered “tasteful.” More so, she had sprinted with abandon into the eclectic. Despite its eccentricities, Lisette’s home was also cozy, seats always plush and windows bright.
Lizzy let go of Eli as soon as she closed the door behind them, giving him a look that could’ve killed him were willpower enough. The succession of all the sudden movements after such a deep, inebriated slumber had started her head pounding.
“Do you know what time it is? … and heavens, what is that stench?” She leaned forward, her nose inches from his collar as she dared another sniff. “Is that you?”
Elijah glanced once more at his pocket watch, more pointedly and theatrically. “Why yes I do,” he says, snapping it closed. “Do you? Maybe you forgot that you agreed to go with me to Mr. Bouchard’s little get-together today?” He ignored her comment on the smell and swept past her further into the apartment, shedding his coat. “Did I happen to leave any clean clothes lying around?” He wondered aloud, picking through the furniture, nosing about to see if he’d left any cleaner clothing tucked away in some corner.
Lisette tsked as Elijah, like always, made himself quite at home. “If you did, you certainly don’t anymore. Claudia likely tossed anything you’ve left.” Claudia. Her newest maid. Not so quick to be enraptured by her mistress’s scandals but quite stupid otherwise.
Elijah sighed dejectedly, dropping the throw pillow he’d been looking under. “Well, I can’t blame her. I do tend to leave my things soiled.”
She shrugged off her robe, shoulders bare as she turned from Elijah. She had no reserved sense of modesty around him, at least not anymore. She knew his tastes and that she was quite apart from them. She padded back to her bedroom and called out from the open door. “Make yourself useful and make us some coffee, will you?”
As she pulled the pins from her hair and brushed out the mess, Lisette mulled over the fuzzy memories of last night, finding significant gaps there. Who was Bouchard? Bouchard, Bouchard… the name brought up no image, neither vivid nor vague. “Darling, you know it’s unfair to ask me to such things once we’ve opened a bottle. Who’s Bouchard?”
Making himself busy in the kitchen, Elijah prepared coffee – mostly for Lisette, but enough for the both of them regardless. “Bouchard, Lizzy, Victor Bouchard. That handsome and very married chap who was going on about the destruction of the town or some such,” he stirred cream and whiskey into his cup thoughtfully. “He mentioned a priest. That one that’s been talking about spirits to his congregation.” He glanced to the corner of the room where Lisette’s second shadow stuck, like it had forgotten to follow the body it was once a reflection of. The man he didn’t ask about and certainly didn’t mention unless asked. He tore his eyes away from it and followed Lisette into her bedroom, placing her cup on the vanity. He perched on the bed, one leg hooked over the other as he sipped.
“I have no idea how he knew that I had anything to do with such things, but he just wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed. And I’m quite sure you volunteered to come, darling. Something about it sounding ‘fun’.”
“Yes, well, everything sounds fun after a bottle of Pinot, doesn’t it?” Lisette muttered around a bobby pin in her teeth, securing her braid in a twist with one hand while working to fasten it down with the other. She glanced through the mirror at her friend on her bed. “Feet off.“ And then paused and backtracked. “Which priest?” There were not all too many in Baltimore to begin with, what with the Protestant populations being as prevalent as they were, and well… there was only one who had made such a fuss about ghosts as of late. A certain one Lisette had been in the company of before, spilling sins and prayers alike, as Elijah so very well knew. “Please tell me you don’t mean…”
“It’s not touching!” he protested, wiggling his foot in the air at Lisette’s command. He’d kept his shoe carefully away from the bedspread, as experience dictated. As he watched Lisette slowly put together what she’d agreed to last night, he glanced into his coffee and pursed his lips. “It could be a different Father Healy?” he peeked up at her in the mirror, putting on his best pleading look.
“No. Absolutely not. You know I don’t believe in such nonsense as ghosts.”
“Please, Lizzy? I don’t want to go there alone. Who knows what the church will try and do to me?” he stood, walking over to stand next to Lisette, leaving his cup on the floor. “What if it’s some trick to try and exorcise me? Or burn me at the stake? Or worse, send me back to the priesthood?” he clasped his hands as if in prayer. “You know I hate going to church! Please, for me?”
“If God truly wanted to strike you down, He wouldn’t need a church to do it.” She bit back, standing next to him, silently holding out the strings of the loosened corset she’d fastened but not tightened. “Would you please?”
“I haven’t spoken to Father Healy in ages. He was quite lovely, but all this ghost hogwash… I mean, really, Eli, you want to get mixed up in all of this?”
Eli took the corset strings and carefully tightened them, making sure the pressure was even all the way down. “Lizzy…” he started, sighing. He didn’t really know where to start. He might’ve mentioned his experiences with the supernatural in passing, but it was clear his friend didn’t believe him. In truth, he really would rather not get tangled up in this business, but in reality there wasn’t much he could do about it. The supernatural appeared to find him, whether he liked it or not. He tied off the corset strings and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Believe me, I really don’t want to get mixed up in it, but…” He squeezed her shoulders once before dropping them. “I don’t get much of a choice in the matter.” He reached down for her hand, tugging her upright. “Come,” he says, shushing any of her arguments.
He leads them both into the living room once more, pushing Lisette into one of the seats. Lisette was glad enough to have taken up her coffee before he toted her away, taking an amused sip as he prepared himself, as if about to watch a stage show.
He takes a steeling breath, then looks to the corner where the shadow still lingers. “There’s a man,” he says slowly. He doesn’t want to frighten Lisette, or make her think he’s only her friend for the scandal that follows her. It was the main reason he’d never spoken too deeply of it before now. “He’s…” he closes his eyes. Communing with the spirits was always uncomfortable, but those who died violently even more so. “New York,” he says. “You met him in New York?” he asks, opening his eyes. “And he’s handsome. You have a good eye.”
Lisette played along, sure that Elijah was simply toying with her by using the law of basics. “A handsome man, Hm?”
He glanced at the spirit, which was now drifting closer. Flashes of the violence pound in Eli’s chest. “And he was killed.” He fidgeted with his fingers. He didn’t know how much was too much. “By another man? That man… He… was afraid of him. Jealous? He felt guilty, but… indignant?” The feelings of the moment were beginning to wash over him, like the spirit was egging him on, trying to speak through his mouth. “He wanted to marry you, but he couldn’t ruin your life like that. He’s sorry.”
The shattering of porcelain cut through his voice, dropped by a trembling hand and spilling creamed coffee across the hardwood. Lisette looked up at him. Even while annoyed at his morning antics thus far, a playfulness had consistently been there. But now, her hazel eyes had gone dark, her expression a cross between furious and heartbroken. “Where did you hear that?”
Abruptly, Eli pulled away sharply, putting a hand out to steady himself and lower himself into the closest chair. “Sorry, Lizzy, I didn’t mean to…”
“Where did you hear that, Elijah? This isn’t funny.”
Eli shrunk away. This was just about what he should have expected. “No, Lizzy, I swear, I didn’t hear it anywhere.” He glanced at the spirit again. “He’s always here, in the apartment.” He pointed a shaky hand at the corner the spirit inhabited. “I wouldn’t make something like this up.” He pulled his hand back, resting it on his own shoulder. “I have one too. My sister.” Just the mention of his shadow makes him clam up and look back down at his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I knew it was a bad idea.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister…” Lisette mused, voice still void of amusement.
"Had." With a grim smile, he stood. “Truly, I’m sorry. You don’t have to come if you don’t wish to, but–” his voice wavers a little. “Maybe they can help me be rid of this. I hope you know I would never try to hurt you.” He swept down in a theatrical bow once more, trying to smile the mood away.
Lisette still wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Above most other things, she was as stubborn as a mule. But, she thought with a strange warmth as she looked to the corner where Elijah had pointed, that in that very corner hung a painting of a macaw, a piece of art Henry had brought her from Brazil. No matter if she could reason that Elijah had found mention of Henry’s death in the papers, perhaps even a leaked account from the police, in some sick attempt at a cruel prank, there was no earthly way he could have known about the painting.
She cleared her throat briefly, trying to push the humor back into her tone. “Fine. But only if you buy me breakfast at Rourke’s. Now help me clean up this mess. Claudia will have a fit.”
The relief of his friend not immediately kicking him out was so palpable Eli practically collapsed into a heap where he stood. “Of course. Thank you – just, thank you.” He smiled meekly, feeling too vulnerable for the early hour. He shifted and dusted himself off, trying to regain some of his lost dignity. The day’s plan was set – clean, breakfast, clean again (this time at Eli’s home – he still stunk and needed those clothes), then head to this mysterious meeting. He only hoped he wouldn’t regret dragging Lisette into all this.
Pipsqueak
<3
"Oh pretty bird, please tell me
How come birds fly?
How come they try to reach for the sky?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
Do you know how a girl like me makes tears?
Do you know what a girl like me fears?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
Will you hear about the woman this girl has strong affection for?
Will you sing about the heart anymore?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
How ever could I catch her affection?
How ever could I know her intention?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
How come birds sing?
Is it peace they are trying to bring?
But pretty bird, please tell me
If birds sing, and peace they bring
What if I sing, is it love I ring?"
"Such a beautiful little thing. Did you write this, Mr. Daughtery?" The light, gleeful voice came from somewhere behind the rather elegant chair James had claimed as his. Aside from the constant bombardment of questions that hadn't eased since that morning, the flat was blanketed in silence.
"Read again, my dear, quietly please, and review your question... Quietly." His throat felt scratchy as he spoke, like thousands of needles pricking at the weakest parts of his flesh. It was no surprise considering he'd been silent since yesterday afternoon, contemplating a certain note he'd received from a very distant colleague of his. This same note was once again in his hands, the wood pulp paper forever marked with familiar handwriting. A long, slender finger traced the edges of it, dark eyes scanning over it again and again. Victor Bouchard, carpenter by day and ghost whisperer 24/7. James hadn't spoken to the man since last November, on a case that included multiple murders and a touch of gifted practice.
Victor was, in a word, melancholic. James admired his ability to be thoughtful and assess situations with logic, despite what he could only assume as near constant noise from the other side. The detective had no jealousy hidden in that regard, and it seemed whatever hypocritical annoyance he'd had towards Mr. Bouchard was rapidly dissipating as he read and re-read the note. Victor needed his help this time, did he? A small smile pricked at the corner of James's thin lips.
"I don't understand, Mr. Daughtery." Alexandrea, James's 40 something year old maid, stood with her hands clasped in front of her.
"How was re-reading supposed to answer my question at all?" Her airy voice wavered just a bit, expecting some sort of backlash for not have caught something that would, in his mind, be simple. Fortunately, he seemed in a good mood, if not a bit preoccupied.
"That poem you have from my cabinet. It states in the fifth and sixth lines that the author is a woman, does it not?" He turned towards her, gazing at the older woman with amusement. Alexandrea smiled in relief at his lack of harsh words, and read the thing a third time.
"So it does! Who wrote it then?" James stood from his chair, tossing the letter aside.
"That, Miss Rycer, is the question isn't it? Do not wait up for me tonight. I have important business to attend and am not quite sure how long it will take. If you find yourself bored, the kitchen needs tidying. Once that's done, go to my nightstand and only my nightstand. There you will find a small, silver key. If you must know who wrote that poem, logic is required. Good day, then." The look of curiosity and excitement that crossed her face was enough to satisfy James. He left without another word and started towards the place Victor had asked him to meet. He had his own mystery to solve.
How come birds fly?
How come they try to reach for the sky?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
Do you know how a girl like me makes tears?
Do you know what a girl like me fears?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
Will you hear about the woman this girl has strong affection for?
Will you sing about the heart anymore?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
How ever could I catch her affection?
How ever could I know her intention?
Oh pretty bird, please tell me
How come birds sing?
Is it peace they are trying to bring?
But pretty bird, please tell me
If birds sing, and peace they bring
What if I sing, is it love I ring?"
"Such a beautiful little thing. Did you write this, Mr. Daughtery?" The light, gleeful voice came from somewhere behind the rather elegant chair James had claimed as his. Aside from the constant bombardment of questions that hadn't eased since that morning, the flat was blanketed in silence.
"Read again, my dear, quietly please, and review your question... Quietly." His throat felt scratchy as he spoke, like thousands of needles pricking at the weakest parts of his flesh. It was no surprise considering he'd been silent since yesterday afternoon, contemplating a certain note he'd received from a very distant colleague of his. This same note was once again in his hands, the wood pulp paper forever marked with familiar handwriting. A long, slender finger traced the edges of it, dark eyes scanning over it again and again. Victor Bouchard, carpenter by day and ghost whisperer 24/7. James hadn't spoken to the man since last November, on a case that included multiple murders and a touch of gifted practice.
Victor was, in a word, melancholic. James admired his ability to be thoughtful and assess situations with logic, despite what he could only assume as near constant noise from the other side. The detective had no jealousy hidden in that regard, and it seemed whatever hypocritical annoyance he'd had towards Mr. Bouchard was rapidly dissipating as he read and re-read the note. Victor needed his help this time, did he? A small smile pricked at the corner of James's thin lips.
"I don't understand, Mr. Daughtery." Alexandrea, James's 40 something year old maid, stood with her hands clasped in front of her.
"How was re-reading supposed to answer my question at all?" Her airy voice wavered just a bit, expecting some sort of backlash for not have caught something that would, in his mind, be simple. Fortunately, he seemed in a good mood, if not a bit preoccupied.
"That poem you have from my cabinet. It states in the fifth and sixth lines that the author is a woman, does it not?" He turned towards her, gazing at the older woman with amusement. Alexandrea smiled in relief at his lack of harsh words, and read the thing a third time.
"So it does! Who wrote it then?" James stood from his chair, tossing the letter aside.
"That, Miss Rycer, is the question isn't it? Do not wait up for me tonight. I have important business to attend and am not quite sure how long it will take. If you find yourself bored, the kitchen needs tidying. Once that's done, go to my nightstand and only my nightstand. There you will find a small, silver key. If you must know who wrote that poem, logic is required. Good day, then." The look of curiosity and excitement that crossed her face was enough to satisfy James. He left without another word and started towards the place Victor had asked him to meet. He had his own mystery to solve.
Aeris
BSC
The morning had been off to such a dreadful start, or so Edeline thought anyway. She had begun her dreary day late for her morning classes, as she had been up late the previous night working on a paper due the following day. She'd made it eventually of course, though, she wished the universe hadn't been so insistent on her sleeping in. The morning itself felt off in an odd way as well. Edeline had chalked it up to her being late, but she couldn't help feeling like there was something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.
Still, it didn't stop the young woman from attending her remaining classes until late in the afternoon, when she was finally able to sit in the grass and think. Such a beautiful day and it appeared not a person wanted to sit outside and study. It was then she realized what felt so off about today. Her peers- the ones who showed up anyway- appeared on edge. She couldn't blame them of course. Edeline had heard the rumors around town, the sightings had begun to appear more and more frequent. She was almost positive her mother and grandmother had gotten distressing letters asking for protection charms and the sort. It is funny how people bash one's religion until it is something they can benefit from. Though she was sure her family didn't mind the extra income. Perhaps she would go home today and pay her family a visit. She didn't live terribly far and she was sure her mother would love the extra help in charm making.
By early evening Edeline had made her mind up. She meticulously packed an overnight bag and began the 45-minute or so walk home. While she attended college in town, her parents had a small home just on the outskirts. It made it easy for her mother to grow her own herbs as well as keep them out of the way of those who frowned upon them, as most did.
"Mother, I'm home!" Edeline knocked on the door frame three times, a habit she had picked up from her mother over the years. It brought them luck...or was it warding off evil spirits? Edeline had forgotten over the years though she was sure it was something positive at the very least. "Mother?" She called out again.
"Edeline? What are you doing here?" The soft, almost whimsical voice of her mother called out from the kitchen. "Not that I'm not happy to see you love, but..." Edeline peaked into the kitchen, the mess before her confirming her previous suspicions.
"I heard the rumors and figured you would need help." She wasn't the best at charm or potion making, but it was something she was capable of doing since she lacked other abilities. "I think you need the help," Edeline added as she rolled up her sleeves and started a fresh protection charm. The two women worked in silence for a bit before her mother spoke again.
"I received a letter from Victor- do you remember him? He's asked me to join him and some others in investigating the rumors."
"Victor yes, I remember," Edeline paused a moment before turning to face her mother, "... are you planning on going?"
"Maybe? I'm awfully busy right now, however. Almost everyone in town is requesting protection. I may have you write back that I am unable to attend."
The idea was absurd and Edeline regretted it the moment she thought about it. But it was one she thought about for the remainder of the day. She waited until they had finished before presenting the idea to her mom, so as not to put negative thoughts into the charms.
"I could go." She absolutely could not. "It'll be easy." It would be far from easy. Edeline lacked the ability to see through the veil, that was no secret. But she felt she gained from other abilities. And this way her mother could stay safe at home and orders would not get backed up. "It would be an interesting paper as well," she added, hoping including her studies would sway her mother's opinion.
The silence had turned almost excruciating as her mother cleaned the kitchen, her face expressionless. Edeline braced herself for the lecture, about how she couldn't throw herself into situations where she was at a disadvantage. How she could get hurt or even worse. Though Edeline would argue that never stopped her in the past.
"If you want to go in my place, I can't stop you." That wasn't what she had been expecting. Edeline turned to face her mother, who had busied herself in arranging the empty bottles. "I don't want you going, let's be clear. But I'm sure you would have gone anyway, hm?" Edeline couldn't argue with that. She would have gone there regardless to investigate.
And so Edeline packed another bag, this one partial to charms and the sorts, before wishing her parents well. She secured the hag stone around her neck, as to ward off negative energies, before setting off to the destination Victor had written down.
Still, it didn't stop the young woman from attending her remaining classes until late in the afternoon, when she was finally able to sit in the grass and think. Such a beautiful day and it appeared not a person wanted to sit outside and study. It was then she realized what felt so off about today. Her peers- the ones who showed up anyway- appeared on edge. She couldn't blame them of course. Edeline had heard the rumors around town, the sightings had begun to appear more and more frequent. She was almost positive her mother and grandmother had gotten distressing letters asking for protection charms and the sort. It is funny how people bash one's religion until it is something they can benefit from. Though she was sure her family didn't mind the extra income. Perhaps she would go home today and pay her family a visit. She didn't live terribly far and she was sure her mother would love the extra help in charm making.
By early evening Edeline had made her mind up. She meticulously packed an overnight bag and began the 45-minute or so walk home. While she attended college in town, her parents had a small home just on the outskirts. It made it easy for her mother to grow her own herbs as well as keep them out of the way of those who frowned upon them, as most did.
"Mother, I'm home!" Edeline knocked on the door frame three times, a habit she had picked up from her mother over the years. It brought them luck...or was it warding off evil spirits? Edeline had forgotten over the years though she was sure it was something positive at the very least. "Mother?" She called out again.
"Edeline? What are you doing here?" The soft, almost whimsical voice of her mother called out from the kitchen. "Not that I'm not happy to see you love, but..." Edeline peaked into the kitchen, the mess before her confirming her previous suspicions.
"I heard the rumors and figured you would need help." She wasn't the best at charm or potion making, but it was something she was capable of doing since she lacked other abilities. "I think you need the help," Edeline added as she rolled up her sleeves and started a fresh protection charm. The two women worked in silence for a bit before her mother spoke again.
"I received a letter from Victor- do you remember him? He's asked me to join him and some others in investigating the rumors."
"Victor yes, I remember," Edeline paused a moment before turning to face her mother, "... are you planning on going?"
"Maybe? I'm awfully busy right now, however. Almost everyone in town is requesting protection. I may have you write back that I am unable to attend."
The idea was absurd and Edeline regretted it the moment she thought about it. But it was one she thought about for the remainder of the day. She waited until they had finished before presenting the idea to her mom, so as not to put negative thoughts into the charms.
"I could go." She absolutely could not. "It'll be easy." It would be far from easy. Edeline lacked the ability to see through the veil, that was no secret. But she felt she gained from other abilities. And this way her mother could stay safe at home and orders would not get backed up. "It would be an interesting paper as well," she added, hoping including her studies would sway her mother's opinion.
The silence had turned almost excruciating as her mother cleaned the kitchen, her face expressionless. Edeline braced herself for the lecture, about how she couldn't throw herself into situations where she was at a disadvantage. How she could get hurt or even worse. Though Edeline would argue that never stopped her in the past.
"If you want to go in my place, I can't stop you." That wasn't what she had been expecting. Edeline turned to face her mother, who had busied herself in arranging the empty bottles. "I don't want you going, let's be clear. But I'm sure you would have gone anyway, hm?" Edeline couldn't argue with that. She would have gone there regardless to investigate.
And so Edeline packed another bag, this one partial to charms and the sorts, before wishing her parents well. She secured the hag stone around her neck, as to ward off negative energies, before setting off to the destination Victor had written down.
evermoon
ever || he/him
When the sun began to slip into the sky in earnest, Levy was getting up in time with it. The soft light that cracked through the gaps in his curtains wasn't enough to rouse him; it wasn't the actual movement of the sun that had him up at this hour, but his own internal clock. Over the past few years, he'd grown accustomed to rising this early, and mostly for the peace of it-- at this time, he could be assured that the rest of the house still slept. If anybody would be awake, it would be his mother's husband, and Sam wasn't much of a conversationalist even when he'd been awake for hours.
He was always glad for the peace in the morning, but today especially, it was needed. The letter from Victor Bouchard still sat on his desk, the pale paper stark against the books and journals stacked around it. Even though he could only see it out of the corner of his eye, he could feel it there like it dominated the room. It called a sort of unavoidable attention to itself that he couldn't put out of his mind.
The offer was intriguing. Levy's usual work, which did little more than help keep a roof over his family's head and keep him from being a financial burden on the household, had been drying up a bit in recent weeks. There was no obvious discernable cause; he'd had no bad reviews or interactions with customers lately, and it wasn't like there was a staggering drop in the amount of loved ones dying these days.
Levy knew what it was anyway. There was something... wrong, in the air lately. Nothing he could explain, or put a name to, but there was something that wasn't right about lately. There was an energy around that put an itch under his skin. Despite his normal sensitivity to things considered supernatural, however, he knew it wasn't just him. He could see people heading to church in droves lately, and his own mother had started praying with a new fervency. Rumors were spiraling around, and Abby had come home from school more than once spouting off something she'd heard about the whole thing from a classmate.
Whatever it was, business for him was starting to slow. Maybe people were too concerned with other things, or this energy was pushing them away from seeking out any experience of help that could be supernatural. Either way, it was bad news.
The letter-- or the offer in the letter, really-- was something Levy couldn't pass up. It might not make more than slightly-above-meager earnings, but Levy liked what he did for work. Bringing closure, peace, or something else to someone in grief was soothing. There was something calmed in his chest by the gratitude in a widow's eyes, or the strong handshake a father gave despite the tears in his eyes. He didn't want to have to find other work when the skills he had already could do something like this, but if he continued to see the lack of clients he was facing, he wasn't going to have much of a choice.
Of course he was going to go. At least to hear the man out. It was that or start looking around for new work.
Levy dressed quick, with his normal quiet movements. Having the attic room meant that his footsteps carried, and he didn't want to be responsible for waking the rest of the family. Especially today, when he intended to slip out without being seen. He'd prepared everything last night: organized his stuff, packed a bag, and left a note on his nightstand. The only thing he needed to do here was get out unseen to avoid the line of questioning his mother would heap onto him before letting him out of her sight.
Once he was ready, or ready enough, he slung his bag over his shoulder and slipped down the stairs. They creaked just a bit under his weight, but not enough to raise any alarm. Nothing stirred as he slipped down from the attic to the first floor, and he let some of the tension in his shoulders relax. It wasn't until he reached the front door that something interrupted him.
"Where are you going?"
If he were a more easily startled person, Levy would have jumped. The unexpected voice did cause his face to twist in surprise, but he schooled his expression before turning around.
Abby, known for being the latest riser in the house, was awake and sitting at the dining room table with a book cracked open in front of her. There was a still-steaming mug of something in his half-sister's hands, and she was holding it half against her chest, like the warmth of it was the thing keeping her upright.
"Why are you awake this early?" Levy asked.
"Couldn't sleep," she replied with a shrug. "Where are you going?"
"Out."
"This early? With a bag?"
Levy sighed. While his mother was the one he was hoping to avoid, an ideal scenario would have been making it out of the house unseen. Abby might not be able to stop him, but she would ask him more questions than he cared to to answer. "Listen, Abby--"
"Abigail," she corrected; somewhere in the past year, she'd decided Abigail was far more adult than Abby, and refused to answer to the nickname anymore.
"Fine, Abigail. I'm heading out. I might be gone a couple days, okay? I left a note upstairs. Somebody asked for my help on something, I'm gonna go check it out."
Her eyes lit up at the last sentence. "Who's asking for your help? Is it a median thing?"
"It's related."
"Oh, ma's gonna flip," Abby said, dropping her mug of tea on the table and leaning back. "You're just running off without saying anything to do a median thing? She's gonna hate it."
"Well, ma will live," Levy replied. "I'm an adult who can make decisions. And honestly, I need the help, too. Business has been down."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
"It's my job, Abby. It's how I make money."
"Yeah, but ma would love if you found a new job," she said. "You know she wants you to move on. Find something regular and stable. Something--"
Levy fought the urge to roll his eyes. As stubborn as she was, and dedicated to thinking she was a wholly unique person, there were moments where his sister did nothing but parrot their mother. Despite his normal patience, the two of them had a way of wearing on him. His mother had been on him for months now, trying to convince him that medium work wasn't for him anymore. It wasn't a real job in her eyes, not something proper a man could build his life on.
(Most recently, she'd taken to pointing out any job opening she could find, no matter the place, type of labor, or qualifications needed. Her latest suggestion was carpentry, which she insisted he was built for despite the fact he'd never held a hammer in his life.)
"Something you can call a living," he finished, cutting his sister off.. "I'm aware, thank you."
"Don't get cross with me," Abigail replied, but the dour tone her voice took on contradicted this.
"I'm not cross. But I've heard it all before."
"You'll hear it again, I bet."
Levy sighed. "I bet I will. The day ma gives it a rest is the day I get out of this house."
"And she'll be distraught when you go like it wasn't what she wanted in the first place."
"That she will," he agreed, before glancing down at his wrist. His watch assured him it was still early, but that didn't mean he was off the hook yet; the creaking of the floor above him told him that somebody else in the house was waking up. Considering that both he and Abigail were downstairs already, there was a fifty-fifty shot it was his mother, and Levy wasn't the type for betting. He'd never been any good at playing the odds.
"Look, Abigail," he said, sending the stairs a wary glance. "I gotta head out before ma comes down and starts in on me, okay? Tell her I left a note upstairs."
"It say where you're going?"
"It says enough."
Abigail studied him for a few seconds before shrugging, reaching out for her tea again. "Fine," she said. "But I'm gonna pretend to find it later and show it to her. I don't need her asking me why I didn't stop you from wherever you're heading off to."
"If that makes it easier for you," he replied. "I'll see you in a couple days, okay?"
In lieu of responding, she lifted her cup in salute. Levy returned the gesture with his hand before turning away. He had one hand on the doorknob when she called his name again, stopping him in his tracks.
"Hey, Levy?"
He glanced back over his shoulder to see Abigail watching him with narrowed eyes, looking rather serious compared to her earlier attitude. "Yeah?"
"Don't be stupid, okay? I'll be real embarrassed of you if you get killed by a ghost."
Despite himself, Levy grinned. As teasing as her words might seem, he knew well enough that they were laced with genuine concern. After all, that was the often the only way the two of them displayed any real emotion towards each other.
"I'll try real hard," he promised. Abigail watched him for another moment before nodding and turning back to the book still sitting in front of her. Levy watched her for a second more, half a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips, before he opened the door and stepped out of the house-- towards whatever was waiting for him.
He was always glad for the peace in the morning, but today especially, it was needed. The letter from Victor Bouchard still sat on his desk, the pale paper stark against the books and journals stacked around it. Even though he could only see it out of the corner of his eye, he could feel it there like it dominated the room. It called a sort of unavoidable attention to itself that he couldn't put out of his mind.
The offer was intriguing. Levy's usual work, which did little more than help keep a roof over his family's head and keep him from being a financial burden on the household, had been drying up a bit in recent weeks. There was no obvious discernable cause; he'd had no bad reviews or interactions with customers lately, and it wasn't like there was a staggering drop in the amount of loved ones dying these days.
Levy knew what it was anyway. There was something... wrong, in the air lately. Nothing he could explain, or put a name to, but there was something that wasn't right about lately. There was an energy around that put an itch under his skin. Despite his normal sensitivity to things considered supernatural, however, he knew it wasn't just him. He could see people heading to church in droves lately, and his own mother had started praying with a new fervency. Rumors were spiraling around, and Abby had come home from school more than once spouting off something she'd heard about the whole thing from a classmate.
Whatever it was, business for him was starting to slow. Maybe people were too concerned with other things, or this energy was pushing them away from seeking out any experience of help that could be supernatural. Either way, it was bad news.
The letter-- or the offer in the letter, really-- was something Levy couldn't pass up. It might not make more than slightly-above-meager earnings, but Levy liked what he did for work. Bringing closure, peace, or something else to someone in grief was soothing. There was something calmed in his chest by the gratitude in a widow's eyes, or the strong handshake a father gave despite the tears in his eyes. He didn't want to have to find other work when the skills he had already could do something like this, but if he continued to see the lack of clients he was facing, he wasn't going to have much of a choice.
Of course he was going to go. At least to hear the man out. It was that or start looking around for new work.
Levy dressed quick, with his normal quiet movements. Having the attic room meant that his footsteps carried, and he didn't want to be responsible for waking the rest of the family. Especially today, when he intended to slip out without being seen. He'd prepared everything last night: organized his stuff, packed a bag, and left a note on his nightstand. The only thing he needed to do here was get out unseen to avoid the line of questioning his mother would heap onto him before letting him out of her sight.
Once he was ready, or ready enough, he slung his bag over his shoulder and slipped down the stairs. They creaked just a bit under his weight, but not enough to raise any alarm. Nothing stirred as he slipped down from the attic to the first floor, and he let some of the tension in his shoulders relax. It wasn't until he reached the front door that something interrupted him.
"Where are you going?"
If he were a more easily startled person, Levy would have jumped. The unexpected voice did cause his face to twist in surprise, but he schooled his expression before turning around.
Abby, known for being the latest riser in the house, was awake and sitting at the dining room table with a book cracked open in front of her. There was a still-steaming mug of something in his half-sister's hands, and she was holding it half against her chest, like the warmth of it was the thing keeping her upright.
"Why are you awake this early?" Levy asked.
"Couldn't sleep," she replied with a shrug. "Where are you going?"
"Out."
"This early? With a bag?"
Levy sighed. While his mother was the one he was hoping to avoid, an ideal scenario would have been making it out of the house unseen. Abby might not be able to stop him, but she would ask him more questions than he cared to to answer. "Listen, Abby--"
"Abigail," she corrected; somewhere in the past year, she'd decided Abigail was far more adult than Abby, and refused to answer to the nickname anymore.
"Fine, Abigail. I'm heading out. I might be gone a couple days, okay? I left a note upstairs. Somebody asked for my help on something, I'm gonna go check it out."
Her eyes lit up at the last sentence. "Who's asking for your help? Is it a median thing?"
"It's related."
"Oh, ma's gonna flip," Abby said, dropping her mug of tea on the table and leaning back. "You're just running off without saying anything to do a median thing? She's gonna hate it."
"Well, ma will live," Levy replied. "I'm an adult who can make decisions. And honestly, I need the help, too. Business has been down."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
"It's my job, Abby. It's how I make money."
"Yeah, but ma would love if you found a new job," she said. "You know she wants you to move on. Find something regular and stable. Something--"
Levy fought the urge to roll his eyes. As stubborn as she was, and dedicated to thinking she was a wholly unique person, there were moments where his sister did nothing but parrot their mother. Despite his normal patience, the two of them had a way of wearing on him. His mother had been on him for months now, trying to convince him that medium work wasn't for him anymore. It wasn't a real job in her eyes, not something proper a man could build his life on.
(Most recently, she'd taken to pointing out any job opening she could find, no matter the place, type of labor, or qualifications needed. Her latest suggestion was carpentry, which she insisted he was built for despite the fact he'd never held a hammer in his life.)
"Something you can call a living," he finished, cutting his sister off.. "I'm aware, thank you."
"Don't get cross with me," Abigail replied, but the dour tone her voice took on contradicted this.
"I'm not cross. But I've heard it all before."
"You'll hear it again, I bet."
Levy sighed. "I bet I will. The day ma gives it a rest is the day I get out of this house."
"And she'll be distraught when you go like it wasn't what she wanted in the first place."
"That she will," he agreed, before glancing down at his wrist. His watch assured him it was still early, but that didn't mean he was off the hook yet; the creaking of the floor above him told him that somebody else in the house was waking up. Considering that both he and Abigail were downstairs already, there was a fifty-fifty shot it was his mother, and Levy wasn't the type for betting. He'd never been any good at playing the odds.
"Look, Abigail," he said, sending the stairs a wary glance. "I gotta head out before ma comes down and starts in on me, okay? Tell her I left a note upstairs."
"It say where you're going?"
"It says enough."
Abigail studied him for a few seconds before shrugging, reaching out for her tea again. "Fine," she said. "But I'm gonna pretend to find it later and show it to her. I don't need her asking me why I didn't stop you from wherever you're heading off to."
"If that makes it easier for you," he replied. "I'll see you in a couple days, okay?"
In lieu of responding, she lifted her cup in salute. Levy returned the gesture with his hand before turning away. He had one hand on the doorknob when she called his name again, stopping him in his tracks.
"Hey, Levy?"
He glanced back over his shoulder to see Abigail watching him with narrowed eyes, looking rather serious compared to her earlier attitude. "Yeah?"
"Don't be stupid, okay? I'll be real embarrassed of you if you get killed by a ghost."
Despite himself, Levy grinned. As teasing as her words might seem, he knew well enough that they were laced with genuine concern. After all, that was the often the only way the two of them displayed any real emotion towards each other.
"I'll try real hard," he promised. Abigail watched him for another moment before nodding and turning back to the book still sitting in front of her. Levy watched her for a second more, half a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips, before he opened the door and stepped out of the house-- towards whatever was waiting for him.
guac
amole
This chapter of Elsie’s life, like many before it, began with a photograph.
Kingsworth Estate should have been like any other destination. Elsie would set up her equipment, put an ad in the paper, and wait for the clients to come. And come they would – widows with stories of husbands lost to war, soft spoken mothers missing infants taken by disease, brothers seeking one last look at dear sisters – all sorts would flock to Elsie’s call. She would sit with them, listen to their pain, offer words of comfort, and take their photograph – and of course their money as well. A few weeks later they would receive in the mail a portrait of themselves and their ghostly loved ones, a little trinket of hope that those who are lost might not be so far away.
Before any of that, of course, Elsie had to take some pictures of herself. Ghosts were, as far as she could tell, not real – so delivering the product she promised to her clients took a bit of smoke and mirrors. The specters of loved ones come to visit were created by none other than Elsie herself, in the dark room. She had quite a few photos of men and babies that she could reuse for this process, but she preferred to model the women herself. She could get the lighting just right, match the backgrounds.
She liked to think of it as an art, of sorts. She was good at it, so much so that she had her process down to an easy routine. Sometimes the locations blurred together, each place so similar to the last.
This time was different, though.
She heard rumors of a haunted estate almost as soon as she arrived in Baltimore. She was used to this by now — all across the South the superstitious gathered in saloons to whisper tales of phantom remnants of the toppled empire rising to haunt the new order. Haunted plantations, mansions, estates — these were all par for the course.
Kingsworth Estate should have been like any one of these properties she’d been to before. The main house, surely once grand with all its gothic revival flourishes and stained glass windows, sat in disheveled abandonment: blue paint peeling, shingles hanging crooked, vines crawling up the walls.
The carriage house was in a similar state, with one door left swinging open to let in the musty southern air. It looked like someone had been squatting inside for a time, though not anymore. They’d left behind a tattered blanket and a rusty lantern, as well as some food scraps that had grown moldy in their absence. The scene was curious, to be sure, but Elsie did not fancy herself an Auguste Dupin, so she left the carriage house alone.
She ultimately decided to set up shop in the overgrown garden. The weather was perfect for it, the sun hidden behind cloud cover, washing the scene in a dreary grey. There was an elaborate fountain which had surely once been an impressive centerpiece of the manicured garden, but was now cracked and spotted with moss and weeds. A very haunted looking backdrop, Elsie decided. She set her folding chair in front of it and adjusted her camera to frame the house just so in the background.
She wore a white dress, as she found she looked quite ghostly in the color. She let down her long brown hair, letting it fall in front of her face to better hide her features. She had a handy little device that allowed her to take the photographs from a distance — a little pedal she could conceal on the tall grass.
The hot summer air hung heavy around her as she went through the motions, trying different poses, swaying just a bit as the picture was taken as to give herself a ghostly blur.
All of a sudden a cold wind blew from behind her, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. She felt a chill, despite the sweat beading on her forehead. Storm coming, must be, she supposed.
A silly little notion in the back of her mind wondered if someone was watching her. Come now Elsie, she chided, you’re letting the stories go to your head.
Still, she couldn’t shake that funny feeling. It followed her all the way to her traveling dark room (a converted carriage drawn by her trusty horse, Melvin, which was also where she slept), as she developed the photos from the day.
She loved this process. Sometimes, when she was in a particularly whimsical mood, it almost felt like magic: mixing chemicals just so, creating something out of nothing.
As the first photograph began to develop, she noticed something from the corner of her eye. As the shapes came into focus, she looked closer. Was her mind playing tricks, or could that be a face in the window?
Elsie swallowed. She felt a rock in the pit of her stomach. Ghosts weren’t real. They were stories made up by the living to feel closer to the dead. She’d stake her livelihood on that — in fact, she had.
Calmly as she could, she developed the rest of the photos. One after the other, each was the same. There was Elsie, the “ghostly” figure in the foreground, and behind her, peeking through a window on the second floor, were two phantom figures that Elsie didn’t put there. Two little children, a boy and a girl, peering down at her almost curiously.
Surely they weren’t ghosts. Living children, maybe, who happened to be exploring the old house while Elsie was there. Their strange transparent appearance was only because they hadn't remained still while the picture was taken. But then, why hadn’t she seen them? Or heard them giggling and pitter pattering about?
She couldn’t shake the dread. Something here felt very wrong. She wanted to just pick up and leave town, forget she’d ever been to Baltimore, but it was too late; the wheels were already in motion. She’d put out her ads in the local paper, customers would be coming to look her up in the next few days. She couldn’t risk such a hit to her reputation.
Those same ads must have been what led the mysterious Victor to find her. Their interaction was so strange that it all seemed to go by in a blur.
He’d spoken of some great evil, of the need for her skills. Truly, the man sounded crazy. Elsie was used to dealing with true believers in the supernatural, but this Victor seemed to be on another level.
Most perplexing of all, Elsie had agreed to assist him. She shook her head, as she sat in her carriage that night, remembering the whole affair.
Elsie you fool, what the devil have you gotten yourself into?
Kingsworth Estate should have been like any other destination. Elsie would set up her equipment, put an ad in the paper, and wait for the clients to come. And come they would – widows with stories of husbands lost to war, soft spoken mothers missing infants taken by disease, brothers seeking one last look at dear sisters – all sorts would flock to Elsie’s call. She would sit with them, listen to their pain, offer words of comfort, and take their photograph – and of course their money as well. A few weeks later they would receive in the mail a portrait of themselves and their ghostly loved ones, a little trinket of hope that those who are lost might not be so far away.
Before any of that, of course, Elsie had to take some pictures of herself. Ghosts were, as far as she could tell, not real – so delivering the product she promised to her clients took a bit of smoke and mirrors. The specters of loved ones come to visit were created by none other than Elsie herself, in the dark room. She had quite a few photos of men and babies that she could reuse for this process, but she preferred to model the women herself. She could get the lighting just right, match the backgrounds.
She liked to think of it as an art, of sorts. She was good at it, so much so that she had her process down to an easy routine. Sometimes the locations blurred together, each place so similar to the last.
This time was different, though.
She heard rumors of a haunted estate almost as soon as she arrived in Baltimore. She was used to this by now — all across the South the superstitious gathered in saloons to whisper tales of phantom remnants of the toppled empire rising to haunt the new order. Haunted plantations, mansions, estates — these were all par for the course.
Kingsworth Estate should have been like any one of these properties she’d been to before. The main house, surely once grand with all its gothic revival flourishes and stained glass windows, sat in disheveled abandonment: blue paint peeling, shingles hanging crooked, vines crawling up the walls.
The carriage house was in a similar state, with one door left swinging open to let in the musty southern air. It looked like someone had been squatting inside for a time, though not anymore. They’d left behind a tattered blanket and a rusty lantern, as well as some food scraps that had grown moldy in their absence. The scene was curious, to be sure, but Elsie did not fancy herself an Auguste Dupin, so she left the carriage house alone.
She ultimately decided to set up shop in the overgrown garden. The weather was perfect for it, the sun hidden behind cloud cover, washing the scene in a dreary grey. There was an elaborate fountain which had surely once been an impressive centerpiece of the manicured garden, but was now cracked and spotted with moss and weeds. A very haunted looking backdrop, Elsie decided. She set her folding chair in front of it and adjusted her camera to frame the house just so in the background.
She wore a white dress, as she found she looked quite ghostly in the color. She let down her long brown hair, letting it fall in front of her face to better hide her features. She had a handy little device that allowed her to take the photographs from a distance — a little pedal she could conceal on the tall grass.
The hot summer air hung heavy around her as she went through the motions, trying different poses, swaying just a bit as the picture was taken as to give herself a ghostly blur.
All of a sudden a cold wind blew from behind her, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. She felt a chill, despite the sweat beading on her forehead. Storm coming, must be, she supposed.
A silly little notion in the back of her mind wondered if someone was watching her. Come now Elsie, she chided, you’re letting the stories go to your head.
Still, she couldn’t shake that funny feeling. It followed her all the way to her traveling dark room (a converted carriage drawn by her trusty horse, Melvin, which was also where she slept), as she developed the photos from the day.
She loved this process. Sometimes, when she was in a particularly whimsical mood, it almost felt like magic: mixing chemicals just so, creating something out of nothing.
As the first photograph began to develop, she noticed something from the corner of her eye. As the shapes came into focus, she looked closer. Was her mind playing tricks, or could that be a face in the window?
Elsie swallowed. She felt a rock in the pit of her stomach. Ghosts weren’t real. They were stories made up by the living to feel closer to the dead. She’d stake her livelihood on that — in fact, she had.
Calmly as she could, she developed the rest of the photos. One after the other, each was the same. There was Elsie, the “ghostly” figure in the foreground, and behind her, peeking through a window on the second floor, were two phantom figures that Elsie didn’t put there. Two little children, a boy and a girl, peering down at her almost curiously.
Surely they weren’t ghosts. Living children, maybe, who happened to be exploring the old house while Elsie was there. Their strange transparent appearance was only because they hadn't remained still while the picture was taken. But then, why hadn’t she seen them? Or heard them giggling and pitter pattering about?
She couldn’t shake the dread. Something here felt very wrong. She wanted to just pick up and leave town, forget she’d ever been to Baltimore, but it was too late; the wheels were already in motion. She’d put out her ads in the local paper, customers would be coming to look her up in the next few days. She couldn’t risk such a hit to her reputation.
Those same ads must have been what led the mysterious Victor to find her. Their interaction was so strange that it all seemed to go by in a blur.
He’d spoken of some great evil, of the need for her skills. Truly, the man sounded crazy. Elsie was used to dealing with true believers in the supernatural, but this Victor seemed to be on another level.
Most perplexing of all, Elsie had agreed to assist him. She shook her head, as she sat in her carriage that night, remembering the whole affair.
Elsie you fool, what the devil have you gotten yourself into?
queendilettante
🤍 Heart Problems 🤍
The fateful day arrived without much festivity. The week had been as typical as Joseph had come to rely on in his profession. About a dozen people came for confession, his highest weekly number in a few months, but that was as memorable a quality as the week was fated to have.
At least, until Friday.
The morning began with a feeling of dread in the air as sticky and thick as molasses in the summer heat. Were that not everything plaguing the atmosphere, none came to the church that morning for perhaps the first time since the hauntings began. It was an omen, that fact was near-assured. Joseph only hoped it was not one of ill intent.
It wasn’t until the afternoon when Joseph encountered another soul for the first time that day. A man, tall and scrawny, stood by the altar as a shadow among flames. Joseph could never have mistaken the man for one of his flock.
“May I help you, sir?”
James regarded the priest closely, lips tight in a look that might’ve been taken as an uninterested greeting but in fact hid his slight uncomfortability in the church. He was a man of science, after all, and though he had no intention of cowering in fear of being burned for not believing in a higher entity, it still had a way of making him feel… empty.
Neither had he the pleasure of meeting Father Joseph before now, but he was pleased to see how open he really was. Joseph was quite a few inches shorter than he, no more than 100 pounds soaking wet. The man was gaunt, tired, clearly in a state of progressive stress. A smoker, by the looks of it, and mousy too, though he hid his timidness well behind his stance.
“How do you do, Father? I am James Daughtery. I was called upon by a mutual acquaintance of ours, Mr. Victor Bouchard, in regard to the spirit problem? He wrote to me asking to talk to you.” This time James attempted a halfhearted smile, going through the steps of a conventional social interaction that Alexandrea had scolded him about more often than not.
Joseph felt as if the man’s eyes were piercing through him. It was disconcerting, but he straightened his back and tried to stand a bit taller; he didn’t want to come across as weak or cowering.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Daughtery,” Joseph said, smiling. He weaved through the pews and approached the man by the altar, arm extended for a handshake. “My name is Joseph Healy. I am the priest of this parish and the man who requested Victor gather you. I take it his letter included some details of the problem we’re facing?”
James disregarded the outstretched hand, instead fixating on the structure around them. It was elegant, as any church should be, and hardly a thing seemed to be out of place. Even the podium of which Father Joseph performed his teachings seemed right as rain. It was evident that the mass had become hardly a gathering at this point. No wonder the man was under duress.
“It is detailed enough. I’ve scoured that parchment more than once, and I assure you I will do the best I can to make sure your church is well taken care of.” James reached for one of the bibles, turning it over in his hands with mild judgment.
“If you’d be so kind, Father, how do you know Mr. Bouchard? I should assume, considering his hobbies, that you are at least somewhat familiar with the other side?”
“Would you kindly put down the Bible, Mr. Daughtery?” Joseph smiled kindly; a practiced, measured smile Joseph needed to employ in equal amounts with detractors and zealots alike. This man was analyzing him and everything about the nave of St. Agnes parish. Who exactly was this man, and how was he acquainted with Victor?
Well, he had just asked Joseph the very same question.
“Victor has been a faithful parishioner for many years. He’s a good friend of mine, in spite of the hobbies of his to which you alluded. Have you worked with him in such a manner previously?”
“Him and I have worked on a few cases together. I’m sure you’ve heard of me? I’ve written quite a few essays on detective work.” James glanced up at Joseph, placing the Bible back in its rightful position and instead reached to grab his badge.
“I work for Scotland Yard, Father, and am quite passionate about the business of spirits. I practice the art of deduction and observation, you see. For example, the moment I laid eyes on you I noticed your near constant use of pipe tobacco. See here.” James pointed at the discoloration of Joseph’s fingertips. “Not to mention the faint lingering smell. I also know you haven’t been out of Baltimore in quite some time. The dirt on your shoes, for example, tell me as much. I do not mean to seem intrusive… It’s just my life’s work.”
As he spoke, James meandered around the pews, unable to stand still.
“You were unaware of my career and seemed unsure of my presence before I’d introduced myself. I know I’m not what you were expecting, so I must ask. What is it you will require of me for this job?”
Joseph stopped between two pews and stared at the detective. He was prodding him, testing him. In what other manner could Joseph receive the man’s parading of his skill set?
Perhaps it would be best to play along.
Joseph raised his hands in mimed-surrender and cracked a smile. “Guilty as charged, your honor, I am a bit too fond of the tobacco for my own good.” He forced a chuckle. Straightening his liturgical collar, Joseph lowered his hands before continuing. “Though I would be remiss not to mention hubris being a distressing sin of its own, Mr. Daughtery.”
James smiled to himself as he squinted against the sunlight peeking through the stained glass windows. The priest was certainly amusing. He decided he liked Joseph just fine.
“Loyalty, Father. I admire that.” James turned on his heel and walked back to the priest, an authentic grin spread across his face.
“I must admit, my ankles are deep in sin, and I am not quite ready to relinquish this death if it were to mean continuing with my contribution to this world. I’m sure you understand. I mean no trouble, I only wish to help. I might not be so inclined in accuracy if I had to abandon my beliefs before anything began.” James thought for a moment before continuing.
“We must discuss this over tea. I am confident that knowledge in your Bible might help with investigations in the future.”
Joseph relaxed. It appeared that he had passed whatever test the detective was forcing upon him. “Would you like tea now? The others aren’t due for another few hours. I’d be happy to oblige.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Afternoon tea with Mr. Daughtery passed about as quickly as Joseph had expected; the inquisitive nature of the man, often directed rather pointedly at Joseph himself, took quite a bit of adjustment to attune to. Once done, however, Joseph found himself enjoying the detective's company insomuch as was possible under the circumstances. Perhaps it was good practice, all things considered. Joseph knew better than to even hazard a guess at the eclectic assortment of vagabonds and other queer characters Victor would have assembled come the evening. If the strangest among them was the probing detective, Joseph would be apt keel over in shock.
When the evening sun began to fade into the oranges and pinks of dusk, Joseph excused himself from Mr. Daughtery's company for a moment. The chapel was thoroughly prepared for the evenings' guests, yet anxieties unbecoming began their tug at Joseph's heart. He should not have believed these fanciful stories of hauntings, they were practically absurd. The theology he had studied, rigorously poured the unending well of his soul toward, declared as much.
Yet, there he stood. Mere minutes stood between the life he had sworn to and the sin of these follies.
Steeling himself, Joseph exited the back room in time to see Victor's arrival to the hall. It was nearly time to begin.
At least, until Friday.
The morning began with a feeling of dread in the air as sticky and thick as molasses in the summer heat. Were that not everything plaguing the atmosphere, none came to the church that morning for perhaps the first time since the hauntings began. It was an omen, that fact was near-assured. Joseph only hoped it was not one of ill intent.
It wasn’t until the afternoon when Joseph encountered another soul for the first time that day. A man, tall and scrawny, stood by the altar as a shadow among flames. Joseph could never have mistaken the man for one of his flock.
“May I help you, sir?”
James regarded the priest closely, lips tight in a look that might’ve been taken as an uninterested greeting but in fact hid his slight uncomfortability in the church. He was a man of science, after all, and though he had no intention of cowering in fear of being burned for not believing in a higher entity, it still had a way of making him feel… empty.
Neither had he the pleasure of meeting Father Joseph before now, but he was pleased to see how open he really was. Joseph was quite a few inches shorter than he, no more than 100 pounds soaking wet. The man was gaunt, tired, clearly in a state of progressive stress. A smoker, by the looks of it, and mousy too, though he hid his timidness well behind his stance.
“How do you do, Father? I am James Daughtery. I was called upon by a mutual acquaintance of ours, Mr. Victor Bouchard, in regard to the spirit problem? He wrote to me asking to talk to you.” This time James attempted a halfhearted smile, going through the steps of a conventional social interaction that Alexandrea had scolded him about more often than not.
Joseph felt as if the man’s eyes were piercing through him. It was disconcerting, but he straightened his back and tried to stand a bit taller; he didn’t want to come across as weak or cowering.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Daughtery,” Joseph said, smiling. He weaved through the pews and approached the man by the altar, arm extended for a handshake. “My name is Joseph Healy. I am the priest of this parish and the man who requested Victor gather you. I take it his letter included some details of the problem we’re facing?”
James disregarded the outstretched hand, instead fixating on the structure around them. It was elegant, as any church should be, and hardly a thing seemed to be out of place. Even the podium of which Father Joseph performed his teachings seemed right as rain. It was evident that the mass had become hardly a gathering at this point. No wonder the man was under duress.
“It is detailed enough. I’ve scoured that parchment more than once, and I assure you I will do the best I can to make sure your church is well taken care of.” James reached for one of the bibles, turning it over in his hands with mild judgment.
“If you’d be so kind, Father, how do you know Mr. Bouchard? I should assume, considering his hobbies, that you are at least somewhat familiar with the other side?”
“Would you kindly put down the Bible, Mr. Daughtery?” Joseph smiled kindly; a practiced, measured smile Joseph needed to employ in equal amounts with detractors and zealots alike. This man was analyzing him and everything about the nave of St. Agnes parish. Who exactly was this man, and how was he acquainted with Victor?
Well, he had just asked Joseph the very same question.
“Victor has been a faithful parishioner for many years. He’s a good friend of mine, in spite of the hobbies of his to which you alluded. Have you worked with him in such a manner previously?”
“Him and I have worked on a few cases together. I’m sure you’ve heard of me? I’ve written quite a few essays on detective work.” James glanced up at Joseph, placing the Bible back in its rightful position and instead reached to grab his badge.
“I work for Scotland Yard, Father, and am quite passionate about the business of spirits. I practice the art of deduction and observation, you see. For example, the moment I laid eyes on you I noticed your near constant use of pipe tobacco. See here.” James pointed at the discoloration of Joseph’s fingertips. “Not to mention the faint lingering smell. I also know you haven’t been out of Baltimore in quite some time. The dirt on your shoes, for example, tell me as much. I do not mean to seem intrusive… It’s just my life’s work.”
As he spoke, James meandered around the pews, unable to stand still.
“You were unaware of my career and seemed unsure of my presence before I’d introduced myself. I know I’m not what you were expecting, so I must ask. What is it you will require of me for this job?”
Joseph stopped between two pews and stared at the detective. He was prodding him, testing him. In what other manner could Joseph receive the man’s parading of his skill set?
Perhaps it would be best to play along.
Joseph raised his hands in mimed-surrender and cracked a smile. “Guilty as charged, your honor, I am a bit too fond of the tobacco for my own good.” He forced a chuckle. Straightening his liturgical collar, Joseph lowered his hands before continuing. “Though I would be remiss not to mention hubris being a distressing sin of its own, Mr. Daughtery.”
James smiled to himself as he squinted against the sunlight peeking through the stained glass windows. The priest was certainly amusing. He decided he liked Joseph just fine.
“Loyalty, Father. I admire that.” James turned on his heel and walked back to the priest, an authentic grin spread across his face.
“I must admit, my ankles are deep in sin, and I am not quite ready to relinquish this death if it were to mean continuing with my contribution to this world. I’m sure you understand. I mean no trouble, I only wish to help. I might not be so inclined in accuracy if I had to abandon my beliefs before anything began.” James thought for a moment before continuing.
“We must discuss this over tea. I am confident that knowledge in your Bible might help with investigations in the future.”
Joseph relaxed. It appeared that he had passed whatever test the detective was forcing upon him. “Would you like tea now? The others aren’t due for another few hours. I’d be happy to oblige.”
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Afternoon tea with Mr. Daughtery passed about as quickly as Joseph had expected; the inquisitive nature of the man, often directed rather pointedly at Joseph himself, took quite a bit of adjustment to attune to. Once done, however, Joseph found himself enjoying the detective's company insomuch as was possible under the circumstances. Perhaps it was good practice, all things considered. Joseph knew better than to even hazard a guess at the eclectic assortment of vagabonds and other queer characters Victor would have assembled come the evening. If the strangest among them was the probing detective, Joseph would be apt keel over in shock.
When the evening sun began to fade into the oranges and pinks of dusk, Joseph excused himself from Mr. Daughtery's company for a moment. The chapel was thoroughly prepared for the evenings' guests, yet anxieties unbecoming began their tug at Joseph's heart. He should not have believed these fanciful stories of hauntings, they were practically absurd. The theology he had studied, rigorously poured the unending well of his soul toward, declared as much.
Yet, there he stood. Mere minutes stood between the life he had sworn to and the sin of these follies.
Steeling himself, Joseph exited the back room in time to see Victor's arrival to the hall. It was nearly time to begin.
Ha_lfLife
Resident cynic
The hired hansom jolted to a halt outside St. Agnes’s, wooden wheels treading on gravel. The sun had set, thankfully taking with it most of the day’s brutal heat. Cicadas shrieked in orchestrated unison somewhere off in the distance, though the city had otherwise more or less fallen to the quiet of dusk. In the dark blue of twilight, Lisette took the driver’s hand and stepped cautiously down to the street, looking up at the cathedral facing her. A serious looking building, as churches were often wont to be, all stone and wrought-iron in the style of an infant nation trying to mimic the regality of its European counterparts. The dim glow of lamps flickered through some of its windows.
“A bit bleak, isn’t it?” Lisette commented, bringing her cigarette back to her lips. She absentmindedly handed the driver some notes, turning to her companion behind her. Still aching somewhat from last night’s adventures, Elijah stepped from the hansom in relief. As convenient as it was to travel by carriage, the clop-clop of the horse’s hooves were more likely to drive him up the wall than to his destination.
Lisette took a few steps forward, trying to align the dusky image of St. Agnes to one she’d visited several years before, back when she could’ve considered herself a Catholic. Back before she’d become somewhat of a Mary Magdalene. If there was one thing Catholics liked better than reading the stories of scripture, it was judging those who such scriptures most sympathetically described.
“Do you think I can –?” She gestured to the door, then the cigarette in her hand, then before waiting for an answer, thought the better of it. “No, I suppose not.” She dropped it to the ground, grinding its end with the toe of her boot.
Elijah watched Lisette stamp out her cigarette, making a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “You could have at least given it to me,” he said with a moue, stepping forward to offer his elbow to her. He had contemplated several times turning around and forgetting the whole thing, but now that he was here, he was eager to get inside, away from prying eyes.
Sensing the rigidity in his arm, Lizzy offered her friend a gentle pat. “Come now, darling, the harbor isn’t far from here. If you immolate as we cross the threshold, I’ll fetch for some mighty handsome sailors to put you out posthaste.” Though reassuring, the pat on his arm didn’t make Eli feel any less uneasy. When they entered the church and Elijah very much didn’t burst into flames, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The inside of the church was a little gloomy, obscuring the small group gathered.
Lisette’s keen eyes scanned the group they approached (after all, it was only seven minutes past! To be on time was to be tacky). Father Healy, she knew like the whisper of a name passed between acquaintances long ago. Despite the years between then and now, he looked quite the same. She looked away from him instantly, not daring to lock glances. Upon which her gaze fell on another face, one that made her stop, her breath hitching and her hand reflexively clutching at Elijah’s arm. That detective. Whatshisface. She’d met him before, back when — “Heavens, Elijah, had I not known you better I’d think you were trying to tease me.” She hissed under her breath, aware of the echo that the room naturally carried. “Have you aimed to assemble all of the skeletons I’ve buried in one place?”
Something was just tickling the back of Eli’s mind when they came to an abrupt stop. He glanced between his companion and the man he didn’t recognise, trying to keep a pleasant smile on his face. “Lizzy darling, it’s hardly my fault you have oh so many skeletons in there. If I’d known––” Then it was his turn to cut himself off with a shock. He whipped his head back to Lisette with a slightly uncomfortable laugh.
“Now, Lisette,” he said quietly, well aware of how easily voices carried in these big empty churches. “Your wonderful little priest, his name wouldn’t happen to be Joseph Healy, would it?”
If Elijah hadn’t already believed in the paranatural, then the absurd amount of unfortunate coincidences that had just been condensed into such a small amount of time would have convinced him. It was just too much to believe that Lisette and he just ran into skeletons of the past and that some higher power hadn’t arranged it as some elaborate joke.
“How would I know that? I’m of half a mind to not even realize priests have Christian names. Why??” To which Lizzy stopped and looked at him, with all the discernment of a housecat watching a bird from a windowsill. “Oh Eli- why, you don’t mean-” Her eyes widened at the look that came over his face. “Of all the bachelors in the city, you had to choose the one sworn to chastity whose goose you had to gully-“ The word “goose” echoed resoundedly through the pews despite her best efforts.
With that echoing proclaiment, Elijah suddenly considered the idea that this was his punishment from God. “Not now,” he choked out, summoning the considerable effort it took to school his face back into something natural. To make sure he wasn’t interrogated further (and to cease their awkward idling in the aisle) Eli hurried them forward. “Good evening,” he said with false joviality. “Lovely evening, isn’t it gentlemen?” He cleared his throat. “Elijah Strickland. I hope you don’t mind, I brought along a friend. This is my…” For a long second, Eli panicked. “...Lisette.”
“Charmed.” Lisette forced a smile, offering her hand forward meekly for kisses and resuming the ladylike stature of a socialite much in contrast to the crude comment she’d made to her friend, which was still half echoing around the chapel’s chambers. Though she knew some in the crowd from matters in the past, she assuredly did not acknowledge them now.
“A bit bleak, isn’t it?” Lisette commented, bringing her cigarette back to her lips. She absentmindedly handed the driver some notes, turning to her companion behind her. Still aching somewhat from last night’s adventures, Elijah stepped from the hansom in relief. As convenient as it was to travel by carriage, the clop-clop of the horse’s hooves were more likely to drive him up the wall than to his destination.
Lisette took a few steps forward, trying to align the dusky image of St. Agnes to one she’d visited several years before, back when she could’ve considered herself a Catholic. Back before she’d become somewhat of a Mary Magdalene. If there was one thing Catholics liked better than reading the stories of scripture, it was judging those who such scriptures most sympathetically described.
“Do you think I can –?” She gestured to the door, then the cigarette in her hand, then before waiting for an answer, thought the better of it. “No, I suppose not.” She dropped it to the ground, grinding its end with the toe of her boot.
Elijah watched Lisette stamp out her cigarette, making a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “You could have at least given it to me,” he said with a moue, stepping forward to offer his elbow to her. He had contemplated several times turning around and forgetting the whole thing, but now that he was here, he was eager to get inside, away from prying eyes.
Sensing the rigidity in his arm, Lizzy offered her friend a gentle pat. “Come now, darling, the harbor isn’t far from here. If you immolate as we cross the threshold, I’ll fetch for some mighty handsome sailors to put you out posthaste.” Though reassuring, the pat on his arm didn’t make Eli feel any less uneasy. When they entered the church and Elijah very much didn’t burst into flames, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The inside of the church was a little gloomy, obscuring the small group gathered.
Lisette’s keen eyes scanned the group they approached (after all, it was only seven minutes past! To be on time was to be tacky). Father Healy, she knew like the whisper of a name passed between acquaintances long ago. Despite the years between then and now, he looked quite the same. She looked away from him instantly, not daring to lock glances. Upon which her gaze fell on another face, one that made her stop, her breath hitching and her hand reflexively clutching at Elijah’s arm. That detective. Whatshisface. She’d met him before, back when — “Heavens, Elijah, had I not known you better I’d think you were trying to tease me.” She hissed under her breath, aware of the echo that the room naturally carried. “Have you aimed to assemble all of the skeletons I’ve buried in one place?”
Something was just tickling the back of Eli’s mind when they came to an abrupt stop. He glanced between his companion and the man he didn’t recognise, trying to keep a pleasant smile on his face. “Lizzy darling, it’s hardly my fault you have oh so many skeletons in there. If I’d known––” Then it was his turn to cut himself off with a shock. He whipped his head back to Lisette with a slightly uncomfortable laugh.
“Now, Lisette,” he said quietly, well aware of how easily voices carried in these big empty churches. “Your wonderful little priest, his name wouldn’t happen to be Joseph Healy, would it?”
If Elijah hadn’t already believed in the paranatural, then the absurd amount of unfortunate coincidences that had just been condensed into such a small amount of time would have convinced him. It was just too much to believe that Lisette and he just ran into skeletons of the past and that some higher power hadn’t arranged it as some elaborate joke.
“How would I know that? I’m of half a mind to not even realize priests have Christian names. Why??” To which Lizzy stopped and looked at him, with all the discernment of a housecat watching a bird from a windowsill. “Oh Eli- why, you don’t mean-” Her eyes widened at the look that came over his face. “Of all the bachelors in the city, you had to choose the one sworn to chastity whose goose you had to gully-“ The word “goose” echoed resoundedly through the pews despite her best efforts.
With that echoing proclaiment, Elijah suddenly considered the idea that this was his punishment from God. “Not now,” he choked out, summoning the considerable effort it took to school his face back into something natural. To make sure he wasn’t interrogated further (and to cease their awkward idling in the aisle) Eli hurried them forward. “Good evening,” he said with false joviality. “Lovely evening, isn’t it gentlemen?” He cleared his throat. “Elijah Strickland. I hope you don’t mind, I brought along a friend. This is my…” For a long second, Eli panicked. “...Lisette.”
“Charmed.” Lisette forced a smile, offering her hand forward meekly for kisses and resuming the ladylike stature of a socialite much in contrast to the crude comment she’d made to her friend, which was still half echoing around the chapel’s chambers. Though she knew some in the crowd from matters in the past, she assuredly did not acknowledge them now.
Solar Daddy
Synthetic Nightmare
Victor Bouchard had begun his day similar to most others. Elle, his better half, had awoken well before the carpenter, leaving the somber man to his own devices until he finally decided to toss the light blankets aside and get dressed. His attire was typical of his every day, consisting of a simple button-up shirt and dark slacks. Upon reaching his wife sat at their dining table, cigarette alight and gazing at the newspaper sprawled out across the table. Victor, ever reticent from conversations, sat across from his wife and struck up his own cigarette, dragging longingly from it before letting out a deep smoke-filled sigh.
"I take you didn't get much sleep last night." Elle's voice broke the silence. Without glancing up from his idle hands, he could feel the warm smile she radiated. "You always fail to rouse in the mornings when counting sheep doesn't work for you."
Victor finally picked his eyes up from the dull light between his fingers, a faint smile at the corner of his lips. "Apologies if my stirring kept you from sleep, dear. I try my best to control it, I do." His voice was like a matte finish. Dull, shineless. Not as a result of being discontent, but instead from his general melancholic outlook on life. Luckily, Elle knew this well about her husband, and took his seemingly dour mood in stride.
"You know it never bothers me, Victor. I'd not sleep in the same bed if it did." Elle dragged from her cigarette and met his eyes after peeling away from her paper. "Will you be home at the normal time tonight?"
"No, my sweet." Victor paused for the slightest instant, but he knew his ruse was already harder as a result of it. "I have a surplus of work to do and only a finite amount of time in the day. My work will stretch well into the night, I do believe. Don't wait for me, I promise not to wake you whenever I return."
As he had guessed, Elle set her smoke down and rested her head in her hands without taking her eyes off him. "If it's the voices again-"
"It isn't," Victor stopped Elle before she even began. "You know I'd tell you if it was. It's been relatively quiet recently." He lied gently. His wife's gaze bored into him, enough so that Victor nearly lost the battle of disguising his true intentions. Luckily she relented just in time.
"I expect you to be return to me by the time I wake. If I find you've slept at the store again..."
"The devil himself could not keep me from you tonight, my love." Victor assured his ever worrying wife. Upon finishing his smoke, Victor doused the remaining stub and stood, offering Elle a parting embrace before setting out for his shop. It wasn't a far distance, a couple blocks into town; Bouchard Carpentry was a modest company that sold honest goods at fair prices. Victor employed himself only, though one day imagined a protégé of a son to work alongside him. Those days were far ahead of him though, and he was content providing all the work he could for those in need of his skillset.
Victor worked his day as normal, in all reality being a bit lighter of a day than usual. Hopefully Elle would not stop by that evening and see him simply lounging about, deeply engrossed in a novel with not a chair nor table in sight. However, Victor eventually found the motivation to begin a few of his own personal projects, such as replacing a few of the worn down steps in his home. He'd sanded down the simple rectangles to the dimensions he'd taken some days ago, working elegantly with his craft to pass time until his fateful meeting.
It burns.
Victor's hands halted, the strip of wood suddenly carved inelegantly from his jolt. Victor's arm hair stood on end, and his blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The voices had been quiet, he'd told his wife. It was far from the truth. They never stopped. His eyes darted around the room, now dark with the setting sun, turning simple shadows into horrifying visages thanks to his overworked mind.
Please, help me.
I don't want to die.
Victor finally found the composure to sit straight at his spot amongst his machinery. He refused to adjust his head anymore, knowing there would be no subject to focus on. "I am sorry." He spoke to the empty room. "Please find peace. It has passed." You have passed. Seconds turned to minutes. Victor almost believed the problem to be resolved. It was foolish of him.
I can't get out.
Suddenly deciding it was opportune for him to join Joseph at the church, Victor focused his mind on closing his shop as the voices continued to permeate the saturated air. There was nothing to be done to help in this situation, and he was needed elsewhere. To help with these very souls in need of guidance. He may not have the abilities to bring them peace now, but hopefully once their meeting was finished, he would have new insight on how to do more than just hear the cries of the departed. Victor locked up his shop and walked towards Saint Agnes.
Upon reaching the familiar church, Victor let out a sigh of relief. The voices preferred not to speak in the presence of God, at least in Victor's anecdotal belief. He appeared to be the last one to arrive, no doubt as a result of his run-in with the unfortunate soul wandering through his shop. Luckily, he knew, it was not terribly beyond their meet time, and by the looks of it, people were still getting acquainted.
"Please, let us step in," He ushered any and all still lingering outside the church through the impressive doors and amongst the rows of pews. Near the altar, Victor would motion to the seats for his valued guests to remain. With each person he passed, most knowing Victor either by reputation or through his messages, the somber man would greet and compliment softly, ensuring all knew he was more than grateful for them to give him their time.
"Joseph." He finished, joining the priest and the detective. "I believe all I contacted are here. At least, all who will show. We can begin, Father."
"I take you didn't get much sleep last night." Elle's voice broke the silence. Without glancing up from his idle hands, he could feel the warm smile she radiated. "You always fail to rouse in the mornings when counting sheep doesn't work for you."
Victor finally picked his eyes up from the dull light between his fingers, a faint smile at the corner of his lips. "Apologies if my stirring kept you from sleep, dear. I try my best to control it, I do." His voice was like a matte finish. Dull, shineless. Not as a result of being discontent, but instead from his general melancholic outlook on life. Luckily, Elle knew this well about her husband, and took his seemingly dour mood in stride.
"You know it never bothers me, Victor. I'd not sleep in the same bed if it did." Elle dragged from her cigarette and met his eyes after peeling away from her paper. "Will you be home at the normal time tonight?"
"No, my sweet." Victor paused for the slightest instant, but he knew his ruse was already harder as a result of it. "I have a surplus of work to do and only a finite amount of time in the day. My work will stretch well into the night, I do believe. Don't wait for me, I promise not to wake you whenever I return."
As he had guessed, Elle set her smoke down and rested her head in her hands without taking her eyes off him. "If it's the voices again-"
"It isn't," Victor stopped Elle before she even began. "You know I'd tell you if it was. It's been relatively quiet recently." He lied gently. His wife's gaze bored into him, enough so that Victor nearly lost the battle of disguising his true intentions. Luckily she relented just in time.
"I expect you to be return to me by the time I wake. If I find you've slept at the store again..."
"The devil himself could not keep me from you tonight, my love." Victor assured his ever worrying wife. Upon finishing his smoke, Victor doused the remaining stub and stood, offering Elle a parting embrace before setting out for his shop. It wasn't a far distance, a couple blocks into town; Bouchard Carpentry was a modest company that sold honest goods at fair prices. Victor employed himself only, though one day imagined a protégé of a son to work alongside him. Those days were far ahead of him though, and he was content providing all the work he could for those in need of his skillset.
Victor worked his day as normal, in all reality being a bit lighter of a day than usual. Hopefully Elle would not stop by that evening and see him simply lounging about, deeply engrossed in a novel with not a chair nor table in sight. However, Victor eventually found the motivation to begin a few of his own personal projects, such as replacing a few of the worn down steps in his home. He'd sanded down the simple rectangles to the dimensions he'd taken some days ago, working elegantly with his craft to pass time until his fateful meeting.
It burns.
Victor's hands halted, the strip of wood suddenly carved inelegantly from his jolt. Victor's arm hair stood on end, and his blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The voices had been quiet, he'd told his wife. It was far from the truth. They never stopped. His eyes darted around the room, now dark with the setting sun, turning simple shadows into horrifying visages thanks to his overworked mind.
Please, help me.
I don't want to die.
Victor finally found the composure to sit straight at his spot amongst his machinery. He refused to adjust his head anymore, knowing there would be no subject to focus on. "I am sorry." He spoke to the empty room. "Please find peace. It has passed." You have passed. Seconds turned to minutes. Victor almost believed the problem to be resolved. It was foolish of him.
I can't get out.
Suddenly deciding it was opportune for him to join Joseph at the church, Victor focused his mind on closing his shop as the voices continued to permeate the saturated air. There was nothing to be done to help in this situation, and he was needed elsewhere. To help with these very souls in need of guidance. He may not have the abilities to bring them peace now, but hopefully once their meeting was finished, he would have new insight on how to do more than just hear the cries of the departed. Victor locked up his shop and walked towards Saint Agnes.
Upon reaching the familiar church, Victor let out a sigh of relief. The voices preferred not to speak in the presence of God, at least in Victor's anecdotal belief. He appeared to be the last one to arrive, no doubt as a result of his run-in with the unfortunate soul wandering through his shop. Luckily, he knew, it was not terribly beyond their meet time, and by the looks of it, people were still getting acquainted.
"Please, let us step in," He ushered any and all still lingering outside the church through the impressive doors and amongst the rows of pews. Near the altar, Victor would motion to the seats for his valued guests to remain. With each person he passed, most knowing Victor either by reputation or through his messages, the somber man would greet and compliment softly, ensuring all knew he was more than grateful for them to give him their time.
"Joseph." He finished, joining the priest and the detective. "I believe all I contacted are here. At least, all who will show. We can begin, Father."
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