by Mona Marple
I push my body above the water and enjoy the silence.
When I open my eyes, I see that Sage has gone, and I feel the pang I do every time she leaves. Will she come back?
I drain the water and sit in the empty tub for a few moments, which I don’t recommend you do if you’re blessed with a body like mine. It’s impossible not to question whether you might actually be part beached-whale, which hardly starts the day on a good note.
Getting dry is one of life’s jobs that I refuse to play any active role in, so I wrap a towel around me and walk across to my bedroom, where I lie myself down on the bed and pick up the mystery novel I’ve been trying to work through for almost a month. My morning routine always gives enough time for nature to dry me, and I will remain here until that has happened.
It’s been so long since I picked up the book that I can’t remember who Bill or Sarah-Anne are, or why they were in the church alone in the first place. I sigh and return my bookmark (a cute photo of me and Sage, back when she was Jane, in dreadful clothes and toothy grins) to page one.
Time to begin again.
But no time to begin again, as I note the familiar presence appear in the doorway.
“Shall I tell Atticus it’s on, then? The party?”
“Okay.” I say with a sigh, returning the book to the bedside table.
Sage grins and does a girlish twirl, so I roll my eyes. “Shall we have a theme? Ooh, I know, fancy dress! I love fancy dress.”
“You’re really not the event planner in the family, are you?” I ask. “First of all, we need to pick a venue.”
“That’s easy.” Sage says with a shrug. “The Baker house.”
“The Baker house?” I repeat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You pick somewhere then.” Sage says, carefree. This is how she gets me. She makes one ridiculous suggestion that clearly can’t work, and then when I say no, she opts out of any other work. On the basis that she tried to help and I wouldn’t let her. Well, I can beat her at her own game.
“Let’s give the Baker house a go.” I say and jump up from the bed. I’m dry enough. I pull on knickers that shock me every time I wear them. Big, grey granny pants that I don’t remember buying, that I’d never want another person to see, but that I keep washing and wearing because they’re so comfortable. I’m aware of Sage watching and I can imagine how disappointed she must be to have a sister who wears knickers like these. She’s a big fan of teeny-weeny underwear. I’m a teeny-weeny fan of big underwear.
“Are you going to tell Atticus?” Sage asks.
“Yes, if I see him.” I say. Atticus, the former mayor of Mystic Springs, still tries to run the town. There’s no new mayor to do the job. No police either.
“Oh, I’m sure you will. Where are you going?” Sage asks.
“For a walk.” I say. “Alone.”
Sage laughs. “I know when I’m not wanted.”
“I just need some quiet time.” I say. “I won’t be long.”
The familiar fear rears its ugly head. Will she still be here?
“You could come… if you want.” I say, the vision of a peaceful walk disappearing as the words leave my mouth.
She raises her shoulder up to her chin in a slow, drawn-out shrug. “I’ve got other things to do.”
“What other things?” I ask, transformed from the sister who wanted to be alone to the sister who doesn’t. Sage can play me like a violin.
“Oh, I’m kidding.” She says with a syrupy laugh. “I’ll walk with you if you want.”
She infuriates me, she drives me insane, but she’s my best friend.
And I’m so lucky to have this second chance with her.
So I grin and pull a brightly coloured blouse over my head. I’ve got two hours before my client meeting, and the walk is a daily ritual to clear my head before I see anyone. I’m usually up and out before Sage wakes up, but the excitement of the April Fools’ party has apparently left her needing no sleep. I could hear her banging around the house all through the night while I tried, in vain, to get the elusive eight hours everyone else seems to take for granted.
Maybe a walk will tire her out, I think, as if she’s a small child or an overexcited puppy.
“Come on then.” I say.
We walk aimlessly from my house on the outskirts of Mystic Springs into the town itself. It’s a strange place, with a small population but a heavy tourist presence. Atticus Hornblower, the ex-mayor, saw the town’s dwindling economy and decided to begin a genius marketing campaign suggesting that the natural water springs that the town is named after had healing properties. There was absolutely no truth in it, but desperate people want to believe, and so they started arriving in droves to bathe their eczema-wrecked feet, to trickle the water over their breaking hearts, to even wash their hair here with shampoo to try and get rid of grey.
The good times lasted for a while, until the national authorities heard about the claims and came to shut us down. Apparently, you can’t just pretend your waterfall can cure disease. But a funny thing happened. Everyone the authorities spoke to were adamant they had been cured by the springs.
Maybe this town had the last laugh.
And so, Mystic Springs is now one of the most popular tourist destinations for people seeking complementary therapies, that’s the way we have to describe it.
I follow the route I usually take on these morning walks, heading for the waterfall. I like to stand and watch the water flow for ten minutes, it clears my mind, prepares me for the day ahead. For my work.
I see Lola Anti standing ahead, watching the water. I feel my stomach sink. This is meant to be my alone time. Nobody else is at the springs this early, usually.
“Good morning.” I call.
Lola is a small young woman with unkempt brown hair. She turns at the sound of my voice and looks as disappointed to see me as I was to see her.
“Hi.” She says, then returns her attention to the springs.
“Nice day for a walk.” I say, thinking that if I annoy her enough, she might leave.
She doesn’t reply.
I glance towards Sage and roll my eyes, then drop my weight onto a bench overlooking the water. I’ll have to just ignore them both.
“I might go for a wander.” Sage says, fidgety by my side.
“Okay.” I say. “I’ve got a client at 10am, remember.”
“I know.” Sage says. She has to stay out of the way when I have a meeting, that’s the only rule I have that’s non-negotiable, and she follows it. I’m sure she’s sometimes sat on the other side of the door, listening, but as long as she’s quiet - and invisible - I’m prepared to let that go.
“Have a good day, Connie.” Lola calls across to me as she turns on her heels and walks away from the springs. She doesn’t wait for a reply before walking away and, as always with Lola, I’m left wondering if I’m the butt of some joke I’m not cool enough to understand.
“How rude.” Sage says. It’s one of her favourite jokes, now completely overused and predictable.
Of course Lola wouldn’t say goodbye to my sister.
She can’t see ghosts.
2
Sage
I know my sister thinks I’m a total bore with the jokes about people ignoring me, but it’s not entirely meant to be funny.
It’s pretty strange to be ignored day after day after day by people who I can see clearly.
Sometimes I forget they can’t see me, and I get actually offended.
Funny, huh?
Who said ghosts don’t have feelings?
Anyway, it’s clear Connie is zoned out watching the waterfall, so I come away for a walk on my own.
Shall we get the questions out of the way first?
No, I don’t exactly walk, it’s more floating. Ghosts don’t have feet, our spirit energy ends in a kind of wispy tail, I guess. Other than that, I look a little shaky, like a photo that won’t quite focus, but I still have my face and I look like me. I haven�
�t turned into a cartoon ghost, okay.
So, when you’re picturing me, the best thing to focus on is my incredible beauty, right, not my ghostliness.
Ha! I’m kidding, but please do feel free to picture me as incredibly beautiful. Artistic licence, and all that.
Mystic Springs is dead at this time of morning - no pun intended. The school kids are still at home panic-finishing homework if they’re anything like I was at their age, and the workers? Well, let’s just say that Mystic Springs isn’t the kind of town where people are breaking their backs working. It’s more about clocking off early and firing up the grill than clocking up 14 hour shifts in an office cubicle. Which is probably why the town struggled so much financially before the magical healing waters were invented.
I like it here, though. I call it home now, even though I can move around wherever I want (a bonus of being dead).
The scenery is pretty epic, for a hippie-at-heart like me. I always dreamed of big, wide open places, and this is it.
If you’re wondering about me being lonely, don’t. I can see and talk to anyone in the spirit world, and my sister in the human world.
And, I know there’s going to be one ghoulish person wondering how I died. It’s you, isn’t it? Well, let me stop you. I don’t know. I don’t remember. That’s pretty unusual, but I’m not going to be going to any ghost therapy to work it all out, okay. So, It’s just an unknown. Like why my sister wears those huge knickers. And yes, of course, I could just ask her - about my death and the knickers - but really, I don’t want either conversation.
“Leave me alone, you silly little girl.” Someone shouts up ahead. I speed up, because I love a good argument. Stood in her garden, I see Nettie Frasier, the most attractive woman in the town if you ask me. She’s all 1950s glamour, it’s insane. She’s dressed down in super-cute denim dungarees, a small shovel in her hand, but her lips are her trademark red as always.
“Silly little girl? That’s not what your husband called me.” It’s Lola Anti who shouts this in her sing-song voice and her words make me wince. We’ve all heard the rumours. Desmond Frasier, investment banker with a capital W, and recent member of the Dead Club, had steak at home and was going out for cheap burgers.
“My husband was a fool.” Nettie says. I get so close I can see the beads of sweat on her forehead, she must have been out here some time working on her borders. “You’re just a silly kid.”
“I pleased him in ways you couldn’t.” Lola says. She’s on the other side of the white picket fence, Nettie could just go back into her house and close the front door. Lock this mean girl out. But she won’t. Nettie won’t let Lola have the last word.
“You know what?” Nettie asks, red lips pursed. “You two deserved each other.”
“He was going to leave you.” Lola sings.
“Rubbish.” Nettie says with a laugh. “He told you all that. You’re not the first girl he’s had an affair with, you know. And you wouldn’t have been the last if he hadn’t died.”
“Maybe you should ask why you couldn’t keep him happy at home, then.” Lola says. She leans over the fence, sees the glare on Nettie’s face, and steps back again.
“And maybe you should ask why you’d want to be with a married man twice your age.” Nettie says.
Oh no, I think. Because there’s only one answer, and it’s so obvious.
“I followed the money, honey.” Lola sings, and as she does, she looks past Nettie to the grand house that stands behind her. It’s a traditional plantation house with wraparound balconies on the first and second floors, and a perfectly manicured lawn. A single, heavy wooden rocking chair sits on the first floor veranda next to a coffee table where Nettie often leaves her book, sunglasses and a glass of lemonade. There were two rocking chairs, before. I watched her drag the second one across town to the tip after she found out about the affair.
She tells the story sometimes, the night her strength was so super human she pulled a rocking chair across town. She doesn’t know I had hold of the other end of it, sharing the weight with her. I had to rest for three days afterwards.
I can touch things, but it drains me, and it took practice.
I’ve been dead a long time.
“Well, that’s no surprise.” Nettie says.
“We’re the same really.” Lola sings. “You’re set up now, aren’t you? The big house, the money… you could say we’re both gold diggers.”
A shiver runs through me then and I feel my stomach fill with dread. Something has changed. I look from Lola to Nettie, but it’s not them.
And then I see him. Desmond.
If you picture what an investment banker who had routine affairs would look like, you’ll be picturing Desmond.
He’s on her rocking chair, which he knows she would hate, and he’s watching. Just watching the two women argue, over him, over his mistakes, over his money. It’s clear which he is concerned by.
When he died, Nettie had to take on a huge legal battle for her share of his estate. He’d tried to leave everything; the house, the cars, the money, in Trust for his second life. Desmond is a believer that those wealthy enough to freeze their bodies, as he of course did, will be brought back to life in the future. Personally, I can’t imagine anything worse. Who knows what kind of state you might return to?
“I’m nothing like you.” Nettie says, her voice calm and clear. “I’m worth a hundred of you.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Lola says. “But we both know I should have had some of all, all this.”
“You had enough of his money when he was alive.” Nettie says.
“You just want to keep it all for yourself. You played the long game, waiting for him to die.” Lola says. “In fact…”
“I’m bored of you now.” Nettie says, swatting towards Lola with a long, slender hand.
Lola grins at her and raises her voice. “How did he die, Nettie? Are we sure it was an accident?”
Nettie’s cheeks flush. The town is getting busier now and neighbours are piling kids into cars. A few people glance towards the commotion at the sound of Lola’s raised voice.
“Maybe he was pushed.” Lola shouts. “But who would want him dead?”
Nettie shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Remind me, who was there when he fell down the stairs? Oh, just you! And what were you doing before the fall? I remember, you were arguing…” Lola sings, as she leans in close to Nettie. “Arguing about me. Maybe he told you he was going to leave you? Maybe you got scared of being left with no husband, and no money… how embarrassing. Did he scream when you pushed him?”
Nettie slaps Lola across the face with such force the echo of the crack seems to reverberate from the nearby mountains. Both women gasp and step backwards, Nettie covers her mouth and Lola breaks into a grin.
“Ah, now we’re seeing the real you.” She says, then turns towards the nearest neighbour, who stands mouth agape by his car. “Did you see that? Can I take your details so you can be a witness, I’d like to press charges.”
Nettie groans and sinks back into the grass behind her fence. Her cheeks are as flush as her lips.
Desmond laughs from the rocking chair, a sound that only other spirits, and Connie, would be able to hear. He picks up Nettie’s book and moves the bookmark to a different page, then vanishes.
I breathe deeply with him gone; the air feels cleaner, more fresh.
I leave Nettie gazing dumbly into the flower beds.
Despite what Connie says, this town needs a party.
I float across town to the Baker house, the large, abandoned mansion where most of the town’s spirits gather. It’s the perfect place for a party that will bring together the living and the spirits, because the people of Mystic Springs have been complaining about the parties at the Baker house for decades, even though it’s been empty for twenty years. Most people in the town have walked past after dark and heard loud music playing, or people laughing, or even seen shapes moving behind
the curtains.
My belief is that most people don’t see ghosts because they don’t believe in them.
A party in the Baker house could be out of town kids, squatters, or any number of other logical explanations, so people let themselves see and hear what’s going on in there. Luckily, Mystic Springs has no police force, so the parties never get shut down.
Because, trust me, the parties here are out of this world.
I let myself in and crash on the settee next to Atticus. It was such a blow to the town when he died, horse riding accident, far too young. He’s a thoughtful, creative man with a kind heart and narrow framed glasses.
“How’s the party planning?” He asks.
I hadn’t exactly admitted that Connie was against the idea. Look, I know my sister and I know how to wear her down. It was always going to be a yes, it was just a question of how long she pretended it was going to be a no.
“Connie’s working on it.” I say. It’s quiet in the house, the grand living room is empty apart from me and Atticus. “I’ve just seen a huge argument.”
“Hmm?” Atticus asks, attention piqued in his subtle way.
“Lola and Nettie.”
“Oh, Lord. Won’t she leave that poor woman alone?”
“I know.” I agree. Nettie is universally liked. Lola, on the other hand, arrived in town as a runaway who’d ran out of cash and needed to find money quick, which she did in the shape of Desmond Frasier. “Lola was pretty vile to her. She suggested that Nettie had pushed Desmond down the stairs.”
Atticus looks at me with concern. “What did Nettie say?”
“Well…” I stumble, not wanting to admit that Nettie had hit Lola. “She didn’t really say anything.”
“I guess she was lucky there’s no police here. It would have been investigated, if there had been.”
