The Ghostess and Mister Muir

by J. L. Salter

  and their missions were all over eastern and northern Afghanistan. But sometimes there were smaller jobs for infantry patrols, like they’d pull from our platoon.”

  “Didn’t any of that make you nervous?”

  “Sure, all the time. Sometimes scared to death.”

  “Well, just approach first day of class the same way.”

  “There’s a big difference.”

  “Uniforms?” She smiled so he’d know how to interpret it.

  He patted his chest. “I usually had on Kevlar and carried grenades and two loaded weapons. Don’t think Mrs. Gull would appreciate that here.”

  “You’re right.” Lucy chuckled. “But most of the teachers would love it.”

  Muir appeared lost in a long silence.

  Pointing to the diner’s interior décor, Lucy mentioned the tie-in with Danielle Gregg. “I’ve never seen this in writing anywhere, but some people say this car was one of the ones involved in the collision that night.”

  “This actual car?”

  “Well, not that it ever came in contact with Lady Gregg… because supposedly it was way back near the end, just a few cars ahead of the caboose and baggage compartments.”

  “Wow. Is that the reason they set it up for this diner?”

  “Oh, no. It was years later when the older cars were being auctioned off. Just the luck of the draw, I guess.”

  “Wonder how anybody would even know which cars were in that particular run.”

  “The depot here had tons of records on shipments and passengers — manifests and such. I guess somebody searched through those files and made the connection.”

  “Sounds like tedious work, about as bad as digging latrines.”

  “Some folks enjoy that kind of thing. Like Mr. Sproule, the gentleman we’re going to see at the archives.”

  “I hope he has some info on Miss Gregg.”

  “So, two nights in her chambers and you’re already hooked.” She smiled but hoped he wasn’t snared.

  “It’s kind of like when you’re really thirsty and you take a drink but still feel the need for more.” His eyebrows arched into a question, likely wondering if she understood.

  “Well, I don’t know their particular holdings on Danielle herself, except for the grisly train death, but they’re bound to have some general material because her family was so prominent… in that group of founders and everything. Plus the horrible suicide really took the little town by surprise.”

  “Did Danielle leave a note?”

  Lucy squinted.

  “A suicide note.”

  “Oh. Don’t think so, not that I’ve heard of anyway.”

  “On TV, if they didn’t write a note,” Muir’s finger scribbled in the air, “it’s usually investigated as a murder.”

  “That’ll be interesting to find out when we visit the archives. They’ve almost always had at least something on whatever topic my group has needed to research. I mean the local topics.”

  “What got you started in ghost hunting, anyway?”

  “Spirit chasing.” She poked the back of his hand. “As a kid I sensed things, occasionally saw things, but very few people believed me. When I found a group of people who understood what that felt like, I joined in with them. My friend Anna — you’ve met her — she introduced me. Turns out a lot of us felt similar kinds of doubt or alienation because of what we’d experienced.”

  “Which developed first, Lucy? Your science or your spirit hunting?”

  “I think I drifted into science in the hope I could study the spirit world better. But I found out most of mainstream science refuses to consider spirit realms as an anomaly worth serious investigation.” She frowned.

  “So, mainly, they just think you’re kooks.”

  “Basically, which makes it difficult sometimes. You know, like I’m swimming upstream against my colleagues.”

  “I’ve got a hunch you partly enjoy being a maverick.” He turned as more customers entered and looked for seats.

  Lucy stood. “We ought to scoot so these folks can sit.”

  “Can we hang around outside for a bit?”

  “Sure,” she said, and preceded him out the door. She plopped down on the bench out front and gazed toward the square’s bandstand.

  Muir sat close, but they were not quite touching. “So in your spook investigations so far, have there been any surprises?”

  Lucy closed her eyes to think. “Some of the cases have featured emotional components which I think surprised me.”

  “Not sure I understand.”

  “Nobody really knows what keeps a spirit from getting to its destination.” She scooted a bit closer and slightly lowered her volume. “Or to put it another way, why most spirits apparently move on rather quickly, but some linger for years or even generations.”

  “Have you got a theory?”

  “Some people say it’s about the way they died — for example, if murdered or in a tragic accident. Others say it’s about unresolved issues or damaged relationships.”

  Muir pointed toward her sternum. “What’s your notion?”

  “Not sure. It can’t be as simple as unresolved issues, because all of us will leave things unsettled when we die. I mean, unless you know your earthly life will blink out at some precise moment, how could you get everything done… or make every contact which seemed important?”

  Muir nodded without comment.

  “And if it’s about the way people died, gosh, that might leave a third or more of all the dead souls wandering in limbo.” She wrinkled her nose. “Because, let’s face it, dying is usually pretty ugly.”

  “Still waiting on your theory…”

  Lucy took a breath and held it briefly before she spoke. “Okay, this will sound nutty to some people… well, to folks with little or no religion.” Another pause to see if he was on board to that point. Can’t tell. “Some of the spirits which still haunt earthly places or individuals may well have died horribly or left unfinished business, but I think most of those who linger are stuck here because they weren’t prepared to meet their Maker.”

  “Makes sense, to a point. But if they died without settling accounts with God, wouldn’t they just be condemned to Hell?”

  She pointed vaguely southeast, in the direction of the church she attended often, though Levi could not have known where she indicated. “I’m no theologian — and probably most preachers would disagree — but I’d like to think that a good person who was getting their spiritual life in order, so to speak, might not automatically be sent to eternal damnation even if they hadn’t quite reconciled everything with God.”

  “You’re right that most preachers would disagree.” Muir smiled. “So you figure if a person was about to make the decision necessary to enter Heaven — but hadn’t quite gotten around to it — they might be given a chance to work things out and wouldn’t necessarily be condemned.”

  Lucy nodded hesitantly. “Just a theory. But it’s one possible reason for souls to be kept here and not reach either destination.”

  “Well, don’t try preaching that from a pulpit.” He squinted as if trying to remember how they reached that tangent. “Anyway, I guess your theory is at least as good as the others. And we can’t prove any of them either way.”

  “True.”

  “Besides, I’m still not convinced that spirits remain earthbound in any case. And if they did, why would they pester living humans?”

  Lucy responded with her own question, “Even though you’ve already had vivid dreams of our ghostess?”

  “Danielle was a real person, way back when. Maybe my dream images come from her nineteen years with the living. No reason to assume I was dreaming of her lingering spirit, trapped for the last century.”

  She patted his forearm softly. “Like I said before, if a ghost wants you aware that she’s around, she’ll let you know. There won’t likely be any gray area about it.”

  “Call me a skeptic.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I ca
ll you. It’s when the ghostess Miss Gregg makes contact that matters.”

  ****

  Sunday night

  With his laptop on the strength of some unknown neighbor’s Wi-Fi signal, Muir had investigated the Gibson Girl imagery. She was pretty and exaggeratedly voluptuous, but seemed to have a haughty or unfriendly air. On the other hand, the portrait of Danielle made her look reserved, but approachable — warm but sad.

  Even more apprehensive about tomorrow’s first day of class, Muir prepared for his third night in the apartment. After his shower, he dressed for bed, rechecked the entry door was locked and bade good night to the portrait of the hauntingly beautiful Gregg maiden. As soon as he spoke the words, his face and neck experienced another concentrated gust of air, fresh and rich… this time sweetly fragrant.

  In his mind’s eye, it resembled the perfume of Danielle, though he had no rational awareness of her scent a hundred years before. What additionally came to mind was the title of a Faulkner story, “An Odor of Verbena,” and Muir decided perhaps this could be what that blossom smelled like. However, having never been near verbena, as far as he knew, Muir would have no way of recognizing it if he were holding a sprig in his hands.

  With that puzzle still churning in his mind, Muir also heard the sound again. Was it an incredibly faint whisper with indistinct syllables? Or a fragment of a vague melody? Had the tone been less variable, it could perhaps have been a soft hum.

  By the time he’d finished trying to identify the scent and decipher the sound, both were gone. And once they had vanished, the dark suite felt empty.

  Muir had figured he would sleep poorly because of stress about school starting, but he actually rested soundly. More dreams, however.

  These new visions contained even more vivid imagery of Danielle and how lovely she was — how desirable. But, while pointedly aware of her beauty, Muir realized the lady’s dream face looked cheerless. As he was about to comment during the dream on that juxtaposition of beauty and sorrow, the lady finally spoke to him.

  But he was not afraid. In the vision, as he struggled to understand what she was saying, he knew he would have to wake up, and it seemed to take all his physical and mental strength to break through the barrier of sleep. Once he finally did awaken, he staggered into the dark parlor where only a ribbon of moonlight made the painting visible. Muir immediately engaged the portrait as though its subject were actually standing against that wall.

  “If you really are a ghost, why are you here?”

  “If I am truly a spirit,” she responded not audibly, but directly into his head, “why have you not fled in fear?”

  Or was her voice coming from the portrait? Not exactly. “For one, I don’t believe in ghosts. For another, I think it’s possible I’m actually still asleep and this is just a dream.”

  “Is this your customary behavior during dreams, Mr. Muir?” Something in her intonation was hypnotic.

  He tried to pinch his own arm but couldn’t feel anything… despite seeing the red impression of his squeeze. “Not sure, but I don’t usually walk around and talk to pictures.”

  The voice replied, “Then explain your conclusions.”

  “I’ve heard your whispers or your melody, felt your breeze, and inhaled your scent. I believe something is present, but I still don’t think it involves haunted hotels.”

  “It is not my intention or my need to convince you of anything, Mr. Muir. Yet I am intrigued how unlike you are from others who have visited these premises.”

  Muir rubbed his eyes and addressed the painting, “Can you give me some visual proof that you exist? My friend will want to know.”

  “Before you is my portrait, which is certainly visual. And I do appreciate your liberating it from that awful dungeon.”

  He nodded gallantly. “Why were you…? Why was your picture hidden away down there? It should have been in a gallery somewhere.”

  “The manager was terrified by my likeness, but I would not allow it to be removed from these premises. However, until you arrived, I could not persuade anyone to bring it back up here.” Her inflection contained a smile. “This is where it belongs. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But can’t I see you? The real you?”

  After a pause she replied, sounding slightly nearer. “I am present with you now and that is all I can share at this point. It is difficult to trust humans or predict what they will do, so I must proceed cautiously.”

  “I think I’m pretty transparent — ha, that pun’s intended — so what you see is what you get.”

  “I do not know how to assess you, Mr. Muir. You are different, to be certain, but I am not yet ready to manifest myself to you visually.”

  “How will I know that we actually spoke tonight? How can I tell it wasn’t just a dream?”

  “You will not know for certain, and that must be so.”

  “Okay, if you won’t show yourself, at least prove that you’re here.” He strained to imagine how and could only think of movie scenes. “Move something.”

  Wre-ek! A loud scraping noise! Muir whirred around in time to see one end of the heavy bookcase pull away from the wall.

  No explanation from the voice. Indeed, none needed.

  He had other questions but Muir could tell she’d disappeared — he smelled her perfume again, either an odor of verbena or the scent of fleeing butterflies.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday, August 18

  On awakening, Muir hurried into the parlor to check the wooden bookcase. Sure enough, the near end had moved about a foot from the wall. “Lucy is going to freak,” he said out loud.

  It was finally D-Day — opening session of the fall term. As a first year teacher, Muir felt about as nervous as a freshman student in his own high school those dozen years before. He determined to keep something in his hands in case they started to tremble.

  He’d looked for Lucy in the teacher’s lounge before first bell, but she’d evidently been busy in the science lab which doubled as her homeroom. It was also on first floor, but the facility’s opposite side from Muir’s room.

  After he’d survived two class periods without major difficulties, Muir relaxed somewhat and discovered he had about five minutes for a quick coffee upstairs in the lounge. It was barely lukewarm… ugh.

  As he was about to toss that cup and search for a cola, Lucy entered the room and joined him. “How’s the newbie holding up?”

  “Not too bad. After I got past the first few minutes of each class, things felt reasonably okay.”

  She whispered, “You didn’t bring the Kevlar and weapons, did you?”

  “No, but I figured out a gimmick that might give me a few days of leverage.”

  “Bribery?”

  “Saving that for later.” He grinned slyly. “I told them I have a mature pet python in my truck and if they misbehave, I’ll keep it in the classroom.”

  “Do you?” Her eyes widened.

  “No. But the fact that you asked means it’s at least halfway believable.”

  Lucy giggled. “Mrs. Gull wouldn’t let you bring in any snakes anyway.”

  “You have a few in the science lab don’t you?”

  “Anna — our biology teacher — has a garter snake in an aquarium. That’s different… totally.”

  “Well, it was the only trump I could think of.”

  Lucy put a warm hand on his arm. “You’re doing great, Levi. Besides, most of the kids don’t behave as badly with ex-military anyhow.”

  “How would they know anything about my background?”

  “Word gets out.” Her voice was a whisper. “Kind of like in prisons — most inmates know pertinent scuttlebutt before the guards do.”

  That minty whisper was nice. Muir eyed the wall clock. “I had the strangest dream last night.”

  “About our lovely ghostess again, I imagine.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “And this time we talked.”

  “You mean, like real conversation?”

 
“In the dream, anyway.”

  “Wow.”

  “But we haven’t spoken while I’m awake, unless I was actually awake when I thought I was dreaming. But I don’t think it was a dream because the bookcase moved.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened.

  “Confusing. And I still haven’t seen her yet.” He gauged the student traffic in the hall. “I’ll fill you in later. Got to run before the kids set fire to my desk. Remind me to tell you more about the bookcase.”

  Lucy squealed softly before turning toward her own class. “Oh, do you think you’ll be up for our museum research this afternoon?”

  “Definitely. Looking forward to it.” He was indeed, though he could not discern whether it was because of the topic or the company. Maybe both.

  Watching Lucy until she disappeared around a corner, Muir hurried to his room.

  ****

  Monday, after school

  Lucy had to wait only a few moments for Muir to hobble on his tender ankle to the faculty parking lot in back. She didn’t know if he would remember their tentative supper date for after the archives visit, but they’d each need their own vehicles anyway.

  He waved and smiled warmly.

  “Meet you at the Old South Memorial Museum?”

  Even though Muir nodded, his expression indicated puzzlement.

  “Right next door to your hotel.”

  “Oh, okay. Next to the Whitecliff Apartments.”

  Since he’d smiled while reminding her of that distinction, Lucy figured that was going to become a running gag between them. That’s a good start.