The Ghostess and Mister Muir

by J. L. Salter

  “I will guide you.” She could tell he was still pensive. “What else bothers you tonight?”

  “Well, Lucy said I shouldn’t mention this, but…”

  If that woman is against it, I may be for it. “Proceed,” said Danielle, with a minor wave of her fingertips.

  “I enjoy your visits, Danielle, and I really like talking with you. But I’d also like to touch you.”

  “Touch?” Her eyes widened.

  Muir nodded. “When a guy sees a beautiful girl and they’re forming a closer, uh, friendship… they usually touch.”

  She blushed. “I can only imagine times have changed, Mr. Muir. In my day, ladies were chaperoned during early interactions and no touching was allowed… none whatsoever.”

  “But I only want to be close to you.”

  “We are close, no more than four feet apart.” Just out of his arms’ reach.

  “I’m a tactile learner, Danielle. You’re beautiful and I want to touch you.”

  “I am a spirit, Mr. Muir. The manifestation you see is the energy I have focused to allow my form to register with your eyes.”

  Muir nodded impatiently. “Then let me feel your energy.”

  “It does not happen that way. It would be like grasping a vapor or clutching a handful of smoke.”

  “Let me try.”

  Danielle was frustrated. “You do not listen well, Mr. Muir. This is not possible.”

  “I believe it is.” He stood suddenly. “If you can move a bookcase, why can’t you touch me?”

  “Oh, that is slightly different. Conceivably, I could touch you.”

  “But you just said you couldn’t.”

  “No, you cannot touch me.”

  Muir was obviously confused by the distinction. “If you touch me, would I feel it?”

  “I believe so, though it would not be the same as a physical touch between two humans.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m game.”

  Realizing Muir would not be easily dissuaded, Danielle considered the situation he’d proposed. “You may have to close your eyes to disconnect the visual interpretation of my energy. I am not certain.”

  “Well, let’s try.”

  “You are so very forward, Mr. Muir.”

  “Look, this is new territory for both of us. You’ve said you basically hide from investigators, so you don’t really know what’s possible with them. You’ve shown yourself to me, however, so let’s figure out what else is possible.”

  She leaned forward and studied Muir’s eyes. “Do you harbor this desire merely so you can boast of its achievement?”

  “No!” He looked offended. “I don’t even believe in ghosts, yet I’m sitting here talking to you.” Then his demeanor calmed and his voice softened. “When I’m with you it makes me feel warm inside. And I just want to feel warmer.”

  Danielle’s face reddened again. She had blushed more in these visits with Muir than in all the rest of her hundred years of waiting. “You certainly can turn a phrase, Mr. Muir.”

  “Please. Let’s try. Touch.”

  “Give me a moment. I have never attempted this with a mortal being, only with inanimate objects.”

  “Then think of me as a table, but touch me.”

  After concentrating at length, Danielle finally placed her fingertips on the side of Muir’s face. But his hand reached up to cover hers and he ended up slapping himself.

  “I cautioned you not to reach for me.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Touch me again.”

  This time he did not interfere, but gently leaned into the energy of her hand. In doing so, his face grew so languid and warm that it nearly glowed.

  For Danielle, it was also so pleasurable she knew she must cease, and she withdrew her hand.

  “What happened?” He nearly fell to the side she’d been touching.

  “We… I… it was consuming too much energy.”

  “But it felt so good.” Muir’s eyes looked dreamy. “Was it good for you?”

  She was unable to phrase how it made her feel — a combination of warmth and chills, blushing flesh and goose bumps. It reminded her of stroking Neddy’s freshly-shaven cheek. “A lady should not be asked such a question.”

  “But I need to know.”

  “Why, Mr. Muir? So you can boast of it?”

  “No, because I think I lo…”

  She quickly positioned her fingertip near his lips. “Please do not use that word unless you mean it. Actually, you should not speak it to me at all. That word and what it apparently meant to someone else is mostly why I am basically trapped in this manner.”

  “I don’t understand.” He reached for her again.

  “You will not be able to understand. I am not certain I do either. In all these years, I have never been confronted with any mortal like you.” Danielle placed a hand to her throat and gazed at her portrait. Then back to Muir. “You vex me, sir, with your fearlessness and your ardor.”

  “I want to help, but how can I if I know almost nothing about how you spirits tick? If you didn’t want me to become, uh, fond of you, why did you pick me to haunt?”

  He was right to question but Danielle ignored it. She needed his assistance and was willing to do nearly anything to secure it — no matter how much she regretted it. ”I must leave now.”

  “But you just got here, Danielle.”

  “No, I have been here for quite some while. You tend to lose track of time, Mr. Muir.”

  “Only when I’m with you.”

  “Or with that woman, I dare say.”

  “Who?”

  Excellent. “And I will answer your earlier question.”

  Muir looked clueless.

  “When I touched your cheek, I remembered the lovely masculine aroma of Neddy’s shaving soap. So, yes, I enjoyed our contact.” She paused to see if that registered with Muir, but could not tell. “Now I must depart.”

  “Will you return?”

  “Very likely, yes.”

  “When you come back, will you touch me again?” What could have sounded lewd if spoken by others, sounded childlike… almost innocent, when asked by Muir.

  Entrancing her cohabitant had consequences Danielle had not intended. She needed his assistance, but not his ardor. “I will consider your request, but your motive puzzles me. If such is possible to repeat, I predict it would consume a great deal of energy. More, perhaps, than my capability.”

  “But you’ll try?” It sounded so plaintive.

  “We shall see, Mr. Muir. We shall see.”

  She vanished in a blink and left the room smelling like a swarm of butterflies.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday, August 21

  On Day Four of the new school term in his first teaching job, Muir was finally gaining equilibrium with the schedule, lesson plans, and students. But he was still unbalanced with respect to Lucy.

  He would feel just fine, then Lucy’s image would enter his mind and he’d perceive little but static. When he’d asked Danielle, she didn’t deny being the cause, but acted like it was for his own good. Why or how could that be?

  Muir had read in a college psychology text that the human mind had nearly unlimited untapped powers to overcome things like external stimuli, including illness, pain, and fear, among many others. Problem was, hardly anyone knew how to harness even a fraction of those brainy powers… or, if identified and harnessed, how to focus those mental muscles.

  But, at the very least, Muir figured, he could concentrate on blocking the blocker. Surely a Lit major could wrangle enough underutilized brain cells to raise a deflector shield of sorts. If so, then perhaps he could think about Lucy when he wished to, without having those inclinations distorted or impeded outright. Perhaps.

  He caught up with Lucy in the second floor faculty lounge during early afternoon. Their breaks were hardly more than the time it took students to change classes, so any contact of that type was always hurried. He got straight to the point.

  “I convinced Danielle t
o touch me last night.” When other teachers turned and stared, Muir realized he needed to adjust his volume.

  “She did what?” Lucy’s dismay was evident in both voice and face. “Where?”

  “In the parlor.”

  She sputtered. “No, what did she touch?”

  “Right here,” he said pointing to his cheek.

  Immediately, she examined that area as though there might be residual spectral fingerprints. “Don’t see anything.”

  “Me either. I checked the mirror after she left.”

  Lucy was clearly fascinated. “What did it feel like?”

  “Warm, soft.” Muir closed his eyes to remember. “A bit like a kitten’s paw… but no claws, of course.”

  “Of course. Not yet anyway. But you still need to keep in mind that they do have claws.” She paused. “And so, I suspect, do lovely ghosts.”

  Muir left that one alone.

  “I can’t believe a spirit touched you.” Lucy’s eyes were wide. “This changes so much about our knowledge base.”

  “Well, add this to your encyclopedia. Danielle said that it takes a lot of extra energy to generate a sensation of touch and she had me close my eyes so my own sensory receptors could focus on touch instead of sight.”

  “Wow.” Lucy scribbled several notes. “This is epic.”

  “And she basically indicated she might try it again.”

  “I sure wish we could set up some instruments,” said Lucy, still writing notes. “At least an EVP recorder.” Suddenly she put down the pen and looked stern. “Wait. You had me going for a minute because of the science. But this is all wrong. You cannot pursue this direction with a spirit. It’s too unpredictable, and probably too dangerous.”

  “But it felt so good. It was fantastic.”

  “Great. Just great,” she grumbled. “What could be next? Spooning with a spook?”

  “Oh, Lucy, have you ever heard of a Monkey Puzzle tree?”

  She groaned. “A what?”

  As always, the faculty clock buzzed at one minute before the bell would ring. “Never mind, tell you later.”

  They hurriedly separated for their respective classrooms downstairs; Muir had to travel the additional distance to the other side of the building.

  ****

  After school, Muir drove around the town square looking for the old-fashioned barber shop he learned about from the school janitor. He finally found Leon’s on Orchid Street, next door to the office supply store, but couldn’t find a parking place within two blocks. That short hike did not unduly pain his ankle, so perhaps it was finally healing.

  “Need a trim?” asked the thin, balding barber, as he lowered his newspaper. “I’m Leon.” He pointed to the front window’s lettering.

  “Not today, Leon. Thanks. But I’m looking for something called shaving soap… probably from around the early 1900s.”

  A slow smile creased the older man’s face as he placed his paper on a chair. “Any grocery store has shaving cream and the cheap brands run about a dollar a can.”

  “No, this needs to be vintage stuff from about 1914 if possible.”

  Rising unsteadily, Leon moved closer, holding on to the back of a chair as he stepped gingerly. “Now why would you care how old it is, friend?”

  Muir silently considered how extensively to reply.

  “Oh, this is about a lady friend, I’ll wager.” Another smile from Leon.

  Muir nodded, relieved he didn’t have to mention his ghostess. “She has a particular scent in mind and I know it was around in 1914.”

  “Well, barber soap didn’t change much for a good while, and some of those old companies are still in business. Main difference is their shaving products used to come as stick, powder, or cream.” He paused, apparently to see how much Muir comprehended. “You’d put it in a cup and mix it up with a brush.” Leon made those motions. “Then you’d brush the lather on your face.”

  The light came on. “Oh, okay. Got it. I’ve seen those old round brushes… just wasn’t sure how the lather got on the brush.” He looked around the shop, decorated with framed sports prints — both professional and college. In a prominent position was the current season’s football schedule for Magnolia High. “I teach there.”

  “Must be new… I know all the men teachers.”

  Muir nodded. “First year. Levi Muir.” He belatedly extended his hand.

  Leon responded in kind and then stroked his own wrinkled chin. “So you’re wanting some old time shaving cream that you’ve got to mix, instead of the kind where you push a button on the can.”

  “Right. Trying to recapture the scent of the old stuff.”

  The barber shook his balding head. “You won’t find anything that old and if you did, it’d be all dried up.” He raised a slightly trembling hand up to his own cheek. “But that lather didn’t change much all the way up to the mid 1950s, about the time shaving brushes started phasing out.”

  “Where could I get some of that newer vintage?”

  He pursed his lips and stroked his chin again. “Hold on a minute.” Then he moved unsteadily past the three empty barber chairs and disappeared into a back room. Shortly Leon returned holding a flattened tube, which (if full) would have been shorter and thicker than a typical toothpaste container. “Nothing much left in there, but might be enough to give you a whiff.”

  True, there was only a bit of dried residue. “This is all you’ve got?”

  “Yeah, but the Old Magnolia Hardware store used to carry a few shelves of retro merchandise for the tourists we don’t have anymore. Included toiletries, like mustache combs, straight razors, and shaving brushes. They probably have some tube cream like this.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Just a block down Orchid, other side of Magnolia. Across the street from the old hotel.”

  “Oh, okay, that should be easy to find. I live in the Whitecliff Apartments.”

  “You live in the Majestic?”

  Muir nodded.

  “It’s haunted, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” He took another sniff of the mostly dried contents and then handed back the tube. “Thanks, Leon.”

  ****

  Thursday Night

  As had become her recent custom, Danielle studied her suitemate before making her own presence known. Initially viewing the out-of-towner as little more than a naïve but blunt carpetbagger, she had quickly grown fond of him. No longer a disruptive interloper, Muir presently seemed like a handsome guest with nearly enough charm to counter his lack of social grace. It was a shame she had to take advantage of him.

  But Danielle had also been deeply introspective, a condition not often appearing in her perpetual state of being neither here nor there. In this recent self-analysis, she had identified two distinctly new aspects of her post-death behavior. One, how willing she’d been to succumb to the current of Muir’s impetuous urges and unorthodox requests. Accommodating Muir was also selfish because of how pleasurable those experiences had been, so far, to her. And two, how hostile she had been about that other woman in Muir’s mortal sphere. To attempt interference between Muir and the woman pursuing him was also selfish because it potentially deprived each human of further developing a satisfying relationship from their promising early contacts.

  She would need to think further on both matters. But now, Danielle the hostess would greet her live-in visitor and try to remember to thank him for hanging her portrait and moving the table and desk.

  Positioning her concentrated energy very near, though not yet visible to him, she focused an odorless puff of air that raised goose bumps on his neck. As before, Muir turned to face the brief gust and seemed to bathe in its tickles. Then Danielle hummed her favorite chorus.

  He greeted her warmly. “I’m glad you came back; I thought you were close because I could hear you thinking.”

  “Oh, could you now?” This was disarming. “Exactly how many of my thoughts could you hear?”

  “No particular words,” h
e stated, facing the direction of her voice. “More like I could hear your mental motor running.”

  “Do you suggest my spiritual brain is powered by a steam engine, sir?” She smiled to herself.

  Muir leaned forward in his chair. “Well, let’s just say that I could hear that you were thinking but don’t know what it was about.”

  “Very well.” She was satisfied. “As it should be. It is impolite to eavesdrop on a lady’s thoughts.”

  “But still okay for you to mess around in my brain?” His grin indicated he might not totally object to her intrusion.

  “On that matter, I should note I sensed certain resistance today when I embarked on the endeavor… if, indeed, I have been in your mind at all.”

  “Oh, you’ve been there all right,” Muir nodded. “And I love the feeling of you being inside me. But I don’t want you to jam my thoughts about Lucy.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I see. You would fence that area from my encroachment?”

  His wrinkled brow suggested worry. “It was confusing to both of us and seemed to be creating some difficulty. I don’t want any external problems between her and me, since men and women already have enough baggage to deal with.”

  Muir’s phrasing was unusual, but Danielle got the message — stop interfering.

  “Very well, Mr. Muir, I shall resist the temptation to meddle, unless and until the participation of that woman begins to interfere with our efforts — yours and mine.”

  “I recall a passing reference to something that needs to happen, but you haven’t explained yet.”

  “Indeed, I have struggled to comprehend it myself, but without much success.” Danielle paused to let that sink in. “The part I am relatively certain of, however, is that they involve you.”

  “Me?” He pointed theatrically to his own chest. “Besides being a total skeptic, I’m also a rookie. You’d be better off using someone like Lucy, who understands some of this spirit stuff.”

  “I have come to the conclusion that your female acquaintance may also have a role to play.”