by Icy Sedgwick
She deposited her laptop on the table by the door and turned to face her bed. Her foot caught in something on the floor. Sarah looked down, expecting to see a spectral hand clutching her ankle. Instead, she saw her foot disappearing into the folds of a pair of discarded jeans.
Sarah picked them up. She tried to yank the creases out of the denim, and spotted a black stain near the knee. Sarah ran her thumb across it and sent a tiny puff of soot into the air. She remembered kneeling on the floor near the fireplace in the drawing room.
The Campbells’ visit! Of course!
Sarah turned out the pockets. A crumpled £5 note tumbled out of the left pocket. She plunged her hand into the right pocket and her rummaging fingers closed around something cold and hard. She drew the cameo pendant out of her right front pocket.
* * *
In the attic, Fowlis woke with a start. Something abominable pulled on his stomach, and the realisation hit him hard. The girl had found his anchor. He melted into thin air before he could do anything about the thought.
* * *
Sarah sat on the edge of her bed and held the pendant in the light from her bedside lamp. She didn’t recognise the figure worked in ivory and she traced the delicate curlicues of the surround. No amount of breathing on the pendant or holding it in her palms warmed it up.
“By Jove, what do you think you’re doing?”
Sarah started at the sound of the voice. Her head jerked up, her jaw dropped, and a scream caught in her throat when she saw the man at the foot of her bed. Long brown curls brushed the shoulders of a mustard jacket. His trousers were neatly tucked into leather boots so well polished Sarah could see her reflection in them. A neat pencil moustache ran along his top lip, and a mixture of indignation and curiosity burned in his eyes. His handsome appearance was ruined by the fact she could also see through him.
“You seem surprised to see me again.” The cavalier raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. The expression reminded her of her mother.
Sarah wanted to see the ghost and now he was here. She wanted to speak but the words wouldn’t come so she nodded.
“My lady, I’m sure that you know who I am.”
Sarah nodded again.
“I understand my appearance may have flustered you somewhat.” A grin flickered at the corners of his mouth.
“You’re the ghost, aren’t you?” asked Sarah. She cringed to hear the squeakiness in her voice.
“I am indeed!” He smiled and creases appeared around his blue eyes.
“Who are you?”
“Your assigned ghost.” The cavalier dipped into a deep bow.
“But who are you?” asked Sarah again.
“Are you incapable of accepting that I am simply your ghost?” asked the cavalier.
“Tell me who you are and then I won’t have to keep asking you, will I?” replied Sarah. She shrugged.
The cavalier narrowed his eyes, chewed his lip and tugged on his pointed beard. Eventually he coughed, and held himself very straight.
“Very well. My name is Fowlis Westerby, and I currently hold the rank of Ghost Master General,” replied the cavalier.
Sarah decided she liked his deep, warm voice. If she could picture a sound, his voice would be honey dripping onto hot scones.
“You should be afraid of me, not engaging me in conversation. You certainly have been on several occasions.”
“That’s different.” Sarah pouted.
“Do not feel distressed, my dear, your reaction is perfectly normal when confronted with a supernatural event. It is, I dare say, what is expected in these situations.” The cavalier smiled again. Reassurance twinkled in his eyes, instead of the patronising gaze of most adults.
“Yeah well, I’m not afraid of you, not really. I just want to know what’s going on around here. Things have been pretty weird, and it all started really suddenly.”
“It is nothing with which you must concern yourself.”
“I live here! Of course it concerns me. What are you doing here?” asked Sarah.
“Haunting your house. What else would you expect a spectre to be doing?”
“What? Why? Why now?”
“I am your haunter; therefore I must haunt in order to achieve a haunting.” The cavalier bowed again.
“Well if you’re our haunter, who haunts everyone else?”
The cavalier’s face fell. He cleared his throat, and leaned toward her. “Excuse me?”
“You said you were our haunter, so that means other people must have haunters too. You can’t be the only one.”
“Very good. That is an entirely logical conclusion to draw.”
“You’re not answering my question.” Sarah folded her arms and glared at him. She wished she could adopt the stance her mother used in awkward situations, but she didn’t think ghosts felt fear.
“Very well. I am here, as opposed to haunting someone else, because I have been assigned this house as my latest haunting.”
“Don’t be silly. Ghosts aren’t assigned haunting. They haunt where they died,” replied Sarah.
The cavalier laughed. The throaty sound came from deep in his belly.
“What’s so funny?” Sarah frowned.
“I often forget how much the living think they know, and how little they actually do,” replied the cavalier.
“So explain it to me,” said Sarah. Her father wouldn’t believe this when she told him. Maybe he could do tests or something. Surely he’d get into all of the important journals if he could prove ghosts were real? Maybe they’d even make a movie about it. Hollywood kept trying to make films that pretended to be real, so why not make a real film about real ghosts?
“I am not even supposed to be speaking to you,” said Fowlis. “It breaks at least three regulations and contravenes one of the imperative directives.”
“But here you are talking to me.”
“Gosh, you are going to be difficult, aren’t you?”
Fowlis sighed and put his left hand on his hip while rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other. Sarah recognised that pose. One of her aunts did it when she was exasperated, usually with Sarah.
“Most of the living would be terrified to see a ghost. Yet here you are, chatting to me as though this were the most normal thing in the world. Why are you not afraid? Am I not terrifying enough?” asked Fowlis.
“Oh you’ve terrified my mother all right. And that performance of yours in the library certainly terrified me, but you seem quite nice now we’re actually talking.”
“What performance in the library?” Fowlis raised an eyebrow again, this time the left one.
“The guy in the mirror, the freezing cold, that feeling like someone’s staring at me, that was all you, wasn’t it?”
“Erm, yes. Yes, it was. Glad you found it frightening. That was the intention after all,” replied Fowlis. His forehead creased into a frown.
Sarah yawned and shook her legs as though to shake loose the heaviness.
“Are you getting tired?” asked Fowlis.
“Yeah,” replied Sarah. She yawned again. “I don’t know why, I feel so sleepy all of a sudden.”
“Holding my anchor will do that to you. Be a good girl and put it back.”
“I will do no such thi—”
Sarah flopped backwards. Her arm dangled over the side of the bed. Her hold on the pendant weakened, and the cameo slid between her relaxed fingers. Fowlis vanished before it could land on the carpet with a soft thud.
Chapter 12
Fowlis stood in the girl’s room, staring down at the pendant. He glared at his fingers, furious that the idiotic directives from HQ meant he couldn’t even pick it up. There had to be another way around the problem. He tried to nudge the pendant with his toe, but his foot passed straight through it. He glowered at the cameo.
Fowlis left the room and strode down the corridor, muttering under his breath, lambasting Handle for choosing the fireplace as the site for the pendant. He cursed the girl for finding it, and wors
e, for not even fearing him. That complete lack of fear was precisely the reason why he couldn’t lie to her, or evade her questions. He would need to have serious words with whoever designed the anchors so that fearlessness prompted absolute truth. At least holding it had worn her out enough to stop asking questions, but he was sure the peace and quiet would not last for long. A squeak near the skirting board stopped Fowlis in his tracks. Brie peered around the edge of a side table.
“Hello, Mr Westerby. Are you all right?” she asked.
“Hello there, little madam. No, I am not. Events have taken a somewhat disturbing turn,” said Fowlis. He bent down towards the mouse. “The girl managed to locate my pendant, and worse, we have now had a conversation. This is highly irregular. It’s one of the cardinal rules that there should be no direct fraternisation between a haunter and a hauntee.”
“Will you get into trouble over it?” Brie wiggled her nose. Her whiskers trembled with the movement.
“Yes, people will be most vexed when they find out about it! I daresay Bonnie Prince Charlie will find the information most diverting. That boy is the closest thing I have to a rival, and I will be damned before I let him know what has happened.”
Fowlis twisted his lip into a sneer at the very mention of Charlie’s name. Brie bobbed up and down, reminding Fowlis of the rat in the cellar. Mrs Shelley’s report about the library sounded remarkably like the girl’s. The information disturbed Fowlis. It should be one haunter per haunting, another of the cardinal seven rules.
“If we start breaking rules like that, where will it lead? Anarchy, that’s where!” he said.
Brie squeaked her agreement. “Can we help at all? Move your anchor thingy wherever it needs to be?”
“That is a most kind offer, but unfortunately only humans may handle them. It’s a damned nuisance but it stops dogs running off with them. Who knows where they might end up if that happened.”
“That’s a bother.”
“It is. And dear little Brie, it has been a pleasure as always, but I fear I have business to which I must attend. The pendant will have to wait for the time being, as I don’t imagine she will hand it over without incident. I shall need to plan a strategy for that one. Tell me, where is the nearest mirror?”
“Just down the corridor,” said Brie. She pointed with her tail.
“Excellent. Many thanks, as always!” said Fowlis.
Brie nodded and ran into a small mouse hole behind the side table. Fowlis stood, straightened his coat, and smoothed down his white lace collar. Lastly, he ran a hand around his hat. He would need to look presentable for his meeting.
Fowlis followed the corridor and found the mirror, just as Brie said. Stains peppered the glass and the paint curled from the frame in peeling strips. Fowlis frowned at its condition, but in this situation, it would have to do. He rapped three times on the frame, and drew an elaborate symbol on the glass with his finger.
“Sir?”
Handle appeared in the mirror. He sat in his alcove in HQ’s control room, his rumpled hair sticking up in all directions. A collection of scrolls littered the desk.
“Good evening, Handle.”
“How is the haunting going? Is everything all right?” asked his assistant.
“Everything seems to be proceeding as per the usual format,” replied Fowlis. Handle couldn’t know about the pendant. Fowlis would keep that to himself for the time being, until he found a way to wrest it from the girl. With any luck, HQ need never know. It was a damned shame that haunters weren’t permitted to handle their own anchors, or he could have picked it up from her bedroom floor himself.
“Oh good. We’ve been having problems with communications all day, they keep cutting out. There’s some kind of interference in the Veil,” said Handle.
“Oh dear. That is most unfortunate.” Fowlis fought to swallow the grin threatening to erupt on his face. His infraction had gone undetected. A frown engulfed the suppressed grin.
If they didn’t see that, then perhaps there are actions they have not seen as well. They never award points on the basis of the final report alone; there must be visual evidence. Damn.
“Are you okay then, sir?”
“Actually no, I’m not. It would appear there is another haunter present.”
Handle stared at him and Fowlis gazed back with cool detachment. Handle broke eye contact and scrabbled through the scrolls on his desk. He glanced at each one, then tossed them aside when they yielded no answers.
“That can’t be right, sir, you’re the only one there! Well, the only one who’s supposed to be there,” said Handle.
He seized a square of parchment and held it up so Fowlis could read the elegant script. The order from the council authorised Cransland House as the site of a haunting, of undetermined duration, conducted by none other than Fowlis Westerby, Ghost Master General.
“Well there is certainly no mention of another haunter, but I’ve now had two reports of strange disturbances in the library, disturbances which I hardly need add were not of my doing,” said Fowlis.
“Reports from whom?” asked Handle.
“A rat and…er…a mouse who live here,” said Fowlis. He couldn’t exactly name Sarah.
“Rodents are your sources?”
Fowlis pursed his lips but commended his assistant’s attempts anyway.
“They’re reliable, Handle. Furthermore, the family enlisted the services of an investigator, who also experienced and documented the disturbances.”
“Did he document your doings, sir?”
“No. I kept myself away from his infernal machinery during the investigation, and I only managed to eavesdrop on his report back to the family with some difficulty. I could not aid and abet his investigation because he was insufferably arrogant.”
“It could have helped your case though, sir.”
“I do not want the family to have proof of my existence. I want them to have the suspicion of it, and therein lies the greater fear. But that is not the point. There is definitely something strange going on. If no one has been assigned to the house besides myself, that means someone is here unauthorised.”
“I’ll look into it, sir,” said Handle.
“Do. Also keep an eye on that Bonnie Prince Charlie. I would not put it past him to attempt to sabotage my haunting.”
“Noted, sir.”
“Right. Well, I’d best get back to work. Keep me posted,” said Fowlis.
Handle nodded and then faded from view. The reflection of the corridor reappeared in the dirty glass. Fowlis adjusted his hat and strode away from the mirror in the direction of the library.
Footsteps caught Fowlis’s attention and he stopped in the middle of the hallway. The scientist came around the corner, engrossed in the printouts in his hand.
I have business to attend to, but I must still remember my primary obligation.
He concentrated hard and drained the warmth out of the air. The scientist stopped and looked up. His breath came in small white puffs. His teeth chattered and he tried to wrap his arms around himself without creasing his printouts. Fowlis concentrated harder, watching tendrils of frost creep across the paintings lining the walls. The scientist tried to move away but his feet wouldn’t co-operate.
“Must…get…the…heating…fixed,” said the scientist.
Fowlis scowled. He’d never managed to get the temperature so low before and he’d wasted it on the scientist.
What a ridiculous man.
He broke his concentration and the frost melted, dripping down the frames and onto the carpet. The scientist released his grip on himself and swung his arms to his sides. He stamped his feet to get the circulation going. Raising the temperature required more energy, but Fowlis was already tired and he wanted to check the library one last time before sleep.
The scientist paused to shuffle his printouts. Fowlis scowled at the sceptic and manifested his hand long enough to knock the papers to the floor. The scientist yelped in surprise and dropped to his kne
es to gather the sheets. Fowlis turned on his heel and walked down the corridor, concentrating hard on his feet, and the sound the heels made on wooden floorboards. Fowlis turned to see the blood drain from the scientist’s face, and he permitted himself a wry grin.
Fowlis reached the staircase and drifted down into the entrance hall where he paused to cast an eye over the two antique suits of armour standing in niches either side of the door. Each suit stood on a square of tiles much paler than their neighbour’s, testament to missing columns.
There’s something I haven’t done in a while.
Fowlis hauled each suit out of its niche and into the open space of the hall. He pushed and pulled at the armour, fixing the plates into position with dabs of ectoplasm. Moments later, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. One suit stood with its back to the empty fireplace, posed like a goalkeeper facing a penalty shoot-out. The other faced the fireplace, arms held out for balance, and foot drawn back in an action pose. Fowlis chuckled. The addition of the suit’s helmet as a makeshift ball was an inspired finishing touch.
A clock chimed in the depths of the house. Midnight. Fowlis snapped out of his appreciation of his sculpture and set off in the direction of the library.
Fowlis stepped through the door, shivering as he slid through the rough wood. Darkness pressed up against the windows and shadows slept in corners. A strong presence pulsed in the gloom but he couldn’t locate it. He planted his hands on his hips and chewed his lip. The presence didn’t feel like another haunter. It felt older, somehow. Stronger. Was Fowlis imagining things or was it coming from the bookshelves?
A chill ran through his ectoplasm and the weight of an intense stare pressed on his core. Fowlis shuddered, and forced himself to step to one side, eager to break the pressure radiating from the mirror. The stare cast around for a moment, before finding Fowlis again.
“Hello there? I daresay you have your reasons for being here, but I am trying to conduct a haunting.” Fowlis fought to keep the tremor out of his voice.
