Short Fiction

Oh, Damn

ghost group at Hardwick House, Hawstead, Suffolk, England 1884

“Oh, damn!” The ghost said, contemplating the wheezing, struggling man on the floor. “Sorry! Sorry!” He exerted himself to become more tangible in order to help the portly man back to his feet.

Red in the face, the man glared at the apologetic spectre.

“Just what do you think you were about?” he demanded.

The ghost would have blushed had he been able. “Sorry! It’s just that so few of the living come by anymore and there are quite a few of us spirits in this place and so we’ve become rather competitive, you see, and -”

The man seemed to puff up even more, his red face shading more into purple. “D’you mean to say that you’re contesting one another to scare the daylights out of unsuspecting people?” He shook a finger violently at the ghost, who glided back a step or two in alarm. “Don’t you realise such things could get out of hand? You could give someone a serious turn and then where you would be? Spectres like you are the reason honest house agents like myself have a difficulty in finding owners for these ridiculous relics and more than one ghost has gone wanting for a place to haunt when their castle falls down about their heads for lack of proper maintenance!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” the ghost said again. “Terribly, awfully, sorry. Really. Wasn’t thinking, is all.” He floated closer and brushed at the man’s suit. “All over now, though, right? No harm done, eh?”

“No harm done? No harm done?!” The finger came out again to stab at the air, then suddenly, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell bonelessly to the floorboards.

The ghost, startled, crept closer. “Excuse me? Are you alright?” He reached out a transparent hand and pushed at the man’s chest. The man’s eyes flew open, he took a great, gasping breath, and then his eyes snapped shut and the breath blew out of him in a gust. A moment later, a portly spirit emerged from the fleshly chrysalis, finger still raised to berate.

“Oh, damn!” the ghost said.

Used to It

Painting of Czech Harvest Festival celebrants

 

“Will you not come down to join the festival?”

Fanne did not turn from where her hand holding the quill moved across the paper. “Sorry, no.”

There was no sound of Leefer leaving.

“Why not?”

Fanne still did not turn. “I would not enjoy it. After greeting a few friends and having a glass of something, I would retreat to a corner and spend the rest of the evening watching. It’s more profitable for me to stay here and work.”

“But – ”

Fanne continued to write.

“But there are folk to talk with and dancing… you like dancing.”

“Perhaps I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t understand.” There was a quiver in Leefer’s voice that finally made Fanne stop writing and turn her head.

“Listen, Leefer. I like to help people, I want them to prosper. But as a group, I prefer to let them be. I never feel a part of them. At every celebration, some bit of me is always standing away and watching. It is a lonely feeling and I like to avoid it.”

“But they like you – ”

“And often, I like them. but sometimes that is not enough.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s not required you should.” Fanne turned back to her paper and re-dipped the quill, began writing once more. She paused as a hand fell gently upon one shoulder.

“Fanne, does that not staying apart feel lonely as well?”

One corner of Fanne’s mouth lifted, though Leefer could not see it. “Yes, sometimes it does. But I would sooner be lonely here than there. And I am used to it.”

“Used to it…” Leefer’s voice trailed away and the hand on her shoulder was removed.

Fanne continued to write as the thick door shut behind her, cutting off the sounds of celebration in the streets. The sudden silence was like a balm. And a burden.