The Lodger at Button House

Milieu

'Is this real life? Is this just fantasy?'. Queen played over the radio, blaring through at volume 30 as we drove across the motorway in our little bug. 

"Only an hour left to go sweetheart, till home" his voice was slightly slurred but I was used to it, I could now manage to block the vile stench of alcohol that still lurked around his form - even after it had been years since he had won the battle. 

Peering out of the open window and into the industrialised freeway, I replied in a monotonous tone and focused on the voice of Freddie Mercury.

'Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see. I am just a poor boy, I need no sympathy'.

It was peaceful for a while. My dad driving us back home from a weekend away in Wales, me, humming the words to one of the greatest songs ever written. We were content. However, things were about to change my life for good.

All it took was a silver BMW to swerve around our small, yellow car and miss by an inch: the motor slamming into the side and shoving us past the perimeter of the long road and down a ditch. Our powerless bodies were thrown around behind the steering wheel like clothes in a tumble dryer, helpless and afraid. It felt like hours, hours spent rolling in between the wielded metal, trying my hardest to keep my neck safe. The seat-belts only appeared at the time as thin material strips, not much use. A mere few seconds later, the bug was forcibly projected to a halt, it tilted at an angle and was resting on the trunk of an old oak.

'Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead.'

All went silent, I remember reaching out and sticking my arm through the gap in window, I was on the side that was tilted upwards by the angle so I got some space. Procuring some leverage as I hoisted myself up for a better view. I could see my father's figure, unconscious in the adjoining seat, but I tried my hardest not to let it get to me as I fumbled around with my hand to find the door handle. I couldn't. The inside handle had broken off years ago and my father had never gotten it replaced - "s'not needed THAT much" - he would say, truth was, he couldn't afford to change it. I leaned over, ever so slightly just to peer over the ledge to get a better look. 

That's it, I had done it. Looking back now it all seems so small in the grand scheme of things, but back then, it felt like time moved slower. All the pain and aching my body felt had been numbed to perfection by adrenaline. I leaned to one side to get a better reach which caused the car to descended, plunged into the grassy floor, snapping my arm in the process. And I blacked out.

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Someone must have called for help because the next thing I remember is half-waking up in an ambulance. A kind paramedic greeted me and updated my drugs to ease the pain. I looked over to assess the damage caused by the crash, my arm was bent at a odd angle, one it shouldn't normally be able to hold. It was washed in a huge purple bruising with the occasional grey texture, a deep gash oozing in clotted blood, splitting my elbow around the natural bend of my appendage. Trying to bend my fingers worked as well as trying to tame a wild lion, it didn't. That's the last I remember before I woke up properly in the hospital wing.

My mind was full of confusion as I came-to. A loud drilling noise racked my head as I lay in the darkness behind my eyes. It was too painful to properly return to the present just yet.

"Oh, poor thing. They look like they have gotten badly beaten up" came a detached voice from, what seemed like, the bottom of my hospital bed.

"mmm, I overheard a doctor say that It's a miracle they have survived this long" said a kind, old woman's voice which then added, "car crash" as if someone didnt understand what had happened to me.

Then, a deeper, male voice butted in, "Father weren't so lucky, poor sod".

My eyes bolted open in panic and saw a group of people standing around my room. They were an odd bunch to say the least.

"Ooo! They're awake! Poor child must be thirsty" said an old woman. She had her hair twisted awkwardly in a bun and she was wearing a strange frilly nightgown, almost victorian looking. Specks of dried blood on the collar and down her chin.

I noticed another in the corner, leaning on the window. His neck sat at a tricky angle which looked very uncomfortable. He had grown a stubbly beard and looked like he should have been in a hospital bed. After all, he was wearing the garments for it, maybe he has escaped out of bed?

A third figure was standing right next to my headrest. They looked around 19- my age, and wore what looked like an old horse-riding uniform. Something that would have been worn in the tudor era. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and her head caved unevenly on one side, congealed blood and mud stuck on top.

"Excuse me" I said nervously, my throat hoarse from lack of use, "shouldn't you be in bed, you look like you have had a terrible fall".

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That was the first time I had ever seen a ghost. Compared to what other's may have experienced, I would say it was quite easy to relax in my new world of the living and the dead. It turns out I had badly fractured my arm and shattered everything below that gash around my elbow. The doctors almost amputated, but managed to patch it up eventually. I was in a cast for the next 6 months, the next year was spent in physical therapy, learning to use that arm again.

We held a funeral for my father though not many people showed up. Sadly, I never saw his ghost. I assumed he was still lurking at the site of the crash, all by himself.

Lastly, after seeing ghosts, I met the spirit that had lived in my house all this time. I felt feeble as I greeted him for the first time, not knowing who he was. He wore a deep blue woollen jumper, shirt and tie. He looked in his early fourties, young for death. I still remember how his eyes sparked with delight, though he tried not to show it, when I first spoke to him and let him know I could see him. He told me he had died from a heart attack, too much stress after coming back home from the second world war in 1945, it was common apparently. He told me how he was my great-grandfather and how he so enjoyed watching his family grow and develop as the house was past down the generations. He told stories of the war, his favourites being the ones of when he was a Lieutenant at an old house, help to govern the soldiers along side his Captain.