FLAPPER GIRL | ❝All those people, all those lives, where are they now?❞
In all her ninety-something years of death, all Effie Connolly wishes for is some excitement in Button House... from anyone other than the fellow ghosts she's stuck in purg...
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PROLOGUE the last button
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THE ELDERLY WOMAN shudders through a laboured breath, tied to her death bed by her aching limbs that have seen years of life. The wrinkles in her face are paths of wisdom, experiences gained from her youth right up until her lasting minutes, growing colder by the minute as life trickles from her. Lady Heather Button, as her inhabitants have come to know her, is on her last leg.
No one sits by her side in her final moments. As far as she's concerned, her family are long gone or too far estranged to be here. But she's seen the world; she's ready now, even if it does mean she's by herself... or so she thinks.
But then again, how is she to know of the amalgamation of spirits, crowded at the end of her bed with great anticipation as she draws out her last few breaths? Curious glances, excitable whispers and reflective words of respect are exchanged — she won't hear any of them, of course. Nor will she know just how inexplicably eager they are for her to pass.
One of these wide-eyed ghosts looming over her, Effie Connolly, massages the clump of bracelets that hang from her wrist, preserved in their newness but probably considered antique now. "How much longer?" she asks impatiently, bobbing up and down on the spot. "I don't know if I can wait another minute..."
"Why, would you rather she hurriedup?" Julian, one of the others, chortles. Then, gaining some composure in what feels like a over-performance of appearing solemn, he sighs. "No, it can't be long now..."
Effie manages to roll her eyes. She wonders if he learned that technique when he was alive, on those 'Newsnight' things from his day that he talks about...
"She had a tremendous innings," says the Captain, jutting his chin out with an air of admirable pride, his swagger stick held firmly under his arm as always.
"At least she's comfortable," Lady Fanny Button sighs dotingly, standing the closest to the dying woman who she knew to be her descendant. Effie had to admit, she was looking forward to when Lady Heather would kick the bucket, if it meant Fanny would stop acting so self-important as a result.
"Well," a sheepish voice pipes up, "there are worse ways to go..."
The words come from Humphrey, a ghost in a rather more shocking form as his body cradles his disembodied head, which unexpectedly appears very lively. But upon his words, all reservations of respect fly out of the window. The ghosts break out into murmurs of agreement ("Well, you can say that again!" or "Right here...") and gesture animatedly to either visible or external causes of death — whether it be a gunshot wound, an impaled neck or simply painful burns still showing on the skin. Effie instinctively sucks in a breath, shuddering at the thought of having to relive those final moments.
