Selections from the Life of an Inventor (and his Ghost)

Danse Éternité

H.G. Wells could not dance. He hadn't a musical bone in his body, nor one with any feeble sense of coordination, and each staggered step, no matter how simple the move seemed while Lenore was performing it for him, seemed to land just wrong. Every single graceful move displayed by Lenore was mirrored in the likeness of an awkward, stumbly giraffe first learning to walk in the movements of H.G., and he silently cursed as he attempted the step once more.

Lenore paused, her dress swishing beneath her as though it was caught in some spiritual, supernatural wind. Perhaps it was, H.G. thought to himself, ghosts had little to no logic in this world.

Whether the questions of the rules of ghosts haunted H.G. was uncertain, even to him--but in a spiral of movement, a ticking clock, and the smoke filling his lungs, he was trapped in this eternity. It could be far worse, he knew--after all, what misery is it to be with your love for an eternity?--but question after question started to surface in his brain as Lenore took a step forward towards him.

"H.G.?"

The inventor snapped from his hazy thoughts, looking at the Lady Ghost herself--beautiful, even in death. Her skin showed no signs of illness, no pallour marring her face. Her eyes weren't sunken, as the corpses H.G. had seen in the past had shown, and her cheekbones, well... H.G. knew from the sensation of his lips brushing those cheekbones time and time again that they were full of life, not bony, rigid, jabbing out as her cheeks hollowed out.

Were either of them truly dead? H.G. had felt his heart stop, felt the choking, the rushing, but in this world, were they? Or were they simply alive in a different way, albeit an eternity without aging, without new life, without death or decay--but without the joys of life? Without birth, without growth...

"H.G.!"

Lenore had walked closer, holding a hand on his waist, another on his cheek. Her palm was warm against his cool skin--did ghosts have blood? How was her skin warm and his cold? He would have to run some experiments to determine--"You're thinking again."

"Am I?" He blinked, hard, and there she was. As alive as she could be. There was colour on her lips, a shining light in her eyes, one that glowed with concern as she pursed those velvet lips, running a thumb over his own cheek. "...alright, perhaps I am. Was?" He was still thinking, there was no use denying. "...still am."

"H...." Lenore gave him a smile, the type one would give a child who said something foolish. "Is it about the ghost thing again?"

"When is it not?" When, that was a whole other story. Time flew past differently here, wherever "here" was, and H.G. could hardly think of a time he didn't measure seconds, minutes... "...yes, it is. I can't- I can't seem to stop... asking questions."

Lenore led him to Poe's couch, sitting next to him and taking his hands in hers. "Can I answer any of them?"

"I... don't know." He looked to her, and he had never known such fear, such naivety, since he was young. "I don't know anything anymore, it seems like my entire perception of reality has shifted, and now... now there's you, and we're dead, but... you feel alive." H.G. paused, and took her hand to his lips, planting a kiss to their intertwined fingers. "You feel alive, there hasn't been a moment where you haven't."

"But we're not." He continued, and kissed her wrist--where he would have felt a pulse, should she have been alive. "We- we haven't been alive in so long, and I can't quite tell how long. That terrifies me. And- and, even as ghosts, shouldn't I have regained some coordination? Shouldn't my lungs have healed, even slightly?"

It was true, there was still a present rattling when he breathed heavily, and that brought another question to mind. "And- and why do we even breathe? We're dead, death means that oxygen has stopped passing through your lungs, amongst other things, and why can we experience arousal? Do we have ghost blood? Do ghosts have blood? How does any of this make any sense, Lenore?"

She laughed softly, and for a moment, H.G. was certain she would tell him he was being stupid, that this was all nonsense, but then Lenore took his chin in her hand, holding her thumb over his lips. "None of this makes sense. I may be a ghost, but I'm not an expert! I hardly know anything, and that's totes okay, goggles."

H.G. nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Lenore pressed her thumb against his lips again, hushing him. "And," she said, her smile evident in her voice, "I want to help you answer them. Even if it means working with you on your nerdy experiments and resisting the urge to kiss you every time you open your mouth to say some science words."

"They're- they're simple engineering terms, most likely-"

With that, Lenore moved her thumb off of his lips, and for a split second, H.G. was slightly disappointed--when she replaced it with her own lips, however, he couldn't help but hold his ghost tighter, feeling the warmth of her skin, the breath on her lips.

And, for a moment, H.G. understood one thing about death.

An eternity with his ghost was an eternity well-spent.