After the story she told me, how can she expect me to stay silent? I realize I have been staring at her for some time when she snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. "You alive?" She asked me in a sarcastic voice and I hear the imaginary warning bells ringing. "What turned you into a human statue? The fact that I was murdered? Or the fact that I was going to marry someone other than my childhood love? Because the last time I checked, the both still happen very commonly. Which further implies you are an idiot and a fool for not accepting this face of your world. Be realistic."
I open my mouth to respond but no words come out. After all, I have no idea how to respond this stuff. As a result of this, I respond in a way that was way off the idiocy scale. “I am sorry. Are you okay?” What does a person expect as a response when he asks someone whether the person is okay after they tell the story of their death? Someone commit me to idiot asylum.
Her eyes narrow in anger and the entire illusion of the rustic world around us fades. Somehow, she was also managing that while telling her story and I could almost believe that I was in the dawn of twentieth century myself. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No. No, I’m sorry. It was an idiotic thing. I swear I only said it because it was the first thing I could think of. I… Wait, I was awake an entire night. Why am I not tired at all?” I seriously need to filter what I speak. I ask while apologizing to her. I was actually going to use my tired mind as an excuse but the fact is that I don’t feel tired at all.
She fakes an over-exaggerated yawn and speaks, “So you finally figure it out. I was thinking you never will. I have ensured you don’t fall asleep while I tell you about my past. Because if you do…” I raise my hands in surrender. Message received. Loud and clear.
“Is it hard?” I ask and under her scrutinizing gaze, I barely resist the urge to break our eye contact. “Is it hard to look at me and remember him?” She is silent for a few moments and I finally give in to my desire to break eye contact. I stare at the room all around me. It seems that the magic that held the room somewhat true to its original glory is now dissipating. The light emitting from the bulbs is dying and the little things no longer look new but look as if they have been lying around for decades, which they have. In simple, the place was aging rapidly without Daisy’s influence. I wondered if she held the house together as well. But I don’t get to ask this because Daisy finally responds and I turn to see her looking at me but her eyes glazed as if she’s remembering.
“Seeing you doesn’t exactly hurt. It’s more like a sad reminder of something I had and lost without ever realizing its value. Your looks are so much like his that if I dressed you in his clothes, even his father wouldn’t have been able to identify you weren’t his son.” Then with a more focused look on my face, she adds dryly, “At least until you open your mouth.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes at her way of saying that. This girl has a good sense of humour. “Amen to that. I would have to only speak a word for him to catch me. But thankfully we don’t have to worry about that. I can’t time-travel.”
“See what I meant? Of course you don’t. You open your mouth and even if someone would confuse you with Samuel, they would figure you out. Though you share certain other characteristics with him as well.” I open my mouth to ask what but she interrupts to add. “Don’t ask. I’m not going to compliment you. I have seen how boys like you are in these modern times. I am not helping that ego grow even a bit.”
“Wow.” I respond with a smile. “That’s a lot of words you have mastered over the years. Spent a lot of time people watching?” Her smile momentarily falters and I curse myself internally. Stupid. Why did I remind her of her long afterlife on here just when we were getting along?
“The main reason it doesn’t hurt to look at you…” She continues in a subdued voice, all fun gone from her. “…is that everyone person has his or her own personality and now I can see yours. So with time, he has faded away from you. Of course, your charming personality helped a lot. Want me to list a few of your qualities?” This is not going to be good. “You are a liar, a manipulator, a cruel person with no respect of other’s thoughts and feelings. And this is just the beginning of the list. Do I need to go on?” Her speech is getting faster and I have a feeling it is her tell of how much angry she is.
I quickly shake my head in a no. Then I verbalize it as well. “No, no, no. There is no need to go any further. I get your meaning. We are okay, thanks.” Is she a mental case? One mood swing from wistful to funny is acceptable. But then funny to biting? And I have to last this for fifty years? Oh god, fifty years?
The reminder of my stay leads to an internal panic attack as my mind keeps shouting fifty years at the rest of me. None of it shows up on the outside though and there is a long silence as neither of us speak while being lost in our own thoughts and feelings. At least I hope so because the alternative that I can think of to explain her silence is that she plans a trick against me.
Finally the silence begins to feel suffocative and I break it with the first question that I can come up with. “Would you like to know what I thought of your story so far?” Snapping out of whatever world she was lost in, she nods and I suddenly find myself out of words. I hope that my answer doesn’t result in a mood swing.
“At first, you story seemed like a tale of childhood friends growing into a happy married couple, defying the social customs. But having sort of known that the story ends with your death, there was not a hope of happy end. As you spoke, it was clear that Samuel seemed to be genuinely good judge of character and didn’t seem to care about people other than you. Even your nickname was, I suppose, only used by him. But later, with the arrival of George, it became a love triangle. That is, a group of three in which one person, you, loved, both of them. It didn’t become one only because you didn’t realize it. If you had, all three of you would have suffered once you made your choice. Overall, it was like reading a fictional tale set in the dawn of twentieth century. I…” I freeze as I realize the words that were about to leave me were most definitely not going to help me.
“Continue.” She prods me and I quickly try to come up with something less offensive. If I am right, then just like girls of present day, she wouldn’t appreciate what I had to say.
"I-I, uh." I stammer and I can see her impatience growing. Can’t come up with something else. I have to hope she isn’t severe offended. Before she could snap at me to hurry up, and she almost does – she does need anger management therapy for that, I speak what I had to say properly. "I didn't expect your story to be so, uh, normal." She blinked in surprise. Okay. Shock isn’t bad. Surprise isn’t either. Then comes anger on her face and I know that she did take offense. Someone, anyone, save me. No woman, no matter how old, likes to hear that her life story was so trivial, even if she believes so as well. Seeing her anger keep rising, I hastily add the first abnormal thing I can come up with to try to placate her anger, "I was fearing more of a witch's curse or something like that." From the way her anger increases, her face blanks out of any emotion and her body tightens, I can tell that my comment back-fired.
"I lived in the twentieth century of progress." She speaks in a voice that is tightly-controlled and I can’t help the flinch. "I was not born in a superstitious decade, or even century! Just because I am a ghost doesn't mean that I was cursed by a witch to stay here. I stayed here to be close to those I cared about."
I really blame my habit of being glib for what came out next. “Where are they now? Are they here as well?” I really should have kept my mouth shut. Her anger peaks at my words and the magic holding the illusion collapses completely and I look around to see that the room, and the entire house, is dying from years of disrepair. It is Daisy’s efforts that has held the house together for so long.
“No, they left. I couldn’t ask them to stay.” She responds and I turn back to her, only to see her gone. “You really have a way with people, don’t you Nick Demming Peters? You know ways to irk me that even I never knew. Well, you shall have your reward for that. It is such a shame that I had retrieved the necklace for you and never let you wander around more. But since we are already here, let us now have you solve the puzzle of this room. And then find me so that we continue.”
I can feel the coldness in the room lessen a bit and I know she is gone. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean to offend.” I honestly plead to her. The last thing I want is for her to be hurt by me. I look around to figure out what the puzzle of this room is when I hear the sound of a floorboard cracking. I turn around and see that it is the one at the door towards the main entrance. Several more sounds follow and a huge gap in the floor forms at both of the entrances. Okay, this is the trap. I can’t jump that far. Well maybe I can but can I take the risk?
The question has me taking a peek at what lies below and my blood freezes. No, no, no! She wouldn’t. Not this. Not now. Not after that. I see beady eyes, maybe in thousands, staring back at me with a hunger that makes me wish to retreat far back into a safe corner. As if on seeing I reminded them of their hunger, all the rats try to get up to me with no success. Still, there is a chance they might make it. And that is when the third part of her challenge occurs.
It has to be her illusion. She wouldn’t do this. Maybe to me but not to her own house. I mentally chant but my eyes cannot refuse what I see as the ceiling begins to crack as it starts to lower. It appears that I have at most a minute or two to make it through this one before the roof collapses on top of me.
I look around and quickly take inventory. The ten second inventory misses most of the smaller stuff but none of those are important in crossing such a huge gap. I take note of the barely accessible coat rack that seems that it would fall down into the gap on feeling even faintest of disturbance, lots of furniture that are too heavy to move in such a short time and two useless long necked broken lamps decorating two opposite but intact ends of the room.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I need a bridge to cross this gap. Picking up the coat rack – an act that takes up 20 important seconds at my incredibly careful but slow walk, I gather it with the two lamps to get a bridge and use the wires of the lamps to tie them temporarily. As I begin to position it, I realize that if I fail, both the roof will fall on me and the army of hungry mice shall have a bridge to get to me. It was already touching my hair and I had to bend my head to make sure I wouldn’t be stuck.
Estimating that I have about thirteen seconds left before I have to crawl, I hurry in positioning and begin to cross the make-shift bridge. The noise of the angry mice beneath me doesn’t help and I freeze several times in fear. By the time I do make it through, there isn’t enough space left for me to crawl. I run as fast as possible to get away from their sudden claustrophobic feeling and there is a huge roar behind me. I turn around and see that the entire room has collapsed in itself.
Daisy’s disembodied voice greets me as I stare at what was once a magnificent parlour room. “I could no longer hold the entire house together and something had to give. If you had failed, even I couldn’t have rescued you. Even now the rest of the house shakes. I doubt that without attention, this place would last a year.” Her unspoken words hung in the air. And you shall die with it. “Now, find me. We have much to talk about.” There was another loud roar from above and I worried if the entire house was going to collapse now. “Sorry, that was the attic. There is no attic now.”
Her voice is now mournful. It is clear it hurts her to let her house fall apart but then again, she wasn’t supposed to be here for so long to witness all this. I wish I could comfort her somehow instead of continuing to unintentionally offend her. “I know what you wonder.” She spoke sadly. “You think that what this place would be without a ghost haunting it. I wonder so myself. And I will tell you why but first you must find me.” I make myself shake out the gloom that settled on me for her and make my way towards where she should be.
I make my way to the most obvious location to check. Her bedroom though is empty of her traces. Before, her room had been like no one had been here and the place was full of dust and cobwebs. But now, I can see that her magic held this room together as well. The wallpaper has peeled off in places and the furniture’s wood has rotten irreparably in several places. Her bed, which had looked fine before, is now barely held together and her wardrobe’s door hangs loosely at an angle. The dresser is damaged, as if someone vandalized it, and the only sign that there was ever a chair on which I sat is the sight of several rusted nails and a lot of wood dust.
I walk back from the entrance as I feel the place begin to rot around me. It seems Daisy is falling apart and the house with her. Just to be sure, I check her father’s room and find a similar state of decay consuming it. Even the wood that seems to hold the windows barred appear to be rotting. Could I escape via this? Do I want to? The second question comes on the heel of the first and I am honestly scared by the ‘no’ that my mind shouts. After several moments of pondering, I decide not to leave yet. I wish to leave with all of my being but I deserve to hear her story as well. I don’t think she ever told anyone. I hear sometimes sharing is therapeutic, I hope it is so for her too. If I didn’t look like Samuel, would she have told me? How would have she behaved?
I make my way down the stairs and take a look at the rooms behind the grand stairs and to the side. The eastern side holds a path to the corridor that led to the now ruined parlour room and the kitchens. There is also a door to the basement that I avoid even touching in fear of unleashing the mice, at least those which survived. I take a look in the western side to see a badly ruined room that I suppose was once the servant’s quarters. It wouldn’t be wise to proceed further in the room when I doubt how long it will even exist. So I turn around and make my way to what would be the western parlour. Only it isn’t and I can see where all of Daisy’s efforts have gone.
It’s an office, maybe her father’s office. The place looks as if it was preserved in time. There are no signs of disrepair and there is even a fire going on in the fireplace. And then, I see it all flicker and disappear to see the view of what it would be without her power. A broken fireplace is what I see and as I turn around the room, I see that time has ruined the place completely. What once was a row of bookshelves along the wall is now a large lump of rotten wood that seems to have fused into that shape permanently. The majestic desk in front of me in nowhere to be seen in the present ruins and I suspect it was removed before being abandoned. But why didn’t they take the bookshelves? The vision restores and I am back in the illusion world again. I momentarily worry that maybe her power is fading too fast for her to be able to keep up with all these final reminders of her home.
The seat behind the desk holds an occupant that looks completely alive in this illusion. In one of her dresses that is the colour of the sky covering her from head to toe and her hair braided, Daisy McCain doesn’t look like an almost century old dead ghost. She looks like she is just about to leave for a party and a longing within me rises to accompany her. Wake up idiot! She’s dead and this is all an illusion. If the period of her life wasn’t sexist, I know that Daisy would have taken over her father’s businesses someday and would have looked natural at it. She does so now, looking as if she’s delaying her leave to deal with any last0minute crucial business issue.
I don’t even notice that her lips move before I hear her. “When George’s new wife left this house along with her family in fear of the ghost that haunted the house, she left behind those bookshelves. They held small portraits of the different generations of the McCain family. It was one of my last requests of theirs. My father Alexander McCain had an ancient line that ended when he, the only child of his parents and the last McCain alive, died without having another heir. Cynthia didn’t want me to follow her for taking the last of my family with her. I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t have stayed either.” She tells me in a voice free of any judgement and I wonder if it is so because it has been a long time to get over it or because she never held the grudge in the first place. I have a feeling that it is the second one. “Well, you found me. Ask anything you have to ask and I will answer it before continuing the story to deal with those I can’t yet. Take a seat.”
Just like the last time, a soft cloth comes flying from somewhere and cleans the two already clean chairs so much that I wonder if it would look completely new. “Thanks for the, uh, cleaning.” She gives me a small amused smile and I relax. As I sit on one of the chairs, I feel relieved that she isn’t offended anymore. After a moment of thinking, I ask one. “Why did you choose to stay here after others left?” She gives me an empty smile as she responds.
“The reason I stayed is that as you know now, I was never a social person and preferred to be with only a few friends I trusted. When George’s family left this place – and I will tell you later how they came to live here – his wife wished to be left alone by the “ghost of the past”. I honoured her wish and ended up with no one I cared for in a world that was changing so rapidly. The Great Depression of 1927 had just ended and things had changed. So I chose to stay in, waiting for fools of different generations to visit. And in the meantime, I held the place together.” In a low voice, she adds, “At least I did until now.”
“Don’t blame yourself for that. The place was dying but held itself together on its last breath with your help. There was nothing you could do.” I console her before adding a ridiculous suggestion. “Unless you were planning to do all the repairs to the place yourself.” She gives me a dry look at my joke but I can see that her posture is a little lighter than before. “How did you pick up the words of the present day by staying here?” I have already offended her once by a similar comment. I might as well know how.
“Boredom is powerful thing Nick. I have often merged among you people in my invisible form, following people in random as they catch my fancy. I have seen how the world has changed, and deteriorated, as the decades passed.”
There are several more questions that I ask and she answers most of them, deflecting a few of them with an ‘I will tell you later’. Once I feel done with the questions, I let her continue the story with one final question. "Did they ever catch who was it?" She nods her head grimly, as if knowing I was going to ask this and instead of responding, stares at some fixed point on the wall above my head. Then her eyes begin to get cloudy and I know what it means. Time to continue the story. And then she responds.