While the Veil is Thin : 3
The ghost's guilt is the source of his haunting [3 of 3]
I went into the bedroom, and returned with a crucifix on a chain. “Put this on,” I told my friend. I was holding a wooden cross.
“I don’t really believe,” Caroline whispered.
“It might help, what’s the risk?” I asked.
Squaring my shoulders, I approached the back door. “What do you want?” Hoping my raised voice hid how hard I was shaking.
“My child,” came the gasping reply.
The voice, like the screech of rusty hinges, made my heart hammer against my ribs.
“I don’t have your child,” I called back.
There was silence, then more scraping. When the door handle dipped again we both squealed.
“Get back!” I cried.
“Help … me!” The croak was plaintive.
“If we help you, do you promise to leave us alone?”
“I promise,” came the hoarse reply.
“I’ll open the door, but you have to stay back.”
“What? No! Are you crazy?” Caroline looked horrified, big eyes imploring me to keep the door locked.
“We have salt lines and crucifixes, but more importantly, we have something it needs. I want to get this haunting over and done.”
“You’re so brave,” Caroline’s gaze was full of respect. Planting a kiss on my lips she said. “Do it, but let me put my shoes on first, in case we have to run.”
I swung open the back door and saw the indistinct outline of a man dressed in old-fashioned garments. There was a smell of mould and decay, the same odor I had detected in the churchyard.
“Who are you?” I was trembling all over.
“Lucien Wickham.” It wheezed out the name, raising gooseflesh on my arms. There was scant comfort in being right.
“Did you follow us from the graveyard?” Caroline demanded.
The spirit nodded.
“How can we help?” I needed to know
“My child,” he repeated. “Come.” Then his form retreated.
Caroline grabbed my hand and we followed a few steps behind our ghostly visitor, who began drifting through the streets. His head turned left and right, and I guessed he was taking in the changes that had occurred in the village since his death.
I sneaked a look at Caroline and squeezed our joined hands. We continued walking behind Lucien’s translucent body. Eventually, he stopped at a grassy area that contained the ruins of a once-grand home.
I recognized it as Nicholson House.
“Did you work here?”
Lucien shook his head.
“You lived here?”
This time he nodded.
“It was destroyed by fire two hundred years ago. Is that how you died?” Caroline threw in her question and Lucien continued nodding, looking mournful.
“Maybe his child died here too,” Caroline speculated.
At her words, the ghost of Lucien Wickham transformed. Instantly, his grisly face twisted in anger, torment, and pain. It was the most frightening thing I had ever seen, and I watch a lot of horror movies.
His mouth tore open in an agonized scream, while his skin appeared to be melting. The ghost’s hands became skeletal, and grabbed wildly at his limbs and torso, seeming to relive the torture of flames consuming him. He was grasping his throat, then Lucien’s legs buckled and he fell to the ground, apparently choking.
I was horrified, but what could I do? Caroline and I had to stand helplessly, and watch, as Lucien flailed around. His spirit was reliving the agonizing experience of burning and suffocating when the house went up in flames and his clothes caught fire.
“Can we do something to help?” Caroline wailed.
“I think we must wait. It’s history repeating itself.”
But I felt wretched that we couldn’t intervene as he suffered and died again. Eventually, Lucien stopped thrashing; then his form lay still and quiet.
“Lucien?” I crouched down, speaking softly. “Can you hear me?”
He raised his head and nodded. When he slowly rose to stand, his spirit looked as it had before we reached the ruins.
Many people died in the fire at Nicholson House. I knew because I’d visited the remains with my school when we studied it for a class project.
“The staff couldn’t escape the blaze,” I told Caroline, “they were trapped below stairs, in the servants’ quarters.”
“There’s a plaque.” Caroline pointed towards it.
An engraved metal shape fashioned like an open book was set into stone. She and I held hands, taking time to read the names aloud. As well as Lucien, his butlers and footmen, scullery maids, housemaids, and the cook were mentioned. All expired in the fire, that fateful day.
“There’s no mention of your child Lucien, there’s nobody else with your surname.”
His face was etched with sorrow, but his wispy hand pointed towards the name of a housemaid, Myrtle Tibbet.
“Her baby. Wrong side of blanket.”
As he forced out rasping words, the spirit looked wretched, hanging his head.
“Sent away to have … my child.”
Lucien struggled to maintain his composure. Even as a spectre, he appeared to wish to avoid the indignity of tears.
“Day of fire… showed me my bonny lad.”
“Nobody knew Myrtle had a child?” I probed.
Lucien nodded, and I understood. It was the way in those times. ‘Fallen women’ were sent to stay with distant relatives, in an attempt to keep the birth of the child secret. Later they would carry on with their lives. The child might be adopted, or brought up by a relative.
“She left the baby with you?” Caroline asked.
“Sleeping,” Lucien affirmed.
He began to wring his hands, his attitude becoming increasingly distressed.
“On the day of the fire?”
Another nod.
“Did you try to save yourself, but forget the baby?”
At her words, Lucien covered his face, which barely muffled his desolate, racking, sobs. “Selfish, selfish, selfish,” he berated himself.
His heart was broken. We had our answer.
“Lucien, you’ve been dead two hundred years, but it seems you’ve retained enough consciousness to blame yourself for your mistake, every hour of every day. I’d say you’ve paid your price. It was a freak accident,” I attempted to soothe him.
“Bury him,” the ghost moaned, “Christian burial.”
Lucien turned his distraught face to us; his incorporeal body would need our help for a burial.
“There’s no need, this site is a grave,” Caroline explained gently. “That’s why the ruin has been retained, and this land will never be developed. A court has decreed the house should be treated as a mass grave. Like the Titanic.”
I scowled. “That’s after his time.”
Lucien surveyed the ruins, now he seemed to notice that its room layout had been used to shape the planting of bushes and borders.
“Technically, your son is buried in consecrated soil, with you and his mother,” I said gently, “even if his name isn’t on the plaque.”
My explanation seemed to offer Lucien peace of mind he had never previously experienced.
“Must go.” He rasped, startling us with his announcement.
When Caroline and I looked closely, it was evident that Lucien’s outline was fading. He was shifting, becoming more transparent than the ghost to whom we’d opened the door.
“Wait! Show us the room where your baby was sleeping,” I suggested.
The spirit moved over the ruined walls, to where the family drawing room once existed. I visualized a space with an open fireplace, groups of chairs and occasional tables. I’ve watched enough period dramas to imagine the scene.
“We’ll visit your boy,” I assured the diminished ghost.
Lucien seemed a pitiable figure, no longer a menacing manifestation.
“And we’ll visit you.”
“But don’t come and visit us!” Caroline said firmly.
I went to admonish her, and when I turned my gaze back to the place where Lucien’s ghost had hovered, I saw nothing: Just the shadows and plants of a memorial garden in the hazy light before dawn.
Lucien’s spirit was finally at rest.
A much earlier version of this story appeared on Medium in Tantalizing Tales