**Written for FanFic100!**
Ghosts
097. Writer's Choice.
Mr. Dick heard a ghost. He was sure of it. Miss Trotwood had told him impatiently, many times before, that there were no such things, and Mr. Dick tried to believe her, since she had good sense and was the best woman in the world. But what, other than ghosts, would wake him from his dreams of King Charles' head, with a cry, in the middle of the night?
Mr. Dick, having sat straight up, was inclined to be rather terrified. But…if he were to hide under his covers, as he would have liked to do, he would not be able to see the ghost. "What harm would a spirit want with a simple old man like me?" he reasoned, and taking up a candle, and a pillow with which to buffet any enemies, he made his way carefully downstairs.
As he reached the bottom step, he heard the cry again and so, with a swallow of courage, he proceeded in that direction. He had the pillow raised, entirely prepared to see a spectre in white and to defend himself against it if it were somehow opposed to old gentlemen in nightcaps – when instead he found that the cries were coming from the little sofa where Trotwood made his bed.
"That is no spirit," thought Mr. Dick, wondering whether he should be disappointed. "It is only Trotwood – but wait, is he in distress?" Mr. Dick quickly looked the sleeping boy over. "I…think he must be having bad dreams. I used to have bad dreams, too." He used to dream about his brother, and frowns, and confusion, and a house, vague and half-remembered, that he was to stay at before he came to live with Miss Betsey. He wondered if Trot was dreaming about that dark gentleman and his ugly sister – he thought that might be it.
Mr. Dick gently pulled Trot's blanket up onto his shoulders, and placed his own pillow at the boy's side, and pushed a few sweaty locks of hair out of his small face. That seemed to calm poor Trot – Mr. Dick hoped so. "Perhaps you will sleep a little easier tonight," Mr. Dick thought, "if I am here to protect you from any ghosts, or dreams, or memories, or whatever-you-call-ems that like to frighten you so."
He sat himself down in a chair near the sofa, a solemn guardian. "I am here, Trotwood," he whispered. "Good night."