Author's Note
Hi! I've been gone a long time. But anyway, I originally planned to get a Beta but I haven't found anyone yet :( Plus I'm really tired so I'm just gonna post this without rereading. (I'm sorry :((( I'll get to it in the morning)
And hope you review! Reviews and criticisms are always useful!
Lockwood, George and I walked past the oddly neat, well-tended garden and up the steps to the porch sheltering a creaking wooden swing and a pair of windows winking at me like it knew a secret I didn't. I watched Lockwood rap on the wooden door painted light blue so faded it looked closer to white in the fleeting sunlight. George and I shared a glance when no shuffling footsteps came to greet us.
George tried knocking and becoming more and more impatient, I hurried to give it a go.
The three of us waited in anxious silence while the minutes trickled by. For a while it seemed like I'd return to 35 with nothing but the image of poppies and lavenders, shrubs and thistles burned on my mind.
"How strange…" I muttered, my eyes feeling dangerously heavy. I shook my head, telling myself to pull it together; it didn't do well to fall asleep on a case.
I heard a yawn behind me and pictured George's mouth opening wide enough for a swarm of butterflies to flutter into. I might've laughed at the image before hearing myself yawn with him.
"What's strange?" Lockwood asked, his voice no doubt fighting the same drowsiness I was.
"The garden," I said, raising a heavy finger to point at the peculiar cluster of flowers under an ancient tree. "our client has lavenders and poppies in his garden which is all well and good –"
"So?"
"So," I continued, feeling vaguely irritated at being cut off. Tearing my eyes away from the flowers with more difficulty than was expected, I looked to him, "everyone knowslavenders are used to ward off ghosts and are really pleasant, but poppies.."
I didn't get a chance to finish; my surroundings grew blurry and my voice sounded muffled even to me. I dimly registered a nudge from Lockwood signaling me to get up.
Of course I wouldn't have known at the time – none of us would've guessed. If someone came up to me and told me such things existed, I'd've told them they've gone mad. Yet here we are, still breathing, still refusing to offer any confirmation to the ridiculous rumors. I can't recount the whole incident for fear of you dialing three rooms at the local mental institute afterwards. Who'd be willing to believe us – me, anyway? Even now, sitting in our brightly lit and comfortably warm sitting room, the case baffles us to no end.
Before I knew it I'd made my way past that green gentleman's threshold.
We found ourselves in a dim and narrow corridor. The door behind shut like it never opened in the first place. The wooden floor creaked as I shifted uneasily. Shouldering the heavy bags filled to the brim with salt and iron chains, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
I detected the sweet and nauseating smell of a musty house. The air around me was warm and humid, like a room without a window open.
"Hmm… Odd…" I murmured, taking in my surroundings after detecting nothing else.
There were whispers – wisps of memories from a time long ago. The echoes drew farther away yet seemed to grow in clarity as I moved deeper into the house.
I tried following the voices but as abrupt as it had slowly revealed itself, the sounds ceased.
"Anything yet?" Lockwood's question died easily as if the walls sucked any sound threatening to disturb the stillness.
I paced the corridor leaving footprints on the dusty floor. A thin – very thin layer of dust settled on the surface of old photographs, tables and other mundane things that always seemed to occupy just about any house. Despite that, this was to be expected as nobody lived in the house for years. It wasn't the most brilliant of observations, still it was something and I told Lockwood this.
The stab came like a bolt of lightning – too rapid to be considered much of a danger, but a danger all the same; like a warning signaling an oncoming storm. The pain pierced my head as if fighting against my thoughts. I gasped and clutched my head, seeing spots dancing in my eyes. But the throbbing subsided quick as it came and I stood up straighter, forgetting for a brief second where I was.
My attention jerked to the dull thud from behind me – the sharp noise of metal scraping metal instilled confidence I thought I'd left crossing the threshold – spinning around only to find a nonchalant Lockwood raising an eyebrow.
"It's just me." He said.
I looked down to the hand gripping my already half-drawn rapier. I shook my head, shoved my rapier back to its' sheath and pried myself from the spot I stood rooted on. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Lockwood's concern look, almost ready to ask if I was all right but thought better of it and instead busied himself with double-checking the contents of our kit.
"Anyone home?" George called from the bottom of the staircase. All the same like with the front porch his question was met with silence.
Leaving Lockwood to set up base at the kitchen, I crept past George as he began recording data from the corners of the corridor and the steps leading to the second floor. The room connecting the kitchen was filled ceiling to floor with rows of ancient looking volumes. A tall lamp stood dutifully beside a leather armchair where no doubt the master of the house sat for days on end reading his books.
I moved past the library, a part of me assuring it wasn't worth sweeping through.
The next room was plainly the sitting room. Wide windows took up a whole wall opposite to where I stood. It gleamed streaming moonlight in somehow suspending the scene, draining the color away. Yet the room that might've radiated the usual feeling of dread and despair common to haunted homes seemed all too normal to me. It reminded me of our living room back at Portland Row.
It looked ordinary enough: Furniture sat on a gigantic fluffy rug facing a fireplace giving the impression that the ashes inside were more dust than actual ash. A magnificent glass hung over the fireplace, spanning its length. There was a grandfather clock standing motionless with its hands and pendulum frozen as if he alone was responsible for the house's odd quiet.
The place was tidy – save for the dust gathering on the surfaces – for a home that didn't seem to house any (solid) body inhabiting it.
Wait… I thought to myself. That can't be right… Frowning, I tried to remember what led me to this conclusion. The furrow in my brow deepened as I willed away the drowsiness following me no matter what I did to keep awake.
I followed my train of thought but it was like trying to recall a memory that didn't belong to you; some pieces of your story were missing. Giving up, I called from the sitting room, "Lockwood? George?"
"Hmm…"
A flash from the corner of my eye caught my attention. And it was as though my body was moving on its own; I drifted to the magnificent mantle piece where a single picture frame stood – not a trace of dust lingering on it.
"Who was our client again?" I asked, already forgetting why this was so important to me. Instead I stood there vacantly, looking at the beautiful woman grinning a silly grin as if taken by surprise by the photographer of the picture.
"I thought this was where he lived," George said, echoing my own thoughts, but his voice sounded miles away with the wall dividing us.
Call it stupid for a trained and experienced Agent to pick up a suspicious looking object that was a highly likely to be the Source – an item anchoring a ghost to the mortal world that could cause lethal damage – and I'll tell you it is. But by the time I realized what I was doing, my fingers clasped around the frame and I examined the picture, noticing details I could only vaguely make out in the silvery light.
The picture couldn't have been taken since the Problem. The woman smiled back as though she hadn't a care in the world; no ghosts, nor curfews to instill any fear or unease. Now, looking back on it, the picture reminded me somewhat of the very same swing on the front porch. The yellow-checkered pattern on her Sunday dress seemed to belong to an era long forgotten.
I stared at the woman's face imagining her to wave happily then gesturing at me to sit with her. I caressed the frame almost as if in a trance, absolutely unaware of what I was doing.
A greeting from behind nearly sent me jumping out of my skin. The deep mellow voice one might've thought was calm and comforting shot unfathomable panic through my spine.
"I must apologize for not being able to greet you at the door." I sucked my breath in, not daring to believe what I was seeing. I closed my eyes willing away the malaise destroying the little calm I built before entering the house.
The man continued as if he hadn't heard the crunch of glass hitting the floor when I let go of the picture. "I'm afraid current circumstances prohibited me from being a proper host to my guests." If I were not paralyzed with shock, I could perfectly picture the man's kind smile.
No… Please! A small voice seemed to screech, I don't want to… Please, not now – not ever… The terrified Lucy inside me screamed. I shook my head, trying to shake the definite ghost-lock off.
The rational Agent I always dreamt of being yelled louder, refusing to be drowned by my terror. Keep it together, Lucy! You're a fucking Agent for God's sake! With my eyes shut tight and my nerves steeled, I whirled around and faced the ghost that haunted my dreams.
It wasn't as dramatic as I pictured it in my mind.
I opened my eyes immediately before I got the chance to back down. That green gentleman – glowing bright green, opaque as if he was a badly tuned radio flicked in and out of my vision, and dressed in an equally green suit with a tall hat in his hands – watched me calmly trying to chase my breath. I returned his gaze, ignoring the sweat stinging my eyes.
"Lockwood? George?" I shouted. And again – the house absorbed my voice, refusing to carry my pleas. I waited with bated breath… No answer.
Waiting for the other to speak first was pointless. I knew this. And it just occurred to me that this man was trying to be polite in offering me the chance to speak first. Pushing wet clumps of hair out of my face, I regained my composure and stood straighter.
"You're dead." – was as much as I could come up with in my desperation to break the silence.
The green glowing figure inclined his head, motioning me to continue with my incredible display of deduction. "Is that all?" He asked.
"You're the same voice who phoned in." The ghost nodded his head – or at least I think he did. It was hard to make out with his head being nothing more than smoke and light after all.
"But you're dead." I repeated stupidly.
"Yes," He answered patiently. "I am dead," I acknowledged this in I hoped was a polite bow. "And also distraught. I have a Problem you see."
"We were told there had been a disturbance! And Lockwood wanted us to clean the mess up before any ghosts appeared."
The gentleman hung his head, the luminescence slightly put out. "So that's what the world thinks of us: mess!" He exclaimed. His words brought a chill racing down my spine, like having someone drop an ice cube down the back of your shirt.
"When you mean 'us'…" I frowned and took a cautious step forward, hearing something crunch under my boots. I noticed a shifting in the man's face, which I realized was a wince. Looking down, I saw the shattered remains of the glass holding the photograph of the radiant woman.
"I would also appreciate you not stepping on my wife." He said sadly, his face shifting again into a small grimace.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" I said, immediately bending down to pick the frame up with the picture shifting loosely within its grasp.
The effect was instant and I when I rose I knew I stood in the middle of the same living room during a time when its inhabitants were alive and very much solid. The room was filled with sunlight – warmth that warmed me only half-way like a memory on my skin; each surface was spotless, the grandfather clock ticking reverently, the house beating in time with the swings of its pendulum.
A light and pleasant voice breezed into the living room. I let out a gasp, almost dropping the picture again. The woman set the tray on the coffee table with a soft tinkle of teapot and cups. She stood up straighter, tucking her hair behind an ear. She called for her husband again and I stood gaping as a man entered. He sat down on the sofa, giving the woman a gentle kiss on the head. He thanked her for tea telling her it was delicious. She beamed at him and took a sip from her own cup.
While she wasn't looking, however, the man looked the other way, his face contorted as he tried gulping the rest of his tea. The woman beside him frowned as if guessing the criminal gesture he committed. He turned around slowly, already admitting defeat. But soon after, the disapproving look on the woman's forehead melted into a smile and they both laughed.
I felt the frame slip through my fingers and as if someone flipped the lights off, I was pulled out of the daydream.
The green gentleman who once looked handsome and jolly now floated before me, forlorn and desolate. How could this ghost be the same person? The hate and fear I barely a minute ago was replaced with pity for the man. He looked up at me as if hearing my thoughts.
"Go on." He moved forward as if to give me a nudge. I took an involuntary step backwards. I tried covering up with an itch on my head but the damage was done and he retreated.
"Please, try to understand… I'm innocent…" With that, the green gentleman faded.
I told myself to leave it. Forget about the case, pack up and go home; let DEPRAC handle it. But when have I ever listened to that rational Agent?
I shivered and picked the picture up.
The scenes were much like the one I first saw. Scenes of them playing silly games like tag or Cluedo or lying down watching the fireplace glow with warm orange light while they sat closely sharing a soft looking quilt.
Twelve years…
Twelve years passed in front of me and I watched the two couple grow old together. I watched their pain as they despaired over their first miscarriage. I saw the way the gentleman sweeping his lady across the sitting room, lost in their own world, dancing to a music heard to none but them. I followed their second baby boy totter around the house, cringing whenever he narrowly missed a sharp table end or a lump in the carpet. Of course, being incorporeal prevented me from even touching anything but I could move about freely. Feeling like a ghost is not so bad, I almost said aloud. Until I realized what words had begun to form and I resolved to keeping my mouth shut.
It seemed the constant flashes of ups and downs seemed unending, until of course the whirlwind of colors ceased. Silver and grey mixed and highlighted every corner of the house.
Here – it seemed – I was back in the sitting room in my own time. I breathed out a sigh of relief. But as I jumped at the clasp of thunder shaking the whole house, I saw the gentleman looking so deathly pale and horror-stricken at what lay in his arms. I felt myself go sick and willed myself to turn away, not wanting to see the once beautiful woman drenched in blood… not wanting to see her look so broken in her husband's arms.
I stood there feeling helpless as I watched the man's scream drown with the roar of thunder and lightning.
I watched the scene pass with a certain numbness in my body. I saw that green gentleman's life fall apart. First his beloved wife, gone in an instant. Then the police come to take him to the court in hopes to finish the case as quickly as possible. And the gentleman now looking absolutely lost maybe hoping the sofa will swallow him and take him to wherever his wife waited for him.
The testimonial came days after. A short man sporting a bushy mustache read off the verdict from a long roll of parchment glanced at the clock after every comma or pause hoping it would be time to leave. The green, life-less gentleman was to be jailed for his crimes, the rest of his life spent staring at the grey brick walls. His now grown up son, shouted at him telling him he was sick and awful and he deserved the punishment charged against him. He yelled and yelled as the man stared up at him with eyes glazed over.
The door slammed shut and silence hung over the house once again. After a few more hours staring into the dead girl's portrait, he walked to the kitchen, grabbed the knife and mouthed I'm so sorry. With a yell he thrust the knife deep into his stomach and like a spell being lifted, I jerked my head away. As the green gentleman screamed, the thunder rolled on and somewhere along I realized I must've been screaming as well.
My body was shaking with so much force it took the last ounce of my willpower not to crumble to the very ground where the woman died. I gasped for breath and clutched the picture to my chest, barely feeling my cheek grow numb with my tears.
"It's okay! Your death won't be in vain." I shouted into the house, knowing it could hear me. My words echoed this time, like the volume finally decided to turn up.
"It's okay…" I whispered, clutching the frame that seemed to grow increasingly warm in my grasp.
"It's okay." I repeated over and over again.
Now it might've been my imagination, but I felt a very faint pair of hands press on my shoulder. It wasn't cold or malicious like so many presences I've felt before. She was gentle and warm, like a soft blanket shielding me.
"You're okay, Agent Carlyle…" I heard the green gentleman say but this time, his voice did not crackle or fade. Now I could picture his approving smile perfectly.
"I'll spread the word; not all of you breathers are as bad as they make out." His laugh was rich and full and seemed to echo into the house, filling the corners with such light and radiance.
Now this is where it gets weird.
I woke up with the sun in my eyes. I squinted but nothing would focus. Rubbing my face, I turned to the direction of the bright light and vaguely made out a slender figure taking most of my line of vision.
"Oh," I grunted. "It's just you, Lockwood."
Lockwood looked at me, his face lined with concern. I yawned and stretched my arms as high as I could reach. The air smelled lovely and crisp.
"You don't look so good, Luce." He stepped back as I jumped to my feet. I kicked my legs, hoping to get my blood pumping again before the pins and needles set to work.
"Hmm… Did we camp out here all night?" I looked around, barely registering in my surroundings. We were in an oddly neat and well-tended garden bursting with colors and scents. The front steps where Lockwood found me on lead to a door painted blue so faded it looked white in the morning light – whoa, whoa, whoa…
The realization hit me before I got a chance to hit Lockwood.
"What?" I screamed. Spinning around in every direction, I tried taking in the scene around me in one three hundred sixty turn.
"What!" I looked to Lockwood's grim face for answers.
"WHAT!?"
"Don't look at me, Luce." He pointed at the flat rectangular object I held in my hands. I yelped and dropped the thing like it was on fire. Lockwood bent down to retrieve it and I slapped his hand away from the picture of a beautiful wo – Stop! I ordered myself. This is becoming increasingly creepy.
"What was that for?" Lockwood said, nursing his hand glowing a bright pink shade.
A pile of who-the-hell-knows-what under the window stirred. And it turns out the big formless mound was George complaining about the noise.
I turned to George hoping to gain some amount of sanity by slapping his flabby face. Ignoring Lockwood's attempt at civil order, I ran up the steps, careful not to accidentally peer into the house.
"GEORGE! WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?"
"You're telling me that you went in that house last night, alone."
I nodded for what felt like the ninety-seventh time that morning, "Yes, that's right."
"You met a ghost who could form into a figure and it told you to look into its past to clear its name."
I nodded again, feeling slightly irritated, "Right again, Lockwood. And stop calling him an it!"
"And you're sure you saw us with you." This time I had no answer.
Feeling stumped I took another cookie and sank into our comfy sofa, letting the pillows on either side of me press closer giving me a sense of comfort.
"I dunno… Half the time it was like none of you were even there." I finished, looking up at the pair of them. Lockwood took his – obviously fake (I've never once seen him need them!) – glasses off and turned to whisper to George in a way that was very much not a whisper.
"What do you think, George?"
"Absolutely mental," He stated.
"Yeah, I think so too. What do you suggest?" Lockwood asked.
I coughed loudly, feeling my patience reaching its breaking point.
"None of you believe me!" I exclaimed, pointing to the picture frame glittering innocently in the center of our coffee table, like a dangerous animal needing an eye kept on it at all times.
"I'm telling you! That Mr. James Smith bloke on the phone the other day was that green gentleman! His wife, Poppy, was murdered – by who, I haven't the faintest. But bottom line is that he was wrongly accused! His name needs to be cleared. They deserve to rest in peace, her and Mr. Smith!" When I've finished I looked at them out of breath, face flushed and my insides burning with fire for justice never before given to this perfectly innocent family. Until now.
"Ghosts can't be good, Lucy." George said calmly.
"So?" I said, turning sharply to George. Lockwood winced as my signature dagger-glare was aimed at him as well.
"So, how can you believe what he's been feeding you?"
"YOU WEREN'T THERE!" I burst out.
"You weren't there." I repeated quietly. I refused to remember the image of last night yet they forced their way into my head.
Nothing was heard except for the sounds of my sniffs, the trickle of tea and the crunching of biscuits. At last Lockwood spoke, "Lucy," He began gently. "I understand you're upset."
"Yeah? What gave you that idea?" George said from behind his mug. Despite the situation, I smiled from under the pillow I buried my head in.
"But by the sound of it, Mr. and Mrs. Smith already had their innocence proven."
I looked up at Lockwood. "You believe me?" I croaked, not daring to bet what little hope she had left.
Lockwood nodded and it seemed the weight of last night's encounter lifted from my shoulder. At last! Someone who believes me.
I reached over the table and pulled Lockwood into a tight hug. I heard George tsk into his mug and we pulled apart, our faces burning red, but George was smirking like he knew a secret we didn't.
"I had nightmares the past weeks." I began, once things have calmed down, after a nice long bath and a good hearty meal, I decided to come clean about every suspicion I've carried. "And they all had the same green glow as the green gentleman. The voice was always laughing and a strange hissing sort of filled my ears. Sort of like how Harry can speak to snakes inParseltongue." I smiled grimly.
"So when I noticed the obvious which was he was fucking glowing green, yeah I sort of rushed in, thinking that he was my nightmare coming to life." I gave it a second's thought. "Well in a way, it was a nightmare-ish reality." I shrugged and attacked my pancakes again.
"I still don't believe that ghosts can communicate like that." The plump blonde said, wearing an expression rarely seen on George Cubbins: confusion.
"I think it was because he wasn't driven by revenge or anger… Maybe the simple fact that he was kinder than most – well, every ghost did it." Lockwood suggested.
Crossing his arms and propping his feet on an empty chair, Lockwood mused out loud, "Is that why he planted poppies in his garden? Because his wife's name was Poppy?"
I shook my head and felt the cold water spray around me. I could've laughed right there relishing in the simple things like taking baths and all these mundane and ordinary things.
"Poppies are usually the flowers of death, right? They're pretty common during funerals and places where loved ones perished. It just seemed strange to me why he planted them right next to lavenders – "
" – when lavenders are a sign of life when Agents fight against ghosts!" Lockwood continued my sentence. "Lucy, you're brilliant!"
"Well no need to get too worked up on it. You would've spotted this too if you hadn't been caught by the drowsiness." I tried for a tone that I hoped was modest but I couldn't help feeling pleased at this compliment and knew that I could do nothing to disguise the pink tinge in my cheeks.
"But really, Lucy. From what you've recounted to us, it's sounds like Mr. and Mrs. Smith were perfectly happy knowing that at least someone knew that green gentleman was innocent." George said.
"Three, George." Lockwood corrected firmly.
"What?" He asked.
"The three of us know he's innocent." Lockwood said with such sureness it certainly sounded more convincing when he said it.
"I don't think DEPRAC would be willing to look into the case after what fifty years?" Lockwood looked too George for confirmation.
"Yep, the house traces as far back as 1900's." He said peering into his little notebook.
"But, I'll see what I can do." Lockwood beamed at Lucy.
Lucy felt her spirits lift and she returned his smile with a grin.