Disclaimer: There's ambiguous information in the books about Nick's deathday. It's usually said he died in 1492 (because he hasn't eaten in 500 years at his deathday party in 1992). But in the first book, he sets it only 400 years earlier, and the ruff he's wearing wasn't introduced until the 16th century. In this story, his life is therefore set in the 16th century, which is why they have a 'nurse'─a nanny. The speech hasn't been changed to fit the era, and I'm also aware that the nursery rhyme The Crooked Man wasn't introduced until the 17th century at its earliest, but for the purposes of this fic, the rhyme had an earlier, mysterious beginning.
Author's Note: Written for QLFC (Season 4, Round 10). Position: Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons
Word Count: 1,656
Write a story in which Nearly Headless Nick is a prominent figure.
"And then she heard it. The floor creaked. Again. And again. And again."
A hush fell over the two children as Elvira finished the sentence. She was holding a single candle up under her chin, and Nicholas stared at it. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Small hands clutched the bed linen tighter as he drew it up under his chin.
That's when they heard: the floorboards outside creaked. Twice. Thrice.
Loud bangs suddenly erupted on the wooden door, and both children screamed. Elvira blew out the candle and crawled underneath Nicholas' bed covers. Together they pulled it over their heads, but only a few seconds later, their cover was torn from their grip. They screamed again.
"Miss Elvira!" sounded a stern voice. Both children─not calm but not screaming─chanced an open eye. In the light from the candle she was holding, they saw the face of the nurse, her features contorted with something Nicholas couldn't quite place. "What are you doing in Master Nicholas' bed?"
A hand shot out to pull his sister out from under the covers. Nicholas could tell she was embarrassed, so he tried to help. "She was just telling me a story!"
"And what kind of story was that? The kind that scares you or the kind that makes you fall asleep?"
Nicholas looked at his hands sheepishly.
"Sit down," the nurse said, releasing Elvira. Nicholas could feel the weight of his sister on the bed as she obeyed. "You mustn't tell ghost stories."
"Why not?" Elvira asked.
"Because ghost stories are what make the ghosts."
A chill ran down Nicholas' spine. "What do you mean?"
"What do you know about ghosts?" The nurse looked at each of them carefully. She held the candle further from her face than Elvira had, but she looked just as scary. The shadows under her eyebrows made them look thick and angry, almost like a man's.
"They're the spirits of the dead that couldn't move on," Elvira replied softly but insistently. Nicholas glared a little. Elvira loved to answer the questions of adults.
"You're wrong."
Elvira looked as if she'd been slapped.
"Have you heard of guardian angels before?" the nurse continued without paying attention to the hurt look on Elvira's face.
"Mhmm." Nicholas nodded his head thoughtfully.
"There is no such thing," the nurse said, but before they could protest, she continued. "Whenever you feel a presence, it's a ghost."
A breeze seemed to enter the room, and Nicholas and Elvira scooted closer together.
The nurse seemed or pretended not to have noticed. "It's your own ghosts."
Curiosity took the place of fear, and Nicholas asked, "Our own ghosts? We have ghosts?"
The nurse nodded once. Then she looked behind her and out into the corridor as if making sure that no one else was listening. "You have a ghost now. When you die, you don't become a ghost; your ghost is already here."
"You're filling our heads with nonsense," Elvira said with her nose in the air and her arms crossed. Then she made the small jump from the bed to the floor and marched out of Nicholas' room. The nurse let her gaze linger on her for as long as she could but didn't follow.
When Elvira had disappeared down the hall towards her own bedroom, she grabbed Nicholas' arm. "Promise me you will guard your thoughts, young master."
Nicholas looked from his arm to her face with a panicked expression.
"Every time you think something about yourself, you're shaping your ghost. If you think you're weak, that's how your ghost will look to everyone who meets it when you're dead. If you're afraid of dying, your ghost will become real so that you can live forever. Every time you're afraid of ghosts, the ghost will become frightening. Do you understand? This is why you mustn't listen to your sister's stories. They're not real unless you believe them to be real. The ghost won't haunt you unless you think it will."
Nodding his head vigorously, Nicholas did everything in his power to escape from the grip on his arm. When the nurse was finally satisfied that he meant it, she let go, and Nicholas shrank away from her. The covers were drawn hastily up around his ears, and he turned his back to her for a second.
"Remember, young Master Nicholas," she said in a deep voice when she exited the room. "Guard your thoughts." Then she closed the door, and the light disappeared.
Nicholas was left alone with his thoughts.
At first, he closed his eyes ready for sleep. The words the nurse had spoken churned inside his head, but they were like bees; they buzzed in a language he didn't understand, and if one came too close, he swatted it away.
You're shaping your ghost.
It echoed, loud and clear, and Nick opened his eyes wide. He felt forced to acknowledge it, to twist and turn it until he knew what it meant. The possibilities flew by. If he saw himself as stronger or more mature than he was, that would be the image he left behind when he died.
A sense of confidence surged within him, and he turned around to lie on his back. He could think brave thoughts. Good thoughts. Except he wasn't brave. He hadn't followed Elvira's example and been strong when the nurse told them that lie. It probably was a lie. He should have been stronger. Smarter. He should have told the nurse not to tell lies.
Something inside him felt clogged. He found it hard to swallow. Anger welled up inside him, mixing with shame to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. His eyes felt hot, and he felt constrained. A part of him wanted to kick off the cover, but just before he did, the covers moved─he thought. Was that his ghost?
No, ghosts didn't exist, he told himself. The nurse had said something about believing in ghost stories. He shouldn't. But what if he couldn't help himself?
Now that the thought had appeared, Nicholas couldn't shake it. Was his ghost here, in his room, pulsating with each thought he had about it? Did it grow bigger when he acknowledged it? No, he wasn't supposed to think so. He had to guard his thoughts. If he thought it bigger, it would grow bigger. What if it already had?
His gaze swept across the darkened room. Moulding shapes from the shadows, he tried to concentrate on the darker spots of the room, tried to muster his courage, to convince himself it wasn't a ghost.
The chair became a sitting boy, the robe a standing man. He thought he'd heard the nurse sing a song of a crooked man, and in Nicholas' overactive imagination, the rhyme took on a quality of mythical truth.
He recited it to himself under his breath.
"…a crooked cat, who caught a crooked mouse."
Was that a cat he'd just heard? They didn't have a cat. What was that scratching on the door? Or was it by the window?
He knew he was fuelling his ghost and tried to tell himself that if he could make it big, he could also make it small. Trying and failing, Nicholas realised that by thinking about how big it was already only scared him more. Perhaps it was standing over him right now.
Afraid but determined, he cautiously looked to the side, peering hard into the darkness; the more he stared, the more his imagination ran wild. He was so ready for something to jump out at him that he finally gave in, and, with a small mewl, turned around quickly and pulled the covers over his head.
His breathing came hard and quick. His ears strained to listen for any kind of sound. He thought he heard a whoosh at one point, but he didn't dare look out. Images of what might be facing him when he looked out from under the sheets kept him in place.
"Nurse," he said with faltering conviction. He wanted her to come back with the candle, wanted her to light up the room for him, to dispel the shadows of his mind and his room.
Something sounded like scratching. Something was running across the floor. Nicholas almost hoped it was a mouse until he remembered the nursery rhyme.
"Nurse!" he cried. It sounded like desperation. Nicholas knew she couldn't hear him.
Heavy footsteps were heard, but Nicholas soon realised they came from inside his room rather than outside it. Someone was inside his room.
"Help!" he called, hoping that someone, anyone would hear him. Perhaps someone would think he was in real danger if they heard him.
He knew they wouldn't. It hadn't been an actual shout. Nicholas was afraid of angering the ghost.
Just outside his door, the candles would be glowing. Nicholas fantasised about tiptoeing over to the door and opening it, tumbling out into the hallway where he would be safe. Then his imagination struck again. He saw the door close in front of him. He felt cold hands close around his stomach and heave him back inside. He imagined the ghost following him out into the corridor of the house. He foresaw a haunting that would last him a lifetime.
His train of thought became so desperate that when he heard something rumbling, like a chair being shaken, he finally jumped out of bed and ran to the door, throwing it open. He felt cold and hot at the same time, but the second he saw the candle light in the corridor, he allowed himself a small smile.
A second later, the door was thrown out of his hand and slammed with alarming force, and Nicholas felt cold but firm hands around his belly as he was pulled back into the room.
When someone finally arrived, the screams had stilled, and when someone finally threw open the door, Nicholas was gone.