Michael Langdon holds grandma's words close to heart. Say prayers and grace for life's little pleasures—just to be safe. Never walk outside when prying neighbours' eyes are hawk-like, waiting to tear him away from her. The house is a safe haven, don't ever leave it.
He sits on the wooden floor, legs too long drawn up to his chest. His skinny arms circling around his legs. Rocks back and forth. Back and forth, like a pendulum suspended in a time-stretching arc. Grandma laid lifeless in front of him, draped in her favourite duvet. Her scent lingers in the air, peculiarly awful unlike the ashes of smoky lungs and half-empty Canadian whisky staining her breath.
The mosaic windows lack the strange orange tint it has during daylight. This is the time. Michael unlocks the front door, pushes it wide open. The skies are pitch-black. Windows unlit. The street is silence deafening. Moonlight hazily shining in fragmented patches through the skies.
Grabbing fistful of her duvet, Michael drags her out, with utmost care. Michael rummages the gardening shed for a shovel. The shovel is rusted, dull from age. He plunges the shovel into hard soil. Once. Twice. The soil barely breaks. Grandma makes it look so effortlessly easy.
His hair is damp with cold sweat and midnight breeze, poking his eyes. He brushes his bangs away with the back of his hand. His arms ache from the scooping dirt and soil. His flushing face is dirt-streaked and grime-painted from his endeavour. Rolls her into the hole, gentle as if he is petting a sickly puppy.
He returns to the house, bare feet fluttering across the floor. Madly pocketing perfume, jewellery, Virginia Slims and Crown Royals from that room. He shoves them into his pockets, his clumsy legs nearly slip as he darts down the stairs. Everything about his limbs is foreign and awkwardly too large, too long. But it's his. He makes do with what he is given.
He places final touches on her, dousing perfume on her decaying flesh. Clips an unlit cigarette in between her stiff fingers. A bottle of Crown Royal nestled in her rigid arms. Grandma must look radiant, even if she is to be buried underneath those lovely roses. He caresses her cheek one last time—her forehead is awfully icy under his lips. His fondness for her warmth will diminish as her ghost takes shape in the house.
He covers the hole up, plants a lovely shrub of roses for a makeshift gravestone.
He showers, careful not to leave dirty mess around the house. Grandma said reliable help is elusive these days, even though the glassy-eyed maid is bound forever to keep the house spotless clean.
He slips into his duck-printed pyjamas, to match with his Donald Duck bedsheets. His legs dangle over the bed's edges. An arm hugging grandma's exquisite floral dress, he rubs his face against the silk fabric and inhales.
Grandma's going to appear any minute now. She will. She has to. Grandma always tuck him into his bed, and kisses him goodnight. She isn't one to let him pass his bedtime. Michael gives her a few more minutes.
His eyelids are heavy with sleep, lethargy settling on his body like a soft blanket. He tries to scrub the drowsiness from his eyes. But several yawns escape his mouth. Constance Langdon never did appear. Nor did any of the other ghosts.
"Grandma?" Michael squeaks. He's half-lucid when he catches footsteps tapping against the hallways outside his room. A presence.
His vision is a vision of cloudiness, despite his best efforts. The figure takes a step forward, clicks the lights off. Michael squints. Sees only the outlines of blonde hair, pearl necklace, and white cardigan.
"I'm afraid I'm not, kiddo." The woman shakes her head softly, "Do you remember me, Michael?"
He sees clearly now. Her hair, yellow like the colour of crayon stick, curls at the end. Her eyes are brown as the mahogany floorboard. Those nails, acrylic and neon red, are absurdly pointy. Her full lips are red, almost identical to the colour of her fake nails.
He recalls seeing this woman on the television, one of grandma's preferred shows after dinner. Billie Dean Howard written in the opening credits. His head bobs up and down, supplies the answer, "Psychic TV lady."
"Medium," she corrects, and holds in a sigh, "Not psychic. But yes, you're right. I'm Billie Dean." The bed dips lower, with the extra weight and she scots closer to him, eyes grandma's dress. "Michael, you cannot stay here. Not without Constance here."
"No, grandma's in the house," Michael retorts, defiant and mindful not to raise his voice. "Even if she hasn't appeared, I know she is here," he adds, feels the tears forming in his eyes.
"Your grandma isn't physically alive, kid. It'd be hard to fool social services and nosy neighbours."
There's only so much Michael can rub his tears away, before they fall like gushing waterfalls. He stutters, as if grandma's speech lesson is all forgotten, "W-what will happen now? Will you stay here with me?"
Billie Dean's lips split into a sorrow-lined smile. "I can't. I can visit. But staying here is not an option for me."
"Where do I go?"
Billie Dean tips her head at the door, her smile much wider than before. "You'll be going with her," she simply says, gets to her feet and walks up to his closet, "She'll take you."
Michael almost missed her entirely. But now that he'd seen her, he forgets Billie Dean's in the room with them. The medium sets some clothes on the bed, tapping a finger on it. "Don't forget to change."
There's another woman standing by the door frame. She's slim, much like Billie Dean. Long blonde hair that reminds Michael of summer sunshine, falls over her shoulders. Her dress is far different from grandma's, darkly expensive and floriated beauty. And her smile, Michael can only equate to hot chocolate drink on a restless nightmare. There's something else Michael could sense . . . magic. Powerful magic radiating from her.
Michael tosses a side glance at the medium, brows knitting at his forehead. "What is she?"
The woman stands at the bed's foot, offers Michael her hand, "I'm Cordelia Goode."
Billie Dean explains, "Your new legal guardian, Michael. I'll leave you two to be acquainted." Her footsteps are slow, and echoing in the house. Michael catches snippets of friendly cooing, a flame flickering brief and her sucking the menthol out of a lit cigarette.
Michael straightens himself, eagerly extending his own hand. Nearly bumps into her. Cordelia stumbles backward, releasing out a gasp. But her smile is delightfully sun-like pretty.
Michael accepts her hand—not wrinkly like grandma's, but is hardly smooth either—and gives it a light shake. "I'm Michael Langdon," he offers, the ends of his mouth quirk upwards. His free hand smoothens his bed-tousled hair, hoping he looks presentable.
"My, you're tall," Cordelia says, tilting her chin up, and smile still intact, "Nice to meet you, Michael."
The airport is a wonder wrapped under layers of aromas, colours and noises. Every direction is a mystery, enticing him to discover more. He wants to touch hair, utterly dissimilar to his own, auburn coarse curls bounded together Michael mistakes for bird's nest. There's a man with skin so dark that it gleams blue under the light—Michael wants to lick it, all to satisfy the curiosity flaring within, wonders would it taste like dark chocolate or simply salt.
His legs are a mind of their own, as he chases down the smell of fried chicken. Midway, he skids and slithers in between moving people. Picks up a newer scent—sugar-glazed and oven hot flour.
"Michael, wait," Cordelia calls, her voice drowns by the cornucopia of sounds; announcement in period blaring, a symphony cobbled up by street musicians, conversations spoken and sung in lyrical melodies. His guardian is lost in the ocean of humans and pets.
Michael stares at the vendor, long eyelashes batting. He searches his pocket twice for scraps of money, coins even. Empty. He could pilfer a doughnut, unseen. A snap of his fingers, a neck breaks. He flexes his fingers, and counts; one, two, . . . three—
"We'll have a box of doughnuts," Cordelia chimes, sidling next to him. She turns her sight to him, dark brows partly raised, "I almost lost you. You're quite hard to find."
Apprehension is etched handsomely on her face, much like grandma's face twisted into a grimace of concern when he brings her yet a macabre gift from the backyard.
His shoulders droop, eyes cast on the floor, "I-I'm sorry. I promise I won't run next time."
"You don't have to apologise. The airport can be a little maze, but nothing that I can't find you," Cordelia says, takes the doughnut pack from the vendor, and hands him one.
Michael takes a huge bite out, mumbles out his awe of the airport. Sugar crowning the neckline of his t-shirt and the corners of his lips. The doughnut disappears into his mouth faster than she could take a bite of hers.
A small laugh escapes her throat, she thrusts embraided handkerchief, "Here. Clean your mouth." She motions dabbing an imaginary handkerchief on her own mouth, Michael mimics her actions.
They move away from the vendor, taking seats at the waiting lounge. Cordelia pushes another doughnut to Michael who eagerly takes and stuffs into his mouth, "You never been to the airport?"
He parts a curt shake of his head. "No. Grandma said it's not safe to be outside because I'm special. I grew up too fast. Only at night, I go out. That's why I buried her when everyone's asleep," Michael mumbles, grinning through a mouthful of doughnuts and pumps his chest forward with pride, "I did all myself. Made sure she's all pretty too."
Cordelia tilts her head, the smile on her face is less wider, and doesn't reach her cinnamon-warm eyes. "Is that so?"
"Yeah, she's in her favourite duvet, the ones with flowers on it." Michael looks around, and notices everyone is dressed impeccably like movie stars, multimillionaire tycoons from those business magazines. Except him; baggy t-shirt and ripped jeans from grandma's treasured trunk. Grandma mentioned the clothes that once fitted a troubled child, with similar blonde locks crowning Michael's head.
"Where are we going?"
"New Orleans. Looks like we better get going."
He could tell the house is immaculately white, despite the darkening of skies and the moon's choice to hide behind smeared clouds. The house is large, so much that he raises his chin to get a better look. The white pillars stand majestic, like a Greek pantheon he'd seen in a historical documentary. Windows adorning the house in even spacing, like multiple rectangular eyes slit of an arachnid. It has a balcony; the old house doesn't. Michael likes this house already.
"Welcome back," says a lady, younger than Cordelia. Her hair, flaxen and parted in the centre, reaches her chest. Her eyes are doe-like, and wholly caramel. With heels, she still doesn't over take Cordelia in height. He knows it's a witch, greeting Cordelia with a soft peck to her cheek. Her body houses old magic that seemed to flow ferociously like the magic in Salem soil, only dimmer than Cordelia's.
"Michael, this is Zoe Benson. She's an instructor here," Cordelia introduces, glancing at him then switching back to Zoe, "And Zoe, this is Michael Langdon. My new ward."
"Hi, Zoe Benson," Michael echoes, gives her a little enthusiastic wave.
"This is Michael?" Zoe blinks, her sight is a scrutinising gaze that starts from his face down to his shoes and back to Cordelia, "He's taller than I expected. How old you said he is?"
"I'm three," Michael helpfully supplies, holds up three fingers and adds, "and a half."
Zoe's eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline, her mouth forms a perfect small 'O' shape. "You're three and a half?"
Oh. That is the look grandma used to tell him he isn't supposed to elicit. "I'm thirteen," he amends, as Zoe narrows her eyes in scepticism, her lips a thin line. "Sixteen," he says, stretching the syllable into a question. He repeats in absence of conviction, "I'm sixteen."
An amused smile curves Cordelia's full lips. She tries to stifle a laugh, but miserably fails. "Is his room ready like I asked?"
Zoe informs Cordelia, "I'll get Kyle to prepare his room," as if it dawns on her that they're not alone. But her gaze remains on him, "Are you hungry?"
"Yes, please," he responds, his head bouncing in agreement.
"So, Michael, what do you want to eat?"
"Whatever the Lord has provided." Grandma always said beggars can't be choosers, and the food that is set on the table, demands to be eaten.
Zoe exchanges a look with Cordelia, brief and lightning quick. Cordelia shakes her head, a smile reigns regally on her facial muscles. "It's okay, you get to pick whatever you want to eat. Just for tonight."
Even the bedding in his room is alabaster-white. Carved headboards so elaborately French, Michael thinks, and in its varnished state, the bed makes some colour for his room. His backpack lies on the foot of the bed; unopened. Zipping the bag open, he takes out grandma's purple satin nightie and burnishes his face against it. He still has a piece of her with him. Never mind he's far away from the house.
Knuckles rap against his door, prompts Michael to glance up from grandma's nightdress. Shoves the satin underneath his blanket. He's not supposed to take grandma's things out from her closet ever; this is stealing, dear Michael, grandma's voice rings in his head.
"This is not a boarding house," Michael states, "and you're a witch."
"You're one observant kid, aren't you?" Cordelia answers, her chuckle is honey-sweet and soft. She stands in front of him, setting raven-pattern cotton blanket on the pillows. "Yes, I am. I am the headmistress of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies."
Michael purses his lips in thought. The wheels in his mind tries to piece the puzzle together, mashing words from different exchanges until it forms a logical picture. "Am I a witch? Is that why you bring me here?"
"In a manner of speaking—"
Michael replies, blunt like a dull butcher's knife. His lips are curving lines of a frown. "So, I'm not a boy witch?"
"I think you're special, just like the girls in this school," Cordelia carefully says, brushing his bangs away from his eyes, and smiles. "But let's find out together, would you like that?"
He vigorously nods. "I would."
She releases a sigh, her face a poster of relief. "I'm glad to hear that, Michael. I think it's passed your bedtime," Cordelia returns, getting up from his bed. She walks to the door; one slender hand lingers over the switch.
"Do you have ghosts here? Ghosts are friends."
Her head snaps to Michael's face swift, her dark eyebrows furrow. "No, I like to think there's none. But you'll make friends here, with the living," she promises, and clicks the lights off. "Good night, Michael."
"Good night, Miss Cordelia."