A/N: This is my "experimental" chapter, if you will – about two thirds in Lucy's POV, and one-third in Cpt. Gregg's. I tried to capture the feel of their first meeting without copying the dialogue word-for-word from the movie. This really isn't my best…I'm still trying to get the feel of it. Enjoy, if you can!

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

There's a place I dream about,
Where the sun never goes out;
And the sky is deep and blue.
Won't you take me there with you?

- Ivy, "Edge of the Ocean"

If I'd had any sense at all, I no doubt would have demanded the stranger leave…or perhaps demand to know why he was there, how he had gotten in without my noticing, and why he was completely dry. I would have screamed, that too. But I was determined to prove – to myself as much as anyone else – that Lucy Muir was not a faint-hearted woman. Something about the stranger took my breath away. I had absolutely no idea who he was, of course. Something quite simply captivated me – his eyes, maybe? Yes, they were as dark and fathomless as the sea, and they were shining with their own sort of light, something I'd never before seen. For lack of a better word, they were haunting eyes. They saw quite through your flesh, into the very core of your being.

And he was smiling, that smile I would come to love. "Well?"

It came to me. "Oh! You…you must be Captain Gregg." Yes, it was foolish that I hadn't seen it before, I realized – he was a personification of the equally captivating portrait that was hanging in the parlor. Mr. Coombe had claimed there was a ghost haunting Gull Cottage, the ghost of this unfortunate sea captain…but I had not believed him. Did I believe my eyes now? I could hardly say – but as I'd promised myself my daydreaming years were long behind me, I refused to believe he could be anything but real. Sensible, I was. Skeptical…perhaps not.

He nodded; one short, unsubtle gesture. "Aye," he replied, and his voice cut like the cold sea air, salty and refreshing. "And you're the new tenant. You've lasted longer than most of them."

"I told you," I said evenly, "you cannot frighten me away. I am not a woman who jumps at the slightest sound."

Captain Gregg studied me curiously, and then he laughed, low and heartily. "I've barely even started, m'dear. If I tried…ah, well. You'll leave the same as the rest of them." In this he seemed utterly confident, and while I knew that I was imagining it, there seemed to be a faint golden glow in the darkness around his black-clad form. Bah! That any man should believe himself so talented as to prey on the fears of helpless women…and believe himself that talented after he was dead!

I scowled, and I'm sure he found it quite amusing – but I was anything but amused. "That's nonsense, Captain Gregg. If you'd wanted your house all to yourself, you wouldn't have taken your own life, you would've stayed put right where you were and been miserably alone."

Now it was his turn; he scowled more severely than I had in my life, and it reminded me of what Eva might look like, were she a strapping man rather than a crow-like woman. In the silence, I had a horrible image about what would happen if Martha came downstairs and found me in the dark, speaking to someone who was not really there at all. Yet Captain Gregg seemed quite real, as though I could reach out and touch him if I desired. When he spoke, his deep voice pulled me instantly from my thoughts, and surely that could not be imagined so easily.

"What d'ya mean, 'took my own life'? I did nothing of the kind!"

This came as a surprise – why would Mr. Coombe lie about such a hideous thing? "Oh, but Mr. Coombe –"

"If you aren't a foolish woman, you shouldn't listen to a fool like Coombe!" Captain Gregg cried, throwing his hand in the air. "I had me windows shut, to keep out the storm, and I must've kicked the gas heater on while I was asleep – does that sound like a blasted suicide to you, madam?" His eyes were alive with a new glisten…amusement? I couldn't say. Ghost or otherwise, I had a feeling a man like the captain were not open books. He was not going to spell anything out for me, and it would be a nice change when compared to the other men I knew – men like my poor, dead Edwin, who treated women as though they were simpletons who understood nothing.

"Oh, well – I apologize then, captain. Then I suppose that's why you've stayed. I am sorry, but I find Gull Cottage to be the perfect house, really I do…and my daughter Anna feels quite the same way," I said eagerly, and looking back, the idea that Daniel might be won over by such simple words does seem foolish.

He took one step forward and I hesitated, bracing myself so that I did not succumb to the temptation to step away as he did so. "I don't haunt me house because I wanted to stay here, madam. I haunt because I want it turned into a home for seamen…not for you and your little brat." Then that smile returned, only it was wider than before, almost a grin. "I'd be lying to say that I wanted to chase you out…you're an attractive woman, and even your brat's charming, by the look of her."

Part of me was outraged – and the other part, well, I could not say I was not flattered by Captain Gregg's outright praise. Only in the earliest days of our marriage had Edwin tried to charm me and call me beautiful. "Anna is not a brat, she's my little girl, and I couldn't find a more suitable place to raise her than this house. Besides, if you wanted to control what happened to your house, why didn't you leave a will telling somebody? It's not my fault you never did such a thing. Please excuse me, Captain Gregg, but you are deceased, and have been for four years. I can't help that your house is not being used for its intended purpose. Please stop trying to frighten us away." I paused. "What were you doing in my room this morning? I thought it might be you when the window opened and shut on its own."

This silenced him – but only for a moment. "I wasn't intent on dying, that's why I didn't leave a blasted will! But it is my house. I built it meself! As for your room – bah! I come and go as I please, and you can see I don't do any harm. If you truly plan on staying in this house – if you love it, as you say you do…"

I beamed at him, quite happy that he might be considering letting Anna and Martha and I stay. "Oh, yes! I do love it, Captain Gregg. This house is almost like…like a poem. I've always dreamed of living somewhere like it."

He grumbled something, and then sat down in one of the kitchen's chairs. "If you feel that way about it, I suppose I can let you stay," he said gruffly, stroking his dark beard with one hand. "Temporarily! You're an odd woman, I'll give that to you. Not liable to break down and run, like so many others. Alright, but I have my terms, if you're willing to hear them and agree to them."

My heart was soaring – what sort of terms could a ghost possibly have? Nothing I would lament, I was sure of that. At that moment, I felt that I should do anything to keep beautiful Gull Cottage in my possession. If I had to leave, it would be like leaving my heart behind. I heard one of my husband's cousins say my heart must have been buried with him at his funeral, yet I had never quite felt like that…and now I felt such things about a house! Perhaps I was a good deal less logical than I thought. "And I have mine. You must leave my daughter Anna quite alone. I'll not have her frightened."

"Certainly, madam…I don't spend my time frightening children. Only their mothers!" This made him laugh, a big booming sound which inevitably brought a smile to my face. "Alright, I'll keep away from your little girl. And you'll hang me painting in the best bedroom – my bedroom."

The painting. His painting…in my bedroom? Did he want to torture me? Of course he was nothing but a ghost, a spirit who was almost not there at all, and yet I did find him charming in a roguish, forbidden kind of way. The painting did not do him credit – that much I was beginning to realize – but it would still serve as an adequate reminder of this strange man who I found so vexing and so intriguing all at once. Martha would be curious. I could hardly tell her the true reason.

"Your painting – well, Captain Gregg, I'm afraid it's not a very good one."

Captain Gregg's dark eyes narrowed. "If you leave my bedroom as it is, there's no need for me t' go into any other room at all," he pointed out. "And I shan't trouble you there, madam – how would I? I haven't any body to speak of! Now, do we have a bargain?"

I hesitated, but there was no reason for it – I knew what answer I would give, what answer I had to give if I was to keep the home my daughter and I both loved. Oh, don't be such a fool, Lucy Muir. He's nothing but a ghost, what would he do? Nevertheless, I nodded. "Yes. I won't touch the best bedroom's décor, and I shall hang your – your blasted painting there, and you'll not bother my daughter."

The seasoned sea captain got to his feet; his eyes smoldered with my newfound boldness, and his arms were crossed. He looked surprisingly handsome. I felt compelled to look away. My cheeks were likely tinged pink, though why I could not imagine. The intensity of this man was impossible to ignore – but did I have to react in such a way? I felt as though I was playing the fool when I had vowed to myself never to do such a thing again. Yet if Captain Gregg noticed, he said nothing about it. Instead, he gave me that shadowy smile again. "Hang me painting there now, then, tonight…good night." As quickly as he'd appeared, I was alone again without him. Disappointment overwhelmed and frankly shocked me.

Fine, Captain Gregg. If that's how it's to be – then so be it.

And I headed into the parlor to fetch his painting – blast, indeed! – and drag it upstairs into my bedroom.

Blast.

Without a body, would you call your existence life? I knew full well that I was dead; I'd been dead for four years, but who was counting? In all that time, I'd been able to rid meself of all the blasted tenants me cousin had rented Gull Cottage out to. The house was The house had been the most prized possession of my life…and the cause of my death as well. But I couldn't hold it against her; it was, in many ways, my own fault…but what kind of man left the windows open in the middle of a bad storm? I wasn't a fool.

At least, I didn't think meself a fool until the arrival of the last tenant – the one who wouldn't go. I'd regretfully tried to scare her off, and then finally tried to talk her out of staying in the house. But she was a spirited kind of woman, and that I admired more than anything. So I played the fool for her, and let her stay.

All for her leaving me bedroom alone and hanging my painting in my bedroom! Not that there was really any harm in Mrs. Edwin Muir sleeping in that bedroom. She was an attractive woman, and her little girl was a reflection of that. In fact, I might not hesitate to use the word beautiful to describe this curious new tenant. Blast it all, sometimes it would be nice to have a body…but if I'd a body, I wouldn't have met Lucy.

Lucy. As I watched her struggling with the painting, trying to carry it up the stairs, I thought about helping her – but I promptly reminded myself that I wasn't welcoming this woman into me house. She was simply here out of my…pity. Yes. Pity. She was a widow, wasn't she, with a little girl to raise, and a helpless woman had always stirred that emotion on my heart. Still, as I watched, I found my interest was impossible to ignore. I could gather some information about her simply by watching and listening – things you picked up when you'd spent four years observing what frightened people and what didn't, though with the rare exception, almost everything frightened many of the would-be tenants. Any number of them wouldn't even last the first night.

She was a widow, and she dressed in black tweeds like any good widow ought to, but there was something that made it all too obvious that Lucy Muir had not lost a husband she would lament being rid of. Had she been blushing in the kitchen, or were my eyes playing a cruel trick on me?

The stalwart Lucy had come to the top of the staircase, and without the help of her servant Martha, dragged the painting into my bedroom, placing it reluctantly on the seat by the wall. I could see her distaste, and I chuckled – so that she could not hear me, naturally. No need to put the woman in a hysterical state. After all, I'd made her a promise that she didn't have to fear me in this room…but had I promised her I wouldn't admire what was there to see? I was dead. There wasn't any need for superstition about my sins. Lucy Muir was simply a beautiful woman inhabiting my long-empty bed.

I passed the time it took her to get herself prepared for bed by contemplating some other adjective to describe her, more fitting and more original than simply "beautiful" and by the time she had braided her dark hair for the night, I'd come up with it. Lucy Muir was regal. It was cruel that she had not been born a princess, for the way she held herself and the way she spoke reminded me of all the stories of Elizabeth I and Queen Victoria that I'd heard.

Lucia…

Tugging at my beard, I could hardly help but smile. Yes, that was a better name for her than simply Lucy.

As she climbed into bed and turned off the gas lamp, I settled into the chair she'd fallen asleep in earlier that day. I was content with watching her, like I used to gaze at the sea. It was easy to tell by her breathing patterns when she eventually gave in to sleep, letting it swell over her like a wave, and crash down, plunging her into her dreams. For a moment, I wished I knew what those dreams were. What did she desire, more than anything? Was this house all she longed for? Or was there something more? Yet even if I knew, there was little I could offer her. I was nothing more than an illusion.

Slowly, I rose from the chair and approached the bed. I lifted my hand, wishing I could brush it against the smooth, pale skin of her cheek – but I did not truly have that ability. Instead, I lowered my head to her ear. "Sleep well, my dear." She stirred, fretful, in her sleep, and I backed away towards the open window. "Sleep well, Lucia…"

And I faded into the blackness, my voice blending with the roaring surf below.