The Night of the Haunted Hand

"You shouldn't stay. I already told you, they can't see you."

"And I told you, I don't care. I'm not leaving."

I sigh.

"This can't be good for your soul. Please, rest, pass on, be at peace."

"You can say the same thing as many times as you want in as many ways as you want. It won't change my mind."

It was five days ago when I met this lingering soul, Fionola, but I had known of who she was in life for several years. I had heard that she had been a talented artist in her youth, making beautiful jewelry that was prized all over the Isles. She had even instructed classes about the craft until an unfortunate lightning strike cost her her arm. After that, the value of her art tripled.

Ironically enough, she almost always included designs resembling lightning bolts, thunder clouds, and the branch like scar left on her body on all her pieces of art after the incident. Her fans had claimed that nobody understood the ethereal patterns of lightning as well as her; the one who had let is course through her body. And so, despite only being able to make a few pieces a year, those that she did make sold for such an amount that she and her family were able to live quite comfortably. She died last week peacefully in her sleep.

She wasn't acting like a spirit who died peacefully in her sleep though. Usually, those types of spirits were at peace with what had happened and would ask that I simply deliver a final message to their loved ones. It is a task that I never turned down. Then, they would pass on to whatever awaited them.

Not Fionola though. She seems adamant about staying.

"Why?" I ask her, "Why do you stay?"

"I can't be at peace, so they can't be at peace."

"Please tell me what is troubling you."

"You won't leave me alone until I do, will you?"

"No."

"Hah!" she laughs, "you'll leave me alone eventually. You are still alive. You need to eat and sleep."

I let out another sigh. Stubborn spirits can be a pain, but that is no reason to leave them stranded.

"If I need to leave, I will return the next day," I explain, "I can be patient when it comes to aiding others."

"You sound like a good boy," she says in a dismissive tone, "but do you really want me to have peace or do you simply find me annoying and want me to go away?"

"You are annoying, but I do want to help you."

It is not the kindest thing to say, but I do not like to lie to the dead. It feels like tempting some divine punishment. Also, it is rude.

"Very well then," she says, "I'll tell you. It's my family."

This makes sense. Family, in form or another, is almost always the reason a spirit lingers.

"Family," I repeat, "could you please be more specific?"

"You want more details now?"

She sounded outraged, but I could tell she was just playing it up.

"Yes please," I answer as politely as ever.

"Nosey lad. Fine. My family is keeping me from resting. They bicker over my fortune and look, look at this, boy! Look what they've done to me and my arm!"

Fionola's spirit appeared as I imagine she looked younger in life, with one notable exception, which became all the more obvious as she gestured towards her arm. Or, I should say, where her arm should have been. This is odd.

When they die, most spirits assume the form that is most familiar to their own image of who they were in life. For most, that means they appear as they did in the prime of their life, for others, it could be when they were older and more experienced, and others still, when they were in their youth. This also meant that for many who lost limbs or had severe injuries in life, their spirits would appear whole again, their souls remembering what it was like to be whole. For her to still be missing her arm meant that her soul felt more complete with the replacement limb than her natural one, but then why was it missing?

"My beautiful prosthetic," she moans, "they aren't going to bury me with it. I spent years making it, carving designs on the surface and setting little jewels into it. It wasn't my original arm, but I made it mine all the same and it was my favorite work of art. Oh and those brats are going to sell it! Sell a literal piece of me, their mother! I thought I raised them better than this."

The outline of the spirit trembles, especially where her missing limb is. The nothingness in that space curls and twists like campfire smoke. She looks completely distraught and I do not blame her for feeling this way.

"Would you like to tell them that they are distressing you and that you cannot pass on until your arm is returned?"

"NO!" she shrieks with such intensity that I stumble back.

Her expression softens and she repeats herself.

"No, please, don't tell them. I doubt they would believe you and they need to realize it for themselves that I should be buried with my arm."

Once more, anger crosses her face and she raises her fist and shakes it at the sky.

"Because if they don't," she howls, "I'm going to haunt them until they die!"

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything she lets out a shrill cry,

"Oh, they're coming, quickly hide!"

She goes to grab my arm and pull me from the road but her ethereal hand passes right through me. Where it moved through feels as though a bucket of frigid sea water has been splashed on it.

"They cannot see you," I remind her.

"But they can still see you, lad. Now, get off the road."

I oblige and duck into the alley the spirit is peering out of. Her cold burning eyes look like blue-green embers in the shadows. A nearby cat stared at where they were on the spirit and I wonder if the little beast can see them too. I've heard so many tales about cats and dogs seeing things that aren't there, I am beginning to believe they are true.

The steady sound of hooves on packed earth approaches and I caution a peek out around the corner. Atop a straw colored mare is a man in his middling years. He is dressed finely, looking as though he belongs on Helia or one of the other major cities, rather than here on an outer island town. His cream colored robes are trimmed with golden embroidery in geometric patterns, and the blouse he wears beneath it is dyed a rich burgundy color. A cloak of plush looking fabric wraps around him. Its hood, bundled around his neck, is also beautifully embroidered. A pendant of amber, wrapped in silver wire, rests on top of the folds of fabric. The wires have been bent in curled in such a way that it resembles roots, or the scars lightning would leave on a struck tree. It must be one of Fionola's pieces.

"Look how he dresses," I hear her hiss in my ear, "he clearly wants for nothing. Why keep my arm from me? Oh, I can practically hear his response right now. 'But Mother, think of your granddaughters.' I did, by the way. I thought of all my grandchildren in my final days. I made sure to divide my fortune equally among them. Let nobody on the Isles and beyond say that Nana Fin didn't love all her grandchildren."

"I would never suggest something like that."

"Good, because I would deny it in an instant. Still, he would find a way to justify his greed. He always fancied himself a poet and a writer with enough time can justify anything. Oh, I bet he wants to use the wealth from my arm to move to an inner island and attempt to become a famed poet there. I've told him time and again, there is nothing wrong being a small town poet. With the way those scholars collect every scrap of text they can, your work will get to Helia eventually and living is much more affordable on an outer island anyways. He's ignoring all my advice. The nerve of him!"

Without another word, she flies from our hiding place and hover right before the horse.

"Bairre, you fool!" she shouts, "have you remembered nothing I have told you!"

But neither her son nor the horse notice her and proceed to walk onward as though nothing is wrong. The horse begins to pass right through where the spirit is and then suddenly, it rears up and lets out a shrill cry in fear. Bairre is thrown from the saddle and he lands in the street with a thud as the horse goes galloping away down the street.

"Bairre!" the spirit cries as she rushes to her son's side.

"Look out!" I shout, "Horse!"

People trip over themselves as they stumble to get out of the way of the fleeing animal. Mercifully though, it looks as though the horse wants to run into them as much as they want the beast to trample them and, as far as I can see, no one else is injured. I turn my attention back to the spirit and her son.

"Bairre, Bairre, are you alright, my dear?" she pleads, "Please say you are alright."

The man lets out a moan.

"Boy," she calls to me, "tell me he's alright. I can't touch him. I can't tell. Tell me he's alright!"

I nod and go to the man's side.

"Are you hurt, mister?" I ask.

He lets out another moan and tries to get up but winces and lies back down.

"Oww, damn horse," he groans, "Ugh, what spooked her?"

"I don't know," I lie, "but please tell me, are you hurt?"

I offer my hand and he takes it. As gently as I can, I help him sit up.

"I don't think so," he answers, "just a bruised body and ego. I think my cloak took the worst of it."

He looks down at the fabric, now quite filthy from the muddy street. It had rained the day before and, judging by the gloomy color of the sky, it was likely going to rain again this evening.

"What a pain. I was supposed to wear this to dinner with my siblings tonight. Now I have to go home and change."

"Maybe you should see a healer first?" I offer.

"No, oww, no," he insists as I help him to his feet, "I have important business that needs tending to tonight. I cannot miss it."

I try my best to give him a quick look over to see if anything is broken. I am no healer, so I do not know how good my assessment truly is, but since he is able to walk, I do not think his injuries are too serious. Once he is gone, Fionola drifts over to me.

"Are you sure he is well?" she asks.

"As sure as I can be."

A look of shame hangs on her visage.

"I caused that, didn't I?"

She did, but I do my best to word in such a way to not sound too accusatory.

"Spirits are no meant to linger in this realm. They may cause unintended harm."

"Oh, I did cause that," she says.

I can tell she intended to pause and sigh, but since lacks lungs, there is no sound.

"No need to candy your words for me," she continues on, "I hurt him. He's being an ass by not putting my arm back, but I would never want to hurt my children. If this street had been paved, he may have cracked his skull open and I would be responsible. I would have killed my son and left my granddaughters without a father. That would be too much, too much after just losing their Nana Fin. Oh, I'm a terrible mother."

"If you would like, I can take a message to them," I offer again, "and you can pass on and not have to worry about harming anyone."

"I could, but the thought of my arm not being returned to me is still too much. Please boy, I know I sound selfish, but that was a piece of me. I want to be whole when I face the beyond."

"I understand."

I see her mouth open, like she attempting to sigh again, but as before, there is no sound. Instead, I hear the leaves on a nearby tree. They are rustling, creating that foreboding sound that makes your soul understand that a storm is coming. For several minutes, the wind is the only sound between us.

"I appreciate your offer, I really do," she eventually says, "but they need to realize for themselves that my arm should be returned."

"I could write a letter and sign it from you. Maybe that would work?"

"Maybe. If only I could still move that hand and make it point accusingly towards them. That might work, but I cannot touch anything."

Her brow wrinkles in frustrated thought then, with the suddenness of a fishing line going taut, her expression snaps wide with the realization of something.

"I cannot touch anything," she repeats, "but you can."

I give her a quizzical looked.

"You'll help me, boy, won't you? Oh, you said you would help this restless spirit."

"I did."

My words are slow and hesitant. What she is implying is making me nervous.

"It is settled then. You shall sneak into my house and convince my children that they are being greedy fools, or, at the very least, you can steal my arm back. I won't hold the theft against you. Powers above hear, I absolve him of any crime he shall commit in service to me."

"Hold on? Crimes?"

"Only small ones, my boy, and did you not hear me? I asked the gods to absolve you of them."

"I'm-"

"You will not be hurting anyone, I don't want my family injured, just a little haunted, that's all. Please, you said you would help me pass on. Will you please help me?"

"I do want to help you, but you will need to explain your plan to me."

"Very well, I will explain as we go. Now follow me, please. We are going to my house."

I follow the spirit up a hill to her home where it overlooks the little port town below. Though I would not call her home a mansion, for that is a word I would reserve for the homes on wealthier islands, her home is still quite large. Its dark shape looks all the more imposing against the gray backdrop of the cloudy sky. Many of the windows of this stoic building are dark but in several of them on the ground floor, I can see the warm flicker of candlelight.

"My children, all three of them, are in there," Fionola says, "I can feel them."

"And you are sure that you do not wish for me to simply speak with them?" I ask.

"I am sure."

"If that is how you feel, I will help how I can so long as it does not put anyone in danger."

"It won't," she hastily promises, "or at least it shouldn't."

"Will you tell me what your plan is now?"

"You are going to make my children think that they are being haunted by the restless spirit of their mother because, well, they are. Move things around, make strange noises, write ominous things on paper, maybe boil some water and leave a hot cup of tea by my favorite chair to watch the ocean, those sorts of things."

It's not a terrible idea, but there was one small problem.

"How do I get into your home without being seen?"

"Go around the back," the spirit instructed, "I would keep a spare key hidden out back. It should be in the rose bush."

"The rose bush?"

"Yes, extra incentive to not forget my key. If I didn't want to risk pricking my finger I shouldn't have been so forgetful."

Around the back of the house I sneak while Fionola glides unseen beside me. She points toward the largest of several full bushes, dotted with flowers. Their bright color, the pink of a summer sunset, seems almost luminous in the dour light that struggles through the clouds.

"Lift this branch," she instructs, "and be gentle to not harm the plant."

I do as she asks and reach into the bush. My care is due in equal parts to her request and my own desire to not prick my fingers upon the plant's thorns, which look more like carpenter's nails than the pricks of a simple plant.

Leaning against the base of the plant, I see the tarnished key and retrieve it. I pull myself back up to a standing position and display the key, but Fionola is not looking at me. She hovers nearby, looking down at a large pink rose at the very peak of its bloom. She has the blossom cupper in her hand. I know she cannot feel the plant, but I see her move her fingers gently over the petal, showing such great care as though she could still damage the delicate flower.

"I do hope someone continues to take care them once I am gone," she says in a somber tone, "they should not have to die simply because I did."

She releases the flower. As soon as her hand moves away, I see that the edges of the petals have begun to turn the dull brown of rot.

"Boy, please make sure my flowers are not forgotten. You can be direct with my children about their care."

"I will," I promise.

"Thank you."

A soft smile returns to her face but her eyes still look a little sad. I raise the key again and smile as I speak to her and do my best to make my voice sound mischievous.

"I found the key. Are you ready to haunt your home?"

The tone sounds foreign in my voice. I never had a troublemaking phase of childhood. Maybe my rebellious phase will come with my later teen years, but I doubt it. I think I would rather stay mild mannered. It seems like the more helpful temperament for spirits. My faux mischief does seem to have an effect on Fionola though, and a spark of energy ripples through her.

"Yes," she says, "I am ready."

With a click of the key in the lock, the backdoor is open and I slip into the house. For a moment longer, I hold the door open for the spirit. She could just as easily pass through it, but it still feels rude to close a door in her face. Once she is inside, I close the door as silently as I can.

No sooner than I close the door the rain outside then begins to come down in earnest. There are a few loud taps against the window, as if the storm is testing the air, and then it becomes a steady patter, and then a low drone. With hope, this noise will drown out any sound I may make while sneaking around.

"Home again," the spirit says, her gloom dispelling, "now, onto business. Boy, you should find a place to hide while I locate my arm. I will be back as soon as I find it."

She floats away before I can even finish saying "okay." Now though, I have a moment to look around. The backdoor appears to have let us into the kitchen of the home. It is small, but clean and reasonably well organized. Pots hang on the far wall, utensils dry by the wash basin, and little ceramic jars line a wall shelf. Embers glowing in the cook stove give the room a cozy feeling and a fatty aroma, heavy with sage, onion, and rosemary, hangs in the air. Dinner must have recently been served.

Not wanting to be discovered by any returning diners, I find a corner I can fit into and crouch down low. A sack I lean against lets out a puff of white as it shifts. The fine material sticks at once to my clothing, leaving a pale spatter on my sleeve.

"Flour?"

My attempts to brush it from me only appear to make it more embedded in the fabric and before I am able to properly clean myself, Fionola returns.

"I found it," she announces, "they have it on top of the mantle of all places! I also overheard them talking about it, trying to decide if they should sell it to an art collector or donate it to an art academy to have one of the buildings names after us and, and, and,"

Her tone then suddenly drops from one of frustrated outrage to somber thought.

"And I saw that they moved some of my things. Kiera's, my daughter's stuff is there now. I know I left the home to her, but it is still strange to see things changed. I do not want them to mourn for me forever. I want her to be able to make this place her home. But it is still odd to see it."

"I cannot fully understand what you are feeling," I say, "but I can imagine parts of it; like someone is trespassing in your home."

"Yes, something like that," she nods and then, looking down at my arm, she asks, "what mess have you gotten into?"

She goes to wipe the flour from my arm, but her fingers pass through the fabric. My skin chills and forms goosebumps where her spectral form brushes against me.

"It's just a little flour," I answer.

"A little? Half your arm is white. Any more and I would think you have lost your arm."

She offers me a weak smile as she tries not to dwell on the changes going on in her home. I offer a weak smile back.

"It does look like that, doesn't it?"

"It does and you know what boy, it has given me another idea."

"Are you finally going to share the details of your plan with me?"

"Yes."

I smile at her, and this time it is genuine.

Fionola explains her plan several times over to me until I am able to repeat it back to her confidently. Only then do we set it in motion. As I behold the completed first step though, almost all my confidence evaporates.

"Is this step truly necessary?" I ask.

"Yes," she assures me, "that way if they see you, they will think you are a spirit."

I take a closer look at my reflection in one of the cooking pots. As per her request, I have placed a pale gray sheet over my body, cut holes in it so that I can see, and then dusted myself in flour.

"I look nothing like a spirit. Perhaps if you had a blue blanket I could use instead?"

"We do not possess the time to look for one of those. Also, only you know what spirits really look like. Everyone else only knows the ghost stories which say they are as pale as white funerary sheets."

"You already agreed to this plan," I remind myself, "do not go back on it now."

After letting out a long sigh, I collect the kettle, and continue to follow the plan. The door to the kitchen is wedged shut, the kettle is filled with water and placed on the stove, the embers are stoked once more, and a teacup is set out with Fionola's favorite tea already steeping in it. Now, I wait, and as I do, I feel my heart begin to quicken.

The shrill scream of the kettle easily pierces through the sound of the rain.

"Here we go, boy," the spirit says excitedly, "are you ready."

"As ready as I can be."

Knowing I have only moments before I must add my weight to help block the door, I quickly take the kettle from the fire and pour just enough into the cold tea so that it appears to be a full, steaming cup, before placing the kettle back so that it can continue to whistle. I brace myself against the door just as I hear footsteps briskly walking towards me.

"Did you put the kettle on?" I hear a woman's voice, most likely the previously mentioned Kiera, ask.

"No," a voice I recognize as Bairre's responds, "I didn't. Did you Odran?"

"No," a third voice, Odran, responds.

"I'll check on it," the daughter responds.

When I hear her steps stop before the door, I hold my breath. There is the sound of her grabbing the latch and she gives the door a push. It does not move.

"Huh?" I hear her grunt before trying again to push the door.

One, two, three times she tries, each attempt harder than the last, but I keep it firmly shut.

"The door is stuck," she calls to her brothers.

More footsteps signal the approach of the other children.

"It's stuck?" Odran asks, "let me try."

He gives the door a firm push to test before slamming his shoulder into it.

"Careful," I hear Fionola hiss next to me, "you'll damage the door or your shoulders doing bullish nonsense like that."

"Really stuck." Odran grunts.

"Want me to give it a try?" Bairre asks.

"With your shoulders all bruised from your tumble earlier?" Kiera responds, "Don't hurt yourself. Maybe something is blocking it? I'll go around the back and check. The kettle is starting to get on my nerves."

"I'll try again when you get around," Odran adds.

"Get ready to run," the spirit says, "I will let you know when you have maybe ten seconds before she arrives."

I nod and she passes through the wall to look for her daughter's approach. Even with it being a short walk around the outside of the house, the woman should be quite soaked by the time she gets around to the back as the rain outside has begun to pelt down harder.

"She's almost here," Fionola says as her ethereal face fazes through the door.

The wedge is moved out from under the kitchen door and I take a step from it to grab what I will need for the next steps of the spirit's plan; a cup of water and a bowl filled with as much flour as it can hold. With one hand on the kitchen door, my other grasping the cup, and the bowl balanced precariously against my chest, I wait. The door to outside jiggles. Kiera enters the kitchen, her attention drawn immediately to the kettle.

"Do it." Fionola commands.

With the woman's back turned to me, I strike, shaking the overflowing bowl towards her. Flour fills the air like a mist. At once, the flour covers her, sticking to her damp hair, clothing, and skin. It also covers me a fair amount as well, but I don't have any time to dwell on the mess I am making of myself. Everything is about to start happening really fast.

"Hey!" Kiera shouts, "what is-"

I am already moving before she can finish her thought, pulling the kitchen door open with such speed and suddenness that the brothers on the other side startle back in alarm. Then, as the spirit requested, I splash water over the two of them, aiming for their arms as best as I can, before tossing what flour remains over them as well. I can't afford to spare them a moment's look and I bolt from the kitchen as fast as I can move, nearly toppling over Bairre as I do since seeing out from under this sheet is more difficult than I would have expected it to be.

"This way, boy," Fionola calls, "follow me!"

I run after her towards her arm.

"What in blazes was that!?" I hear Odran shout behind me.

"I have no idea," Bairre answers, "but did you see it. It was just a white blur! It was like a ghost!"

"A ghost?" Kiera repeats, "are you serious?"

"I am and look, the counter. Mother's tea cup!"

"It sound like it's working," Fionola says with a smile, "just as I hoped it would. Oh Bairre, you were always a superstitious child. I knew you never really grew out of it either."

For a moment, I feel my confidence in this plan grow only for it to be dashed as I hear Odran's voice behind me.

"It's not a ghost," he says, "look down. Ghosts don't leave tracks. Someone's in here thinking it's funny to pull this joke on a grieving family. Come on, let's find the bastard!"

"You always had the worst temper of the three," the spirit scolds, "the middle child's curse as some say."

I find it in me to scramble faster and nearly slam into the table as I make a dash for the mantel.

"Here, here!" the spirit calls, "my arm, my beautiful arm!"

Beautiful is an understatement. The limb is carved from a light wood and designs resembling storm clouds and arcs of lightning cover it. Dark stains dye the grooves in the wood, while the top layer is polished to a waxy sheen. As she had mentioned, there are several crystals embedded into the limb, with each serving as a nexus from which more cracks of lightning burst. As I turn the limb in my hand, light from a nearby candle refracts through the facets of a crystal, making the light shimmer along the carvings. It looks like a storm.

"There he is!"

The angry shout pulls me from my momentary wonder. The three children all stand across from me, covered in pasty flour and looking furious. Fear pools in my stomach.

"Put that down!" they demand, "do you know what you are holding?"

"Don't put me down," the spirit says, "Continue with the plan."

I do ask she asks and raise the arm above my head. Then my body feels as though it is suddenly wrapped in water taken from the depths of the ocean.

"This is your last chance –"

Odran freezes mid-sentence, his jaw dropping. The other two gasp. All three stare transfixed at the arm above my head. I look up as well and see Fionola's spectral arm resting over mine. I see her hair tumbling down on either side of my head and flickers of her ethereal form on my shoulders. She is draped over me like a cape, holding me in a strange embrace. And though I cannot see it, I can tell what it is the others do, or don't, see.

"There-there's nothing there," Bairre stammers, "but the arm."

I do not know how long this illusion will last, so I begin the final stage of the plan. I curl the fingers on the hand to a pointing position and face it upwards. Thunder booms in the background. Then, I point the accusing finger towards them. First Kiera, then Odran, and lastly Bairre, who looks as though he may faint as I do so.

"Mother?" he squeaks.

"Move it exactly as I told you to," the spirit whispers in my ear.

I do. I move the wrist so that the finger is now pointing to the ceiling. Then I give the whole arm two gentle shakes up and down. Lightning flashes outside.

"One,"

The children look confused as some memory stirs within them. I uncurl a second finger and repeat the bobbing motion. There is another flash of lighning.

"Two,"

There expressions shift from confusion to horrible realization. I uncurl a third finger.

"Three,"

I begin the bobbing motion once more. A crack of thunder shakes the windows and the following flash of lighting that occurs as I complete the first emotion lights up their terrified faces. Before I can begin the last bob, Bairre lurches forward.

"I'm sorry," he cries, "I'm sorry Mother. Don't count to three! I understand!"

I look to the spirit and she nods in approval. I allow Bairre to snatch the hand from me, which he immediately cradles against himself.

"It's you, Mother, I know it is," he says, tears glistening in his eyes, "I- I understand what you want. We'll give it back. We'll give you back your arm! We're sorry, we didn't think you needed it anymore. I promise, we'll bring it to you tomorrow."

There is another crack of thunder.

"As soon as the storm ends!" the spooked man hastily amends, "we'll bring it as soon as the storm ends. Right?"

His siblings nods and struggle to find their voices.

"Yes," Kiera agrees, "yes. I'm so sorry mother. So, so sorry."

"Sorry," Odran, only able to grunt out the single word, adds.

"Come on," Bairre speaks, "let's go clean ourselves up so we can bring Mother where she belongs," he looks around and up before continuing, "Until then, I am going to put you by your favorite seat so you can watch the storm. We'll be ready soon Mother! We promise! We love you!"

` He goes and, using the most care, places the arm on a table by a large window that overlooks the ocean. Then he and his siblings awkwardly shamble out of the room like the scolded children they are, leaving just the spirit and I alone again. She releases me and begins to laugh.

"Oh, oh, oh!"

I turn and look up at her. She is doubled over in laughter, her hands, both of them, clutching her stomach.

"Did you see their faces? Oh, they looked like they were ten again. Ah-ah-hah! Thank you, boy, thank you!"

She holds her arm above her head in triumph.

"My arm! Ah-hah, oh my beautiful arm! It's back. Oh, thank you, boy! Thank you! Thank you, young Yorick!"

"You are welcome, Fionola."

"Look, my wonderful children are going to return my arm to me! I am whole!"

There is a grand boom of thunder and flash of lightning so bright I close my eyes. When I open them, she is gone, but my mind remembers the look on her face. She passed from this world smiling.