Ghostly: A Paranormal Romantic Comedy (Perks of Being Paranormal Book 1)

Chapter 8

Gabriel observed the town graveyard from his parked car. Located on a small hill on the outskirts, it nearly melded into the forest. Gravestones of all shapes and sizes and the occasional angel statue rose out of the brown-green grass like teeth out of a giant monster’s mouth.

He’d been in town, returning the books Ida had haunted and borrowing new ones, when it hit him. Fix something broken turned out not to be as literal as he thought. Was there a twist to other conditions, too? A short brainstorming session on the way to his car led him to an idea: he didn’t take enlightensomeone literally, but what if that was the twist? He had to, literally, shine a light.

And because this was apparently a day to be extra, he decided on something special.

Ida, as well as her family, would be buried here. She never mentioned any living relatives. Gabriel might be the first one to stop by their grave in a while, and if so, paying attention to it and lighting a candle in remembrance might work as enlightening someone. Perhaps even Ida’s spirit.

What a great surprise that would be to Ida, too. He didn’t know why it mattered so much that she be surprised, but he could already imagine her jumping around the house in joy.

A flash of purple by the tall, wrought-iron gate interrupted his thoughts.

“Jason!”

The other man stopped and smiled in greeting. “Well, would you look at that. You must be thinking of staying, huh?”

“Sorry?”

“If you came looking for a plot,” Jason remarked cheekily.

Gabriel laughed. “Are you trying to sell me something?”

“Mmm, you’re a bit too alive for my services.” At Gabriel’s raised eyebrows, Jason laughed again. “Mortuary cosmetologist on the side. Well, the beauty salon was supposed to be on the side, but sadly not enough people die in this town.” He gasped and covered his mouth. “That’s off the record, by the way.”

“I’ll tell you what. I won’t mention you’re on the way to becoming a serial killer to earn a living, and you tell me where I can find the Huxley grave.”

“I can see you’re out of practice. That’s a terrible deal.” Jason leaned on the gate. “The northwest corner. It’ll be hard to miss—tall gravestone with two statues on each side.”

“Thanks.”

“You won’t find her there, though,” Jason said when Gabriel was already through the gate. “Your ghost.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Ida Huxley. The woman who’s supposed to haunt the house. She’s not buried with the rest of them.”

Well, that threw a wrench into his plans. The rest of the family was still there, and if this worked, Gabriel figured it worked for any neglected grave. Only he really wanted it to be Ida’s. But more importantly… “Why?”

Jason approached and continued in a low voice. “Word is she killed herself. Back then, the graveyard had a church, and they didn’t allow for her body to be buried on consecrated ground.”

Ida? Suicide? But she said she’d died of an illness.

“Jumped out of the window. The maid found her the next morning. I bet the family would’ve wanted to cover it up—an embarrassment, you understand—but with the servant knowing, the news spread too fast.” Jason clapped his hands and continued in a less spooky tone. “Anyway, that’s the story as I know it.”

“Do you know where she’s buried?”

“No idea. Wherever it is, I imagine it’s more than six feet under by now.”

Jason left, and Gabriel stared at the far corner of the graveyard. Enlightenment or not, he didn’t feel like visiting the grave anymore.

“Ida! I brought new books!” Gabriel put them on the coffee table, waited for the response, and, when none came, sat in front of his laptop, ears still perked. Ida must be haunting one thing or another; nothing in the living room, though. It was dead silent, without any humming that usually came from an Ida-haunted object. He tried to get back to work, but a minute in, he found himself staring at the empty starting page of a web search, mind going off on tangents that had nothing to do with the report for Jacobsky.

Would Ida really have killed herself? He could understand why she’d try to cover it up. Maybe she was ashamed, maybe she regretted it. Maybe that was why she tried so hard to pass to the other side. She wanted to finish the job. But at the same time, it didn’t feel like her. The woman he knew—bright, funny, chatty—didn’t seem like someone who’d fling herself out of the window.

Before he could stop himself, he typed in a search. Unsurprisingly, the combination of ‘Huxley’, ‘suicide’, ‘1888’ and ‘Buttons’ didn’t return any useful results. Maybe he could ask the Schuyler Sisters; women like that always knew the local legends.

“Aw, books!” Ida glided into the living room, thankfully too distracted with her new reading material to see Gabriel jump. “Thank you.”

“Uh, no problem.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is everything okay? Someone in town causing you trouble again?”

“No, no, all is well.” He scratched the back of his head. “I was wondering what to make for lunch. Now that, you know, I’m the next Masterchef.”

“Ooh, recipes!” Ida blinked out.

His laptop hummed.

Oh, no. No, no.

“Ida,” he said at the laptop. “It’s not what you—”

Ida appeared at his side, face crestfallen.

“Think,” he lamely finished.

“They told you,” she said quietly.

“I only heard a story.”

“But you were checking it out. You wouldn’t do that if you hadn’t considered believing it.”

“I’m a lawyer. Of course I’m going to check the facts—and that comes before believing.”

“Oh, please.”

“And you wouldn’t be so upset if there weren’t a grain of truth to it.” A part of him, hungry for facts, revelations, anything concerning Ida, didn’t particularly care for the harshness of his words. “They said you jumped out the window.”

“Of course they did.” Ida gave him a bitter smile. “It was the lesser of two evils.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “My family matters don’t concern you. If you’re so curious, I’m sure you’ll be able to find answers on the internet or in the archives. You are a lawyer. It’s your job.” She drifted toward the hallway.

He ran after her. “No, don’t you go disappearing into the deer-hog.”

Ida stopped at the console table. “It’s just a deer.”

“If what they say is a lie, then that lie is all they know. Only you know the real truth. And you can only tell me.”

“Why do you care?”

Hell if he knew. Everything concerning Ida was pure confusion—her very existence, his own feelings. He felt like he’d been living a strange fever dream ever since he first stepped foot into this house. “You’re my client. I need you to be honest on everything, so no surprises pop up later.” This being a less-than-typical job, it didn’t make particular sense—but it was still better than admitting his confusion.

Ida hovered her fingers above the deer-hog, then dropped her arm. “I didn’t kill myself.” She looked at the mirror above the console table. “But I did jump out of that window.”

***

1888

Ida placed the rose plant neatly into the middle of the hole and shoveled the excess soil around it. She patted the fresh dirt with a trowel, sat back on her heels to take in the three new rose bushes, planted in a straight line, then leaned forward again and started to dig up the plant.

“Ida. Ida!” A hand grabbed hers. Ida looked up into the frowning face of her brother, Harry. “You have a visitor.”

“I don’t have time right now.” She tore her hand out of his grasp and continued digging. One more time. Then all the rose bushes would be sorted out, perfectly balanced, and the left side of the house wouldn’t sink into the ground.

“You dug up that bush and planted it in again. You don’t need to do it once more. Ida. Please.”

But she had to. It didn’t make much sense, she knew that—one patch of mismatched soil wouldn’t sink the house—but she also had to do it. She’d done the same with the previous two plants—in, out, in, out, in. She couldn’t leave before taking care of the last one.

Despite her ignoring him, Harry showed no signs of leaving. “Mr. Abrams is waiting for you in the drawing room. Come on.” He grabbed her by the forearm and hoisted her up.

“Harry!”

“He’s showing interest and respect by calling on you. You will show him the same, yes? And behave appropriately.”

“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant, but the way he phrased it—like she was a five-year-old—just begged for her to answer back.

“None of your…” Harry gestured to the rose bushes, “things.”

“Fine.” She dropped the trowel. “No gardening in the drawing room, I promise.” With forcible steps, she headed toward the front of the house, but her smile at outwitting Harry quickly faded. The rose bush—no, it would be fine. Half an hour for the visit, then she’d finish the job. Hold on until then, house.

At least the visitor wasn’t bad. Mr. Abrams was in his early thirties, with a kind round face and a temper to match.

Jacinda was lurking in the hallway. “Do tidy up before you greet him, Ida,” she said, toying with the animal statues.

She’d misaligned them again. Ida clenched her fists. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. The most urgent need to fix the statues passed, but it would be back. She gave Jacinda a forcibly pleasant smile and headed upstairs to change clothes and wash. As if Harry wasn’t enough, his wife, too, treated Ida as if she were an incompetent child. Just because she had her issues didn’t mean she didn’t know proper manners.

Maybe you’ll be free of her soon. Maybe Jacinda will soon be with child andthen she can die in childbirth.

Ida whimpered and leaned her forehead on the wall. No, no, I didn’t meanthat. I swear I didn’t mean it. She had to go apologize to Jacinda—oh, but the visitor—the rosebushes—the statues—one, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

She didn’t know how much time she’d wasted, but eventually, she counted to three enough times to calm herself. Now, for the visit. Maybe she should go into the drawing room with gloves stained with dirt. Mr. Adams was shopping for a wife and in the very slight, infinitesimal chance she were to become one, she didn’t intend to give up gardening. This way, he’d at least know what was coming.

Still, Ida washed, put on a clean cream-and-brown striped gown, checked that her hair hadn’t escaped from the simple bun, and went to greet her suitor.

“Miss Huxley. What a delight.” Mr. Abrams smiled; a nice, wholesome and honest smile, none of that patronizing nonsense Harry and Jacinda gave her. He gently squeezed her hand, and Ida took her place across from him on the settee. Through the half-open door to the hallway, she spotted Jacinda spying on her, and hid her fists in the folds of her skirt. Don’t think about straightening thestatues. Don’t think about straightening the statues. Don’t think—

“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Mr. Abrams began.

“Very pleasant. In fact, I’d just been outside, gardening.”

A crashing noise came from the hallway.

“Is that so.” Mr. Abrams’ smile paled. “Of course, being outside is good for one’s health. As long as not too much time is spent on such hobbies.”

Perhaps she could live with that. Being restricted, being controlled. So he thought ladies shouldn’t garden too much—she’d seen worse. And at least she wouldn’t be an intruder in what was now Jacinda’s household.

But when he looked at her, she felt nothing, and when he’d touched her hand, there was no pleasant sensation, no spark of electricity—no indication whatsoever that she could care for Mr. Abrams beyond a friendship. A feeling told her she’d recognize the right man by the touch of his hand. When Harry had first started hinting she should get married, she’d tried many tricks to get men to accidentally touch her hand. None gave her the right feeling.

Harry didn’t much appreciate her behavior, either.

Mr. Abrams’ visit went as expected. He asked some polite questions, she answered them, and they chatted, and chatted, and chatted some more, until Ida was certain they’d exhausted every mundane topic in existence, and she had to count to three between each answer, to keep the last rosebush from sinking the house. Finally, he said goodbye. Ida waited until he left, then went to retrieve her gardening tools, straightening the hallway statues on the way.

Harry and Jacinda were quarreling again. Ida tossed and turned in her bed, begging herself to fall asleep. They’re not talking about you.It’s probablyabout money, or the maid’s not doing a good enough job, or any of the eighty-oneother problems Jacinda has.

They’re not talking about you.

And yet, she couldn’t help it. She got up, retrieved an empty glass from the washstand, pressed it against the wall, and her ear to it. The sound was still muffled, but thanks to Jacinda’s volume, she understood the words if she concentrated.

“Two suitors in the last month. I don’t know what she’s thinking,” Jacinda said.

“She says she’s not interested in them. You know I can’t force her—”

“Can’t you? She’s just picky, Harry. Spoiled. And she’s twenty-five. If you knew what was good for her, you’d choose a man and get her engaged.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit backward?”

“If it works for people richer than us…” Jacinda’s voice descended into a murmur. Harry said something, and then Jacinda again, “Or are you afraid they’ll find out?”

“I know how to circle around the issue. Yes, some people think Ida strange, but they wouldn’t say she’s not right in the head.”

“What, then? I’ll never be able to host a dinner or a party because Ida could do something strange?” Jacinda’s voice was near hissing. “Will you let us slip to the bottom of our social class because of her problems?”

Ida removed the glass and clutched it in her hand. She blinked, but tears still came rolling down her cheeks. Before Jacinda came, life wasn’t perfect, either, but at least her own existence didn’t make her nervous. Harry had been used to her eccentricities—not in a way where he accepted them, but he’d learned to mostly ignore them. Jacinda, however, was nervous around Ida, and in turn, Ida only felt worse around her sister-in-law.

She forced herself to put the glass back up, since Jacinda was still talking.

“There are other places that can help her.”

Ida shook her head. What did she miss?

“You cannot be serious,” Harry said.

“Think about it. She’s clearly uncomfortable here…”

Because of you!

“…and there are people trained to deal with problems such as she has.”

Only silence from Harry.

“She’s getting nervous, erratic. It’s turning into a full-blown hysteria. And… I don’t want to say such things, but she could be a danger to us and herself. The other day, I found her turning the stove on and off! Something could’ve happened!”

“She’s always done things like that.”

“And you never bothered to have it checked. She could’ve been well by now. Cured.” After a short pause, Jacinda continued, “I talked to a doctor at Plethbury’s.”

“That’s a mental hospital.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying. I didn’t tell him any names, only spoke, hypothetically, of the problem. They can help her. But as her brother, you’ll have to submit her.”

“We don’t need to go to such lengths.”

“Harry…” Jacinda’s voice had grown so quiet Ida could barely hear it. “We can’t live like this. If she’d gotten married, that would be a problem for her husband. But since she’s well on a path to spinsterhood, it’s our responsibility. Yours.” More silence.

“Fine,” Harry said. “I’ll go talk to him tomorrow.” A bit more murmuring, and then things in the adjacent bedchamber settled down.

Unlike Ida, who paced her room, from the nook to her bed, to the fireplace, over and over and over again. A mental hospital. Jacinda wanted to stick her into an asylum. Harry may object for now, but Jacinda held too much sway over him; eventually, she’d wear him down. Because as much as he tried to brush it off and pretend it was an “eccentricity”, deep down Harry, too, thought Ida wasn’t right in the head. He’d give in, and she’d end up in some dreary building with faded walls and bars on the windows. No, no windows, no sun, and her skin would get pale and translucent until they could see underneath it, every vein, every muscle—

Ida put a fist to her mouth and bit.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One,two, three.

She wouldn’t let them. Jacinda wouldn’t stick her someplace Ida couldn’t bother her, just because she was afraid of her. And she wouldn’t let anyone poke and prod her.

In a flash, the decision was made. Ida changed to a rusty brown walking dress, packed a few necessities into a small valise and scoured the drawer for her meager allowance. It was enough to get her out of the town, and from there, she’d figure things out as she went along. After all, she was a grown woman, not some hysterical mess, as Jacinda painted her to be.

If she’d stopped to reconsider, she’d maybe realize the middle of the night wasn’t the best time to make an escape, especially when said escape was through the window; Jacinda had begun locking her room a few weeks prior, being worried about Ida sleepwalking and causing an accident with her behavior.

But Ida hadn’t stopped; not when she tossed the valise out the window, not as she swung over the frame and felt for the trellis overgrowing that side of the house; not when she was a few feet down and the vines she was holding onto snapped, and she went hurling toward the ground.

***

“You’re not hysterical.” Gabriel walked to the living room, sat down and rubbed his forehead. “You have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

“I know.” Ida glided around. “Richard, the tenant, brought an entire stack of books on medicine, including mental conditions. Not that it helped me.” What good was knowing it now? Or even back then? She wouldn’t have swayed Harry or Jacinda’s opinions.

Besides, it didn’t matter anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said.

She turned to him. “For what?”

“You were doing that thing. With the book. Putting it in and out three times. And the statues, and the knocking, and stepping over the doorway… and I snapped at you. Because I wanted peace.”

“It’s a natural reaction. In a way, my compulsions are worse now.” She sat on the sofa and counted to three, out of habit. “My intrusive thoughts are gone”—and that was a huge relief, like a permanent vacation from the monster in her head—“but the things I used to do to satisfy those thoughts remain. It’s like muscle memory. I’d step over a doorway and whatever still remains of me would remember I used to do that three times, so I do the same now. Sometimes I even get stuck in a loop.”

“I saw that.” Gabriel sat next to her. “But, intrusive thoughts or not, your brother and sister-in-law were wrong to try to put you into an asylum. You’re not weird.”

No words would cover her relief. She hadn’t intended to reveal her past to Gabriel, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t give up, and a part of her was curious about his reaction. Until now, she hadn’t realized how much she’d hoped he’d understand.

“Hell, if anyone, I’m weird.” Gabriel scoffed. “You know we charge for our work in increments? Usually six to fifteen minutes. I’d gotten so used to it I’d do everything in sixes. Six minutes to dress. Six minutes to wash.”

“I like to do it in threes.” She smiled. “Two threes makes six.”

He smiled back. Not a polite, or a fake reassuring smile, like she imagined he gave his clients. A real one.

With the position of the sofa, he sat nearly at the same place Mr. Abrams did, on that last visit to her. Ida felt a strange impulse to reach out for his arm, to see if a spark—

Oh, stop it.One, she couldn’t properly touch him. Two, that “a touch will tell if this man is your destiny” thing was nonsense. Not a feeling; pure fantasy. Three, regardless of what he said, she didn’t need to get weirder. But as Gabriel got back to work and she continued watching him, she couldn’t help but wonder, or perhaps, regret. How would things have turned out if she met someone like him back when she was alive? If he sat there instead of Mr. Abrams? The other day, after dinner, she could’ve sworn he leaned toward her, almost as if he tried to kiss her. She knew how that looked—when Rhonda was living here, she watched a romantic comedy every day.

Ida shook her head. She was mistaking fiction for reality again. It was easy to do, when one felt like fiction, anyway.