Chapter 6
Grace
I run my fingers through my layered black hair as impatience has me shaking my leg.
The questions of where she is and what this means plague me constantly.
I can’t sit here in the library and let those questions eat at me for another moment.
I can’t second-guess myself and let the insecurity eat me alive.
I understand the risks. Perhaps the apparition’s warning is what has left my stomach dropping into my shoes at the thought of returning to the basement in the first place.
I don’t think Mildred is bad news. In fact, I feel it in my gut that she isn’t.
It feels otherworldly, like an invisible string pulling me to find her.
But something about that basement and those tunnels leaves me uneasy about exploring them again.
The prospect of bumping into Priest Brown is one of the main hesitations that has my stomach sinking.
I have only seen him at sermons since, occasionally making eye contact with him during the word vomit he spills to the student body.
I couldn’t tell you what he talks about, and that’s probably another reason why he intentionally seeks my eye contact.
I wonder if my father has confided in him about his lesbian demon-fighting daughter.
I roll my eyes at the potential scenario. I wouldn’t be surprised.
I pack my bags and head toward my dorm when I step on a piece of paper.
I look back and glance at my backpack to see if it is still zipped.
I furrow my eyebrows and pick it up. I find myself looking around for someone to strike up a conversation with, but I only see the faces of students concentrated on their studies.
I hear a soft giggle fading away as I glance back at the note in my hands.
Perhaps another conversation would be most beneficial for you. You are not mad, Shadow. I shall meet you at your dormitory at half past ten this evening.
M
“Holy crap,” I say quietly to myself as my heart pinches in joy reading the note.
Relief radiates through me, as though the air has finally returned to my lungs.
I chuckle to myself at how ridiculous I feel after a simple passed note.
Maybe this little spirit will be the end of me.
She has already consumed every thought that has crossed my mind since I’ve laid eyes on her.
I just hope that a ghost hasn’t taken pity on me, witnessing herself preoccupying my thoughts and questioning my sanity.
“Fuck.” I fold the paper and tuck it next to her photograph in my back pocket.
I glance at the clock next to my bed, seeing the bright red light shine with the numbers 10:48 pm.
I scratch my chin and stand up again, pacing against the carpet on my dorm floor.
My roommate is out tonight doing who knows what, which makes this easier.
I wonder if she would be able to see the ghost like I can, or if she’d think I was talking to myself.
I have my own bedroom, but our common area is a shared space where our kitchen, couches, and a small TV are. We don’t frequent that area other than prepping food in passing. It’s small and cozy, but I hide in my bedroom more often than not.
I stop in front of the mirror, second-guessing my outfit for the 3rd time.
“Where is she?” I mumble softly to myself as I fidget with my clothes.
I have a pair of baggy jeans sitting low on my hips, my briefs sitting a bit higher, with a black tank top over a white t-shirt.
Does this look stupid? Am I trying too hard?
I pull at my shirt, trying to get comfortable in my body.
I shake my hands out, moving them to the silver chain necklace, fidgeting with the thorns that twist on the stem of a rose.
It had been a gift from my father on my 16th birthday, and I had worn the pointed ends soft from rubbing my calloused fingertips across them every day since.
It was one of the few gifts from him I’d kept. It used to be my mother’s.
I stare off as grief overcomes my prior concerns.
She passed away when I was 12 years old.
It took 6 months for the cancer to take her away from me.
It was too fast, too cruel, too unfair. I think my mom knew it was going to be her end, but I never stopped hoping, even if she did.
Don’t get me wrong, I think she gave that fight her all, but I could see the missing spark in her eyes.
I sigh as I think about the way she would kiss the palm of my hand, clasp my fingers closed, and press my hand over my heart. She’d nod at me and smile, telling me her kisses would always be in my heart.
I shake my head and glance at the clock again, 10:56 pm shining into the room.
I turn toward the door and find the red-headed woman leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest with that perfectly soft smile across her face as she observes me.
How long has she been standing here? Her long red curls cascade down her back, a few strands landing over her shoulders, lying gently on her chest. She has on a cream-colored long-sleeved button-up beneath a tightly fitted brown vest that accentuates the curves of her hips.
I picture my fingers tracing over the curvature of her body as I glance down at the full skirt. It has a soft plaid pattern, a faded mix of blues and greys. I take a deep breath and look back up at her, finding her now smirking.
“I do hope you’re enjoying the view, Shadow.” My skin instantly flushes as I scrunch my nose at the nickname. I clear my throat, looking at her golden eyes.
“Grace.” She lifts her brow, confused. “My name is Grace,” I amend.
“Ah, pardon me. I must confess I’ve grown rather fond of the name I have given you.” She offers me another delicate smile as she silently walks over to me, offering her hand. I glance down at her tiny hand, then back at her. She giggles softly, sounding like a soft melody.
“Come on now.” She lifts her hand higher. “Don’t keep a lady in suspense.”
I rush my hand up, clasping our palms together in a handshake. I gasp as I feel her soft hand against mine. Her skin is cool to the touch, but tangible. I can touch her. My heart flutters.
She squeezes my hand softly as her eyes twinkle. Her eyes trail down my body from my eyes down to my feet, then back up to my eyes while holding her polite smile. She lets go and places her hands behind her back.
“Mildred. But you may call me Milly if you please.”
I smile at her. “Milly it is.”
We stand in silence for a few moments as I take in her beauty.
For being a ghost, she has such a beautiful flush that rests on the apples of her cheeks and button nose.
A flush that would make me hesitate that she wasn’t actually a ghost if she didn’t have a soft aura around her entire body that leaves her slightly glowing.
The freckles on her skin scatter across her face like constellations in the night sky, leading down her neck.
They continue down her collarbone, trickling down below her button-up.
My stomach twists into knots as I wonder if the freckles are sprinkled across her entire body.
I hear her clear her throat, her arms crossed over her chest now.
“Staring is most unbecoming, whether I’m a ghost or not.”
My cheeks must be flaming red as I step toward her with my hand raised in surrender.
“I apologize. I truly wasn’t staring at you because you are a ghost.” I scratch behind my head and glance away for a moment.
“I’m saying this wrong. It’s just, well, you’re beautiful.
I was admiring your freckles. I apologize for staring.
” I look back at her, her smile brighter than ever before.
“Apology accepted.” She looks around my room and begins to snoop at all my belongings, from opening a drawer to tilting her head at the butterflies I have framed.
“I am well accustomed to individuals being struck with awe by my appearance. Very few have had the privilege of seeing my corporeal form, though I do understand that they have found it most shocking. But even so, I remain a lady.”
She looks over her shoulder at me as she floats up the shelves along the wall behind my bed that hold multiple records, books, and more records.
She winks as her fingers flick through the record collection I brought from home.
I make my way near her as she snags a record.
The cover is of 5 girls in renaissance-inspired gowns in a portrait above a fireplace with flowers and candles—a favorite.
“Prelude to Ecstasy by The Last Dinner Party,” I supply as she looks at the album cover.
I hold my hand out for the album as she floats down softly and places it in my hands.
They shake subtly as I pull the record out of its sleeve and place it on top of the mat on the windowsill next to my bed.
I set the vinyl on the platter and switch the record player on.
Placing the stylus on the corner of the album, classical music softly radiates into the room around us.
I turn quickly to watch her reaction as she places her hand on her chest, and her eyes glaze over as she stares off, listening to the music.
“It’s classical,” she whispers and looks at me with awe.
I smile and bite my bottom lip as I nod. I’ve always loved classical music, more specifically music from the early 1900s. It’s brought me a peace far greater than the more contemporary music. This record is one of the few bands that scratches that musical itch.
After a minute, it switches to the next track, and the lead singer’s voice flows through the speakers. “It’s modern, but inspired by elegance. Baroque-pop, you could say, would be the genre.”
She nods as she listens on. “I have come across many devices that play an array of melodies, but this melody.. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful,” she softly states.