10. A Shakespearean revelation #2
James yawns, relaxing back on the couch, my eyes catching on the curve of his body as he stretches.
This is the first time we find ourselves alone together since last night.
I’ve been trying to find his flaws all day, something to keep my sanity when he gets too close.
Something to help me keep my head straight and not fall to my knees in front of him and beg him to let me come again.
But it’s no use, he’s simply amazing. He’s witty and sharp-tongued, but never mean.
He’s funny and bossy, and so beautiful it hurts to look at him sometimes.
His beauty is like a blade, cutting me down when I let my eyes wander to him.
I clear my throat. “I think it’s time to go find the Nobleman.”
The two of us like this, in the quiet of the night, feels dangerously intimate.
James holds my gaze for a moment, then says, “Yes. Let’s kick our fourth ghost out of the house.”
Pearl, the ragdoll, meows loudly from her position on one of the chairs.
The cats haven’t tried to stop us from hunting the ghosts down so far, so the house is probably glad to be rid of them.
I wonder if she was sentient before being haunted, or if the presence of the ghosts was part of the reason why she came alive.
Can the word alive be even used to describe a building with a mind of its own?
Lana thinks it takes particular conditions and events to turn a place sentient, like a recipe of magic, time, and events. Some locations are known to hold something dark, to suck away all the light and happiness. Lynch House feels like an old friend. A protector.
James grabs the bottle of French wine and the two glasses Shirley left for us on the table, and we make our way to the parlour where the French Nobleman is often seen.
The house has now abandoned all pretence to be a normal building, and she lights the way as we walk, the lamps glowing like fireflies before fading again into the darkness behind us.
“Okay, that’s really weird but kind of awesome,” James admits.
Our steps are muffled by the carpets along the hallway and the smell of flowers follows us.
The bats and garlands we hung along the banisters sway in a phantom wind, as if the house is breathing.
Rava, the black cat, is waiting for us by the door, eyes glowing.
She meows and scratches the carpet before disappearing in the dark.
The parlour has been turned into a quiet work room during the day for digital nomads, and a place where the guests are allowed to get a little rowdy at night, as Lana aptly put it, since it’s remote from the main living room and the dormitories.
The light comes from candelabras with fake candles, giving the impression that we’re back in time.
Maybe Lynch House is just that, a pocket of different timelines existing in one location, with its ghosts and centuries-old stones.
James places the bottle of wine on a coffee table and pours us two glasses as I put some music on my phone.
We sit face to face, and I cringe as we toast. After last night, we don’t really feel like drinking again, but we need some incentive to bring out the Nobleman.
I pretend to take a sip, and James does the same.
He leans back and his leg touches mine under the table.
I remember how he touched me in the pub, and I blush.
He hasn’t tried anything all day, and a part of me wonders why.
Did he get bored of me already, or did I set clear boundaries and he just respects them?
Against my better judgement, I already miss his flirtation.
“Are you okay?” he asks me, nudging my leg with his.
I blink. “What?”
“Are you scared?”
Oh, the ghost hunting. Right... “I’m fine.”
I feel safer with him, I realise.
James smiles, and bloody hell he looks so good. The fake candlelight is reflected in his dark hair and the silver piercings on his ears glint. He makes me think of a black panther lounging on a branch in the jungle.
“I won’t let him touch you,” he says after a moment. “Bodyguard, remember?”
I nod, pleased. “I remember.”
God, he’s so...
I move my leg a little, until it rests along his, the warmth from his skin seeping through our clothes.
He doesn’t move away, and his eyes meet mine with a knowing look.
I’m playing with fire. As if on cue, the next music on my playlist starts, and it’s Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. My face warms again.
Of all the songs...
“Faites comme si je n’étais pas là,” says someone in French. “Je viens juste me servir un verre.”
My brain snags on the words and translates them after a moment. Pretend I’m not here. I’m just pouring myself a glass. I tense just as a young man with long, auburn hair leans over our table. A third glass has made an appearance, and it appears to be already filled with deep red wine.
The man—ghost—tips his glass up and drinks the phantom wine to the dregs. He giggles drunkenly and says in French again, “Ah, that hits the spot.”
He looks... quite frankly more real than all the ghosts we’ve met in the house so far. Handsome, normal looking if not for his Victorian clothes. The cause of death is unclear, and even Earl Lynch didn’t know, but he died in an opium den a few streets over, so one can take a guess.
The Nobleman refills his drink and sways drunkenly around us, dancing to the tune of Sexual Healing. “Who is this singer?” he asks. “That’s quite good.”
I clear my throat, gathering my courage. “Marvin Gaye. He was an American singer,” I say in French.
James’ eyes snap to me. “You speak French?”
I nod, switching back to English. “My grand-parents are French, on my mother’s side. We spent all our summers in Brittany with my brothers when we were kids.”
“La Bretagne!” the ghost says with a dismissive gesture, spilling phantom wine on the carpet.
The red stains glow for a moment before disappearing.
“Cow fuckers and fish lovers!” he switches to a heavily accented English.
“What wouldn’t I give to see Paris again!
” He twirls dramatically, free hand on his forehead in a show of lament.
I’m about to ask him if he wants to be free of this house and finally leave for Paris when he gasps loudly and turns to James.
“Good evening, handsome. Do you come here often?” The Nobleman trails his incorporeal fingertips over his chest, and James recoils and shudders. The ghost pulls back with flourish and wails, “But why does love hate me so?” before falling backwards and disappearing through a wall.
James and I share a bemused glance over the table.
“That was... a lot,” I say with a laugh.
I’m used to being scared of the dead, with their frozen stares, muttered threats, and ghastly wounds. The Nobleman is a nice change for the fearful ghost hunter that I am.
But it looks like James would rather face the Burning Crone again. There is a sour expression on his face, as if he just bit into a juicy lemon.
“I think he’s as high as a kite,” he says.
I open my mouth to say something just as the ghost makes a reappearance, falling directly from the ceiling and spilling phantom wine all over us. For some reason, his clothes have changed and he's now wearing a silk robe revealing his naked chest.
“Is your friend taken?” he asks me in French, pointing at James with a lazy finger.
I blink. “No?”
The ghost grins. “I knew it! I see the way he looks at me...” He tosses his long hair back.
James, in fact, is still looking at him with a sour face.
“You’re out of luck, he doesn’t date,” I continue in French.
The nobleman throws his empty glass over his shoulder and it disappears into thin air before impact. “Date!” he scoffs. “I don’t want a lover, I want a fucker. And it looks like your friend is good at fucking.”
I feel my face warm up, thinking about the other night, when we could have... God, this is getting out of hand.
“What are you talking about?” James asks, confused.
“Nothin’,” I mumble in English. “Just a drunk's ramblings.”
“I see!” the ghost says to me in French, lounging on the table. “You already tasted that particular poison!”
I bury myself deeper into my chair. “No, I—We just—”
The Nobleman laughs like a maniac before disappearing through the floor.
James and I share a glance over the table once again. We wait, except this time the ghost doesn’t make a reappearance.
“Where did he go?” James asks with a frustrated sigh.
I shrug.
“Let’s go find him. And this time don’t let him talk, just free him from the house.”
“Alright,” I say.
The ghost isn’t difficult to locate thanks to three of the cats who lead us to him. He’s in the entrance hall, wearing one of the plastic jack-o-lanterns from the Halloween decorations over his head, laughing. What the guests must make of him when he crashes their parties?
When the Nobleman sees us, he points an accusatory finger at me and says in French, “Why do you resist what life is giving?” He suddenly switches to heavily accented English again.
“What is love, 'tis not hereafter. Present mirth, hath present laughter.
What's to come, is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, then come kiss me sweet and twenty.
Youth's a stuff will not endure!” He falls to his knees at the last words.
James groans. “Is he quoting Shakespeare now?”
I laugh. But when I turn back, the ghost is right in front of me. This close, I can see his translucence and a faint glow. Were he alive, I would feel his breath on my face. But he isn’t. He died centuries ago, and it suddenly fills me with sorrow. He was around my age when death found him.
“In my time, people like us couldn’t love and enjoy life as you can now,” he says in French.
People like us? I wonder.
“I have loved and desired in the dark,” he continues. “I have feared and deceived. But you have the freedom to love whomever you fancy, do not squander that chance.” His eyes are clear as he holds my gaze.