Ghost Story--Chapter three

Chapter two

News from the Lighthouse



Like many old towns with many paranormal sightings, Ravenswood has its very own White Lady.

A White Lady is a common type of female ghost or specter that appears as a woman dressed all in white. Often she is seen walking down empty, secluded streets. You are probably familiar with the story of the Hitchhiking Ghost, where a man picks up a woman on the side of a deserted road, is instructed to take her home, her stopping him at the cemetery, and then vanishing from his car, leaving him to find out the woman had been dead for years.

The White Lady of Ravenswood is believed to be that of Agatha Emmerson, Ravenswood’s. She was to be married, a rather quick affair due to the failing health of her intended and her financial need to inherit his wealth. Sadly, Brom Davison, her suitor, would pass away at the hour of the wedding due to complications from tuberculosis. She had stood beside her beloved’s bed in her wedding gown, and he was gone before she could say her vows.

It is said she left his home in shock, and walked toward her own crumbling estate in a daze. She never arrived, with no clear historical record as to why, and it is believed the White Lady is Agatha in her wedding dress, walking the path she took all those years ago.
There is a story of a group of teenagers walking the road at sundown. They’re laughing and telling stories and teasing each other with stories of a woman in white that walks the woods, looking for lone men driving at night.

That was when one snapped a candid picture of another doing something silly. While they saw nothing, the picture on the cell phone shows a white, robed dress standing by itself. The figure is slightly transparent and has no face.

Chapter three

I’m stiff and cold when he wakes, the man in my arms with the white hair who smells like flowers. I feel him stir against me, mumbling in confusion as he looks around. Slowly, he attempts to get to his feet, not bothering to dislodge himself from my arms first.

“That’s not a good—” I start.

He cries out in pain as his feet touch the carpet and drops hard to the ground, apparently having not realized the extent of his injuries, and momentarily trembles on the ground.

“You’ve been in an accident,” I tell him.

His pale blue eyes lock onto mine, and there is fear in them. He looks like a deer in headlights, a rabbit out in the open. It’s the look of someone who didn’t expect to be seen.

“Du. Sie haben dies getan,” he growls as I lower myself to the ground between him and the bed.

“It’s alright,” I whisper, putting my right hand on his back and under his chest, taking his left arm in mine, getting ready to pull him up. “Let’s get you back into bed.”
“Fass mich nicht an, Hexe. Löse deinen Fluch und schick mich nach Hause,” he snarls, jerking away and hurting himself for is trouble.

I blink. He’s awake. He’s aware. His eyes focus properly, and his reaction time is where it should be, all things considered.

I don’t think I was prepared for this, for him awake and conscious. I should have expected that he’d be confused and scared, and that’s my fault. If I’m going to keep him from hurting himself, I need to calm him down. Maybe I can coax some information out of him and find out what’s going on.

I wince. He might not speak English.

Taking a breath, I pull away and sit away from him, like trying to acclimate a wounded animal to me.

“I’m Eileen,” I explain as calmly as I can. “You’ve been in some kind of accident. I took you back to my place to…so you can rest up. I think you’ve got broken bones, and I don’t know what that IV stuff did to you, either.”
“Dummes Mädchen. Du hast deine Hand in ein Wespennest gesteckt.”

“Do you…want back on the bed?” I ask, watching the way he shakes on his hands and knees, smelling the floral sweat beginning to build on his temples.
His head turns toward the side of the bed and he starts to shake violently, dry heaving in the floor. As quick as I can I snatch my trash can from next to the bed and put it beneath him, just in time for him to spill his guts in the bag and not on my carpet. When he’s empty, he’s stricken above the can, trembling, pale, and breaking into sobs.

“I’ll take care of it,” I assure him, trashing the contents of the can and washing my hands three times, and then grabbing a wet wipe from the counter and bring it to him.

He pulls away when I try to wipe his face, but his arm hurts too bad for him to really do anything about it.
“Stop being a baby,” I order. “It’s just soap.”

He glares at me when I’m finished, and then glances down at his hands, wincing as his fingers feel the carpet. Quivering, he raises one hand to his face and looks it over, flexing his fingers.

He’s trying to turn into a skeleton, and it isn’t working.
He places his hand back on the ground, and a long, heartbreaking wail emerges from his chest like a chill wind on an October night. It makes my blood run cold, and think of long nights spent in the dark, watching the spindly shadows on the wall from the trees outside, and imagining hands in the shapes.

Um…stroking his hair during fever dreams is one thing, but…what am I supposed to do now? What did I want back then?

Gently, I reach out put my hand on his, and then wrap my other arm around him, scooting closer and pulling him into my lap, trying to take the pressure off his damaged joints.

“Ich bin der Bestatter, der Butzemann, der Schwarze Mann. Ich bringe Angst in Kinderbetten. Ich bin der Schrecken der Friedhöfe von Ravenswood. Ich weine nicht. Was ist mit mir passiert?”

I rock him like a child for a second time, his moonlight hair under my chin, discretely looking over his wrists to make sure he didn’t crack anything.

His sobs start to quiet, less from him feeling better and more from him having nothing left to give, physically or emotionally. When he’s breathing normally, he tries to pull away again, but I hold him close to keep him from hurting himself.

“I’m Eileen,” I repeat, trying to sound strong despite the sound of his pained wails ringing in my ears. “You have been in some kind of accident. I brought you here so you can get better. Do you have a name? A number I can call for you? Do you speak English?”

He is quiet. Aside from his labored, post-cry breathing, I’d almost think he were asleep again, or dead. He starts trembling again in my arms.

“Was war der Name? Sie bauten Särge, sie mischten die Chemikalien, sie sprachen die Worte. Wo ist es hin?” he whimpers fretfully.

I really should find some kind of translator app.

“Do you want to get back on the bed?” I ask hopefully, my feet starting to go to sleep.

“Ja,” he answers in so small a voice that I almost don’t hear it.

I pull myself out from under him without jostling him too badly, taking him under the arms and pulling him up. Fortunately for me, he doesn’t weigh much more than a feather, but it’s enough to make him gasp when he balances on his heels.

“Easy does it,” I placate, stepping lightly backward. There is fear in his eyes and the way he holds tight to my arms as he walks backwards, the look of someone who doesn’t trust easy. “You’ve got to trust me. See? Easy-peasy.”

He lets go of me sharply when he’s in place, like he’s holding something nasty he’d rather not. His whole demeanor is feral cat backed into a cornor.
“Vertrauen wird verdient und Sie müssen es sich noch verdienen,” he purrs darkly with the upturned nose of an aristocrat.

“Where do you live?” I ask, kneeling in front of him. He rubs his head like he has a headache.

“Mein Spuk. Ich kann nicht…Ich weiß, wie ich dorthin komme, aber warum kann ich es nicht fühlen?” he mumbles, looking askance and sounding distracted.
“Look at me,” I command, gesturing to my eyes. “Do you speak English?”

He’s still captivated by his hands.

“Es funktioniert nicht. Warum funktioniert es nicht?”
Kneeling in front of him, I take his hand, even if it feels unnatural. His skin is cool and dry, his flesh recoiling at my touch. He looks up at me, heavy fear and sadness in his eyes.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” I ask. “Or do you have family I can call?”

“Bring mich nicht ins Krankenhaus. Niemand kann mich so finden,” he replies, looking away.

Sighing, I hang my head. A headache is starting to form behind my eyes.

I reach into my pocket to pull out my cell phone and do a search in the apps for some kind of translator, and pick the highest-rated one in the list. It doesn’t take long to download, and has an auto-detect feature, but the voice is robotic and off-putting.

“You have been hurt. I brought you here to help you. Is there someone I can call for you?” I ask. “Du wurdest verletzt. Ich habe dich hergebracht, um dir zu helfen. Gibt es jemanden, den ich für Sie anrufen kann?”
He looks down at my phone like he’s never seen one before and didn’t expect it to make noise.

“Kleines Wunder,” he breathes. “Little wonder.”
Wincing, he reaches out to grab my phone, which on reflex I pull away from him.

“Ihr Menschen, so schlaue kleine Biester,” he says in wonder. “You humans, such clever little beasts.”
I bite my lower lip and say into the device, “Are you…not human?”

“Bist du…kein Mensch?” the app repeats.

He regards me with something almost like disdain, looking me over like a potential purchase at the store, and then growls like an animal, forcing himself to his feet and making a beeline for the doorway.

“No, no, no,” I shriek, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“Fassen Sie mich nicht an!” he snarls, barreling forward with his momentum. “Don’t touch me!”

He might be slight, but he’s also determined. His momentum carries him forward faster than I can counter, and he takes us both to the floor, crying out in pain. I land on top of him, driving the wind out of him in a labored gasp.

“Wieso den? Was habe ich getan um das zu verdienen?” he whimpers, half-sobbing as I climb off of him. “Why? What did I do to deserve this?”

I lay next to him, hands shaking, out of breath and struggling to think of what to do next.

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep this up,” I warn. “Du wirst dir weh tun, wenn du so weitermachst.”

“Wie wichtig ist Ihnen mein Wohlbefinden?” he snarls, struggling to his feet. “How important is my well-being to you?”

I take a sharp breath and close my eyes, trying to find the words.

“I heard your voice in the hospital. I untied you and brought you here. I saw you turn into a skeleton, and your head went through my window,” I explain. “Ich habe deine Stimme im Krankenhaus gehört. Ich habe dich losgebunden und dich hierher gebracht. Ich habe gesehen, wie du dich in ein Skelett verwandelt hast, und dein Kopf ist durch mein Fenster geflogen.”

“Wie lange war das her?” he asks, sounding hopeful.“How long ago was that?”

“Um…about two days. You don’t remember talking to me in your sleep?” I answer. “Ähm … ungefähr zwei Tage. Du erinnerst dich nicht daran, im Schlaf mit mir gesprochen zu haben?”

“Wie kommst du darauf, dass du wichtig genug bist, um mit mir zu reden?” he laughs bitterly. “What makes you think you're important enough to talk to me?”

“I’m the one that hauled your ass back to my car, took you into my home, let you borrow my clothes, and fed you,” I retort. “Ich bin diejenige, die deinen Arsch zurück zu meinem Auto geschleppt, dich zu mir nach Hause gebracht, dir meine Klamotten ausgeliehen und dich gefüttert hat.”

“Du bist nicht bei ihnen? Die mir das angetan haben?” he asks, sounding confused and maybe a bit relieved. “Are you not with them? Who did this to me?”

“No. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d like to study you, in exchange for putting you up while you get stronger, unless you got someone better to be. But no, I wasn’t involved with…whatever happened to you,” I explain. “Nein. Ich werde dir nicht weh tun. Ich würde dich gerne studieren, im Austausch dafür, dass ich dich aufstelle, während du stärker wirst, es sei denn, du hast jemanden, der besser werden kann. Aber nein, ich war nicht beteiligt an…was auch immer mit dir passiert ist.”
“Ich verstehe,” he replies, sounding unconvinced. “I understand.”

“Would you like to get off the floor now?” I ask, trying to sound kind and non-threatening. “Möchten Sie jetzt vom Boden aufstehen?”

“Ja,” he sighs, half-meek, half exasperation, like he’s too good for his (literally) lily-white hands to touch me. “Yes.”

I clamber to my feet, self-consciously check to make sure my hair is still in place, and get into position, arms wrapped around his chest.

“Don’t fight me. Just trust me,” I tell him, bringing him upward and back on the bed. “Kämpfe nicht gegen mich. Vertrau mir einfach.”

“Bringst du mich jetzt nach Hause?” he asks, like an overtired child asking to be tucked in. “Will you take me home now?”

I bite my lip as I help straighten him out again, adjusting the pillows and pulling the blankets over him.

“Do you have a family or friends to help you?” I ask. “Hast du eine Familie oder Freunde, die dir helfen?”

“Nein. Niemand kann mich so finden,” he answers, eyes wide, that deer in the headlights look again, and also a touch of shame. “No. No one can find me like this.”
Pursing my lips, I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the silken texture and smelling the flowers. He growls and dodges my touch.

“You are in no shape to be on your own. It’s either a me or a hospital,” I explain. “Du bist nicht in der Verfassung, alleine zu sein. Entweder ich oder ein Krankenhaus.”

He squeezes my hand when I pull away, wincing with pain. He looks up at me with large, silvery-blue eyes, pleading without a word.

“Ist es so, ein Mensch zu sein? All dieser Schmerz und diese Sorge und Not?” he whimpers. “Is that what it's like to be human? All this pain and worry and distress?”

“You get used to it,” I huff. “Man gewöhnt sich daran.”