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February 23 - February 24, 2024
“I hope you steered well clear of France,” Agnes says with a sniff. “French people live there.”
“Oooh, I’ve heard of Australia!” Lottie rubs her hands together in excitement. “Mrs. Doolhan says her son went there for something called surfing. Did you do a surfing? Did you hug a koala bear?”
“Did you have to disguise yourself as a boy to escape from pirates?” Mary sounds concerned. “Is that why you’re wearing those clothes?”
“Invoke Satan!” Agnes pipes up. “That always sends them running.”
“By Saturn’s hairy scrotum, if you are accusing me of scaring the cats again, I did not. It’s not my fault they can’t appreciate the scent of real Roman flatulence—”
I’m horny. Concupiscent. Downright lustful and randy. No, those words are too crass, too primal for the sensations that assail my ghostly being. There’s a bald friar in my britches, certainly, eager to make his prayers at the altar between her thighs. But my dry throat and trembling hands suggest something more…especially since I don’t actually possess a throat.
Pax sits with Mike and Sylvie every evening to watch the Great British Bake Off, and no one bats an eyelid when he starts yelling about Deborah using Howard’s custard instead of her own.
Pax storming through everything, swinging his sword about and demanding I make him his favorite meal of spaghetti and meatballs so he can sniff it.
I much prefer Pax’s company on an outing. Pax loves explaining every detail and learning about what’s changed in the world since he bought his one-way ticket on the Charon express. But unfortunately, Pax can’t join us on our covert mission, because we must stay hidden, and our Roman friend’s booming voice and sizable shoulders are anything but subtle.
For some reason that we don’t understand but attribute to ‘ghost mojo,’ my cane accompanied me into the afterlife. Pax, also, still carries his sword. Although my hands will not connect with objects, the tip of my cane will, and so I navigate the house the same way I did in life – by sweeping and tapping. This produces sounds that are audible to Livings, but they put it down to knocking in the pipes or the house ‘settling.’ I also have a more attuned sense of touch than the other ghosts – while Edward and Pax fall through any object without feeling it, I can sense the edges of things with my
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Bree still smells exactly the way I remember her – like a warm, crackling fire on a stormy night, like a pear and almond tart and mulled wine straight from the pot, like comfort and home and the juiciest parts of a good book.
If she’s upset, she’ll leave us again. I don’t want her to leave again. The last seven years without her have been the most awful in my entire afterlife, and that includes the fifty-eight years after my death when the Druids used the battlefield for their sacred rituals and I saw enough naked Druid butts to give me nightmares for eternity.
“By Jupitor’s Thorny Nutsack,” I swear my nightly ritual. “I will always protect you.”
I step around a stack of stringed instruments called ‘guitars.’ Mike was using this room as a music studio. He plays the drums, which I approve of – nice rhythm to keep step while on the march! He hasn’t touched his guitars in a couple of years, a fact for which I’m eternally grateful. Sleep comes much easier now that he’s no longer trying to master a song called “Stairway to Heaven,’ which reminds me too keenly of the ghastly, discordant music enjoyed by naked Druids.
A soldier always follows orders. I have a duty to my Bree. No monster will get through my guard. I will always watch over her.
I grip the hilt of my sword. My actual sword. I ignore my verpa’s demands.
She’s working in Grimdale Graveyard as a tourist guide.” “That sounds made up! Why would people pay to visit a field of dusty bones?”
A shudder runs through my body. Sometimes, during those dark days after Bree told us to leave her alone, I wished that my bones would be found – exposed by a rainstorm or dug up by someone’s dog, so maybe some Living would take pity on a Roman soldier who died far from his home and give me a proper burial so I could finally cross over and join my brothers in Hades.
And I’m going to protect her now. She is sad, and I don’t know why. She needs comfort! I give the best comfort! Everyone I threaten with my sword says so!
“If a murderer is loose, you must go home immediately. As your prince, I order you to go straight to your bedroom, lock the doors, put on a really skimpy nightdress, and await my next instructions.”
All my teachers and his friends would tell him I was morbid and lived in a fantasy world and needed to see a professional, but Dad always defended me. Having an imagination isn’t a crime, he’d tell them proudly. Bree has more fun with her pretend friends than most of us have with our real ones.
Pax beams. “The Great British Bake Off is the kind of battle that poets sing about, except instead of wooden horses and cutting off the heads of enemies, there’s buttercream and finger sandwiches. Will there be finger sandwiches at the fete? By Jupiter’s hairy butthole, I’d love to try a finger sandwich. Who knew fingers could look so appealing?”
Edward wrinkles his nose as he scans the poetry shelf. “They do not have my poetry book. I want to leave. I’m bored. This place is dusty. Your prince demands ice cream. Why are there so many books?”
Pax glares at the shelf and draws out his sword. “Stupid books, none of you are as good as our friend Ambrose.”
We enter the shop behind her. I gag as my lungs fill with musky incense. Pax takes in a deep lungful, his eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “Mmmm, smells like burning villages in here.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I have something in my eye.” “You do,” he nods in agreement. “You have sadness. But I will find a way to make it better.”
I saw her on her phone this morning, watching an advertisement for a new Benedict Cummerbund movie. He’s an actor that she likes. Normally, I wouldn’t approve of Brianna consorting with actors, but if he is inside the moving picture machine and one of us is with her, he can’t corrupt her…”
At one point, Benedict’s character gets into a bar fight, and Pax leaps to his feet and starts swinging punches at the air. “That’s what you get for messing with Buffalo Crumperbunts!” “His name is Benedict Cumberbatch,” I say. Pax’s smile grows wide with mischief. “Bumblesnuff Crimpysnitch.” “You’re ridiculous.”
“Why doesn’t Bonkyhort Cuttlefish simply pull out his sword and run the fiend through?” “It’s Benedict Cumberbatch. And he doesn’t have a sword because not everyone solves their problems with stabbing.”
“I know we’re not here to watch the film.” “I’m here to watch the film.” “Please, Brianna. I am not clueless. This flat theatre is where modern people go to revel in lascivious acts.”
“Okay, here’s a reason: you’re a ghost and I’m a Living. We’re not even supposed to talk to each other, so what’s going to happen if we kiss? It could blow a hole in the universe.” “That won’t happen, because I am the universe and I don’t blow anything until a lady has had at least three orgasms.” Edward inclines his head toward his crotch.