A Story for Leanne Cole – July 12, 2014

The Case of The Girl in the Window

When Caesar and I drove up to the great brick building we saw the girl at the window and knew we were at the right place.

“Crystal Payne Spirit Investigations” I’d replied concisely when my phone had rung.

“I’m Julian Lastranger and I need your assistance at once!” said a gentleman’s voice.  He seemed to have a slight Australian accent and was strangely not at all perturbed.  I’d heard his name before … it was all the news back then.  You might say he was a spook who became famous by exposing skeletons in famous people’s closets.  Of course, if he was calling me at this number he needed my assistance, that goes without saying, as this number is not only unlisted but inexistant for all intents and purposes!

“Could you give me a brief outline of your problem?”

“Well, last winter I bought a house in Australian, then had it dismantled and shipped here to the Sates.  All the furniture was included so I could reconstruct the building and furnish it in all it’s glorious gothic beauty. However, it seems that now I have a ghost and she’s really very upsetting, she howls constantly! A ghost was not part of the bargain by the way.”

I wondered if he’d ever read the “Canterville Ghost” but said: “Give me the address, I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Excuse me, but couldn’t you come around now.  I mean, she’s present at night but sleeps in, or whatever, in the morning.”

So, here we were in front of his “glorious gothic beauty” and there she was at the window.

I grabbed my bag from the trunk and Caesar went for the front door.  He was in a feisty mood today and meowed imperiously at the front door to be let in.  I got my camomile candle lit just as the door opened.

There stood what looked to be a butler right out of a Victorian novel.  Rigid as though he had a pole up his backside, dead-pan face, the works!  But as I looked closer, I noticed that he was a she!

“You rang? Whom may I say is calling?” she intoned in the most classic voice of a Jeeves that I’d ever heard, just a few octaves too high.

“Ah let off Murphy!” shouted a voice from inside the house as we heard a tick tick ticking on the hard-wood floor coming towards the door.

The butler looked disappointed and in a broad Bronk’s accent mumbled off.

“Hello, I’m Julian Lastranger, but you can call me Bill.” he said.

He wasn’t what I’d imagined.  He was about 5″ foot 8″ with steel-blue eyes, long straggly grey hair, very thin.  He wore a t-shirt that read “Keep abreast of the news!” across the front and as I saw whilst he led us up the staircase, “Have you backed it up!” on the back.  He had a can of beer in his hands, which despite his calm demeanor shook.

OOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! came a moaning sound from the second floor.

“There! She’s off again! This will go on all night long!  I can’t stand it any more!” the poor man’s voice trembled.

Caesar went straight to a door and hissed … the door flew open of course.  There in the middle of the room was an elegantly attired young woman.  She’s must have been 20 when she’d passed on.

“Right,” I said, “Take these leaves into the kitchen and boil them for 5 minutes please, about a liter should do it, put the liquid in a pot.  Then you and Murphy come back up with the pot and three cups.  By the way, are there any other people in the house?”

“No, just us.”

“Good … Well off with you then.” I shooed him away.

Looking at the ghost I told her who I was and asked her name.

“I’m MaryAnn Faithless. This is my house and that, that creature stole it!” she howled.

Caesar went up to her purring, the rubbed across her legs, his tail straight up like an exclamation point!

“Oh! What a sweet kitty.” she cooed and picked him up.  Caesar often had that effect on ghosts.  One of his greatest talents was to be able to sooth irate spirits..

“My heaven’s! But I’m able to hold him!” she said.  That was another of his qualities.

“Miss Faithless, could you please tell us what the problem is?”

“It’s that monster!  He’s a crass, eavesdropping, womanizing wombat … he’s a …” as the epitaphs grew so did her chagrin. “And he stole my house!  It’s been awful.  One moment I was minding my business and the next I found myself in a sort of limbo then in this, this  horrid country!”

I could complete empathize with her feelings.  It seems she’d been a quiet soul and the former owners had never known of her existence.  So technically, she’d not been part of the bargain when Lastranger had bought the house.  On the other hand, he’d never informed the former proprietors that he’d be taking the house and furniture away from Australia.

Murphy and Lastranger came into the room at that point with the tray.  I had Murphy place the tray on the table and invited all three of them to sit down and with Caesar’s assistance I drew a pentagram around where they were sitting and lit a camomile candle for each of the points of the star-like diagram. I then invited them to drink a cup of the liquid I’d had prepared.

At this point it was easy to get them to tell each other what their point of view.  Dialogue is so important in these cases.

The conversation went on until midnight and finally they were able come to an understanding.  Lastranger apologized for his tactlessness in moving the house without informing the former proprietors, and thus Miss Faithless of his intentions. Miss Faithless, now admitted  that the climate was by far better than where the house had been in Australia decided that she really quite enjoyed the new setting … there was a lovely English garden around the house now whereas before there’d been scrub land.  She’d basically been put off by the sudden dislocation of her spirit during the transfer.  Murphy just drank without saying a word.  She’d never had problems with Miss Faithless’ howling anyway.

I erased the pentagram.  Miss Faithless was chattering away amiably with Lastranger as I walked out the room with Murphy, who paid my bill without a blink.

“By the way ma’am, what was that concoction you had me brew.”

“Why tea of course.  There’s nothing like a cup of tea to create friendship.  This is my own special blend. Kukicha and Houjicha.” I gave her a bag of my special mixture as I left saying, “If there are any further problems, just make them a cuppa!”

 


 

Inspiring Quiet Thursday – Leanne Cole Photography

 

28 thoughts on “A Story for Leanne Cole – July 12, 2014

    • Thanks … can you imagine! Just minding your own business and then up comes the demolition team and you find yourself in a sort of limbo … then waking up in a strange country? thanks for reading 🙂

      Like

          • But it’s all about what makes YOU happy – always keep that in mind! 🙂

            Had plenty of time to read in the car today — what a long drive — almost two hours away. In Jules’ territory, actually! 🙂

            Like

          • Ah do you know Jules? Just read her rewrite of her story No Vinegar for Pearl – Second Chime … What a great write! And of course I agree that it’s what makes the writer happy that’s important … but a confirmation never hurts 😉

            Like

          • You’re right — that confirmation takes away a lot of a writer’s pain and suffering, doesn’t it? LOL! Makes writing feel less like you’re releasing a balloon into the jet stream, wondering if/when it’ll ever be read (or if anyone will like it).

            Yes, met Jules via CDHK where she is a regular. I didn’t comment for the longest time because of the frustrations in dealing with Blogger if you’re a WP user. But we’ve been chit-chatting a bit lately. Truly talented — and not far away either! Told her it was ironic to meet a fellow Pennsylvanian by means of a blog hosted by a person from the Netherlands! 🙂

            Like

          • I only recently met up with her myself, for the same resons, but have seen her more now because of the blogger blog…and didn’t know she was from Holland! Too cool! This WP/Blogger problem is the pits. But a lot of great writers write there and it’s a shame not to get to know them better!

            Like

          • No worries! It gets hard to respond to all of the storylines and keep them straight.

            I have your email and will respond to it tomorrow btw — but only when I can do it justice and not just sweep through it quickly.

            And I can hardly believe it’s almost 2 AM again. The muses need to keep better hours. Never mind — I’ll take whatever they offer, whenever they offer it, LOL!

            Like

          • LOL … after a long ride, a wedding and that slave driver – The muse – whipping you to write I can imagine.

            Like

          • So tired … but the muse was teasing me … “you’ll never remember any of it in the morning. you have books full of notes, drawers full of notes … unused notes! better do it now!”

            Yes, dear. Right away, dear.

            After last week when the muses were silent … well … I’d better not complain too loudly! o.O

            Like

          • I do know what you mean … when they shout it’s better to run! I’ve been have blank moments lately and was happy that yesterday was a good day! Right now thoug I feel like I’ve got an empty room for a brain. Yea, listen to the muse when it whispers!

            Like

  1. Pingback: Apocalypse at Tea Time – July 13, 2014 | Bastet and Sekhmet's Library

    • 😀 That’s ’cause I don’t think Australian go around buying stately homes, dismantling them and shipping them to Australia. Glad you enjoyed the story!

      Like

        • It has been done, though don’t know when the last time was, but it stuck in my memory and came out as I began to write the story … as ususal I’d not planned what I’d be writing.

          Makes sure it’s the right blend of tea if you go drinking with ghosts 🙂

          Like

silence is golden, words pearls of wisdom...your comments are treasured!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s