Ghost Writer

The flashlight's beam cut through the darkness at 11:42 PM, illuminating the place's rich history. Thunder cracked the sky open. Lightning's white-hot veins ripped through black clouds, and the air turned electric with imminent rain.

Grant tugged at his jacket, caught in the door's grip. Rust flaked from the hinges as the frame wobbled precariously with each pull. Following behind him, Dee's purple hair caught the dim light as she moved around him, heading for the next room. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, ready to capture the echoes of the past.

"Right here," she whispered, her black-painted thumbnail tapping the screen as she took a picture of the corner of the room.

The floorboards beneath them creaked — old wood giving slightly where, decades before, a chair had worn four circles into the grain. She didn't notice how the dust swirled differently there, how the temperature dropped three degrees in that spot, or how the peeling Victorian wallpaper curled away from the wall as if still responding to the heat of candles long extinguished.

Grant's breath clouded in front of his face as he came up behind her. He pulled out an EMF Meter from his pocket, its small lights blinking red, then green, and finally yellow in rapid succession. The flashlight beam wavered across his knuckles, casting elongated shadows of his fingers against the wall.

"Six degrees," he whispered as he pocketed the device. The flashlight in his hand sent a beam dancing across water stains that spread like bruises on the far wall.

"The history book showed a sepia photograph of Sophia Monet seated right there at her desk, candlelight casting shadows across her face as she penned her famous horror story." Dee sighed. "Can you imagine her in 1850, ink-stained fingers racing across parchment while outside, women couldn't even vote? How rebellious her mind was, how utterly contemporary." She shook her head. "She was born in the wrong century, trapped in corsets while her imagination wandered unrestricted. She never wanted to leave Paris, but her father owned companies here in the States, so she had no choice. Six months after their arrival, her father died. Sofia became the invisible signature behind the business — a woman accountable but unseen."

Grant's voice caught on the title, "The Bell By The Gravestone," as goosebumps prickled up his forearms. He was stunned that a woman had crafted such a horrifying story. Her words cut through Victorian hypocrisy with surgical precision, exposing a society where ladies swooned at coarse language while their husbands frequented brothels; where marriage swallowed a woman's fortune whole; and where the same world that worshipped female innocence turned a blind eye to its violation. How daring she was to write a tale of a woman's premature burial, of desperate cries that rang the grave bell while no one listened, no one came.

"She wrote in this room because of the fireplace." Dee turned to the massive Gothic monument, a hand-carved granite structure that dominated the wall. Stone cherubs with eroded features gazed at them, their once-detailed faces nearly smoothed by the relentless passage of time. The fireplace yawned open like a dragon's mouth, large enough to roast an entire deer, its mantel still bearing the faint scratches where she had once carved her initials. "Look," Dee said excitedly as she took a picture of the scratches. "She did that after her first book was published." Thunder growled in the distance, a warning from the sky that had yet to deliver its promised downpour.

"They're taking forever," Grant muttered as he started towards the front door. The device in his pocket vibrated, prompting him to pull it out and examine it. Behind him, silver light spilled through the cracks of the wooden panel covering the window, catching on dust particles that danced like dragonflies.

The shadow descended the almost fragmentary staircase, each unheard step representing her solitude. She wore a high collar gown, a cinched waist, and a skirt that pooled like ink at her feet as she reached the bottom of the staircase. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as they traced the line of Grant's shoulders down to his hands. His eyes were on the device, oblivious to her presence. Her form was translucent, a supernatural figure that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. Lilacs — sweet, intoxicating, not likely to bloom in November — saturated the air. Grant's nostrils flared as the scent surrounded him.

"Dee, you wearing perfume?" He turned, shining the flashlight towards her as she stepped into the foyer, shaking her head. Her nostrils flared slightly as she searched the air, but the delicate floral fragrance was gone. She stepped behind Grant, her cell phone flashlight cutting through the darkness.

"What's taking them so long?" she asked, making no effort to hide her impatience. "It's Eddie, isn't it?"

Sophia's Victorian dress rustled without sound as she drifted closer to the living intruders. Her eyes narrowed at the way the purple strands in Dee's hair caught the light — foreign and fascinating, like some exotic flower painted into her hair, not placed. Hovering near them made her form ripple with discomfort. The warmth of their living bodies pulled at something deep within her — a hunger, a memory. She reached out as if to pet the purple strands, but didn't make contact. She concentrated, drawing energy from their equipment until the flashlights flickered and died, and the phone powered down. Grant muttered a curse as his fingers closed around the extra pair of batteries in his pocket.

Dee jabbed at the power button on her phone, her frustration mounting as the black screen remained lifeless. "Nothing," she muttered. "Completely dead."

Adelaide appeared out of the darkness, the starched white collar of her chambermaid uniform catching the light. Her apron hung without a wrinkle, pinned precisely at the waist. Her shoes clicked on the floor, but were not heard as she walked past Grant and Dee. She followed Sophia, who drifted into the next room. Her translucent form cast no shadow on the walls or floor.

A chill preceded Chester's arrival, the temperature dropping several degrees before he materialized through the wall. His white-gloved hands remained folded at his waist, his spine ruler-straight as he glided across the floorboards without disturbing the century of dust beneath him. Sophia's fingers traced the frayed velvet of her chair before sinking into it.

Outside, laughter filtered through the cracked window. Chester adjusted his position beside her, the phantom fabric of his bow tie catching non-existent light, the knot still impeccably centered below his high collar. Sophia's fingers drummed against the armrest as Adelaide now stood behind her chair.

"Why don't you scare them off?" Adelaide murmured as she glanced at Chester.

"They've been out there for hours." He said with a sigh. "I saw them from upstairs and was hoping the approaching storm would scare them off."

Eddie's breath fogged in the frigid air of the foyer as he shuffled in, the metal legs of his tripod scraping against the floor. His eyes darted to the shadowy corners where the ceiling met the walls, then back to Jett and Cal, whose arms were laden with equipment coming into the house. Grant's EMF meter shrieked to life, its lights slashing the darkness. He froze mid-breath as Eddie walked over to him, staring at the meter in his hand. Unkempt blonde hair framed his face, a tattoo stark against his neck.

Chester shook his head as he studied the group. "Look at them — rumpled clothes, messy hair. It is like they rolled straight out of bed, never glancing at a mirror."

Sophia's gaze locked onto the taller man standing behind the others. The ghost of her Parisian accent surfaced like an old remembrance as she spoke. "The world has changed since our time."

His shoulder-length dark hair was gathered in a careless man bun that somehow enhanced rather than diminished the sharp angles of his jaw. When he turned, his eyes caught the light — not merely blue, but the precise shade of a cloudless winter sky just before dusk. Admiration spread over her as she studied him, the first truly handsome man she'd encountered since she had taken her last breath in the year 1873.

Thunder cracked overhead as Cal dropped his equipment bag, the heavy canvas striking the floor just as the first raindrops could be heard. The zipper rasped as he crouched down, pulling out tripods that gleamed dully in the dim light. "Last time I was here, I got two EVP recordings on this floor, and when I looked at my photos, orbs were hovering above a bed upstairs." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Something's here." He clutched two cameras to his chest. "One down here, one upstairs — before we go live."

"It was a dark and stormy night," Eddie joked with a theatrical wave toward the door. His wisecrack died in the silence that followed, withering under cold stares.

Jett stepped back, arms crossed. "Keep those cameras away from me."

"Since when do you leave your editing cave?" Grant's flashlight beam caught Jett's face.

"Just flet like it." Jett's shoulders rose and fell.

"Tell them why you're really here," Cal said.

Jett sneered, "The architecture. Victorian. Original foundation. I am pursuing a degree in architectural design. This house was a masterpiece of its time, with gabled roofs and narrow windows." He grabbed his camera and backed away. "Are we going to start this investigation or what?" He moved past Grant, heading for the living room. Three ghostly figures watched as he entered the living room and made his way to the fireplace. He reached upward, ripping through years of dense cobwebs that had veiled the remnants of the portrait hanging above. The rumors had been true — it had survived all this time. Dee's gasp echoed against the high ceiling as she entered the room.

"Look!" The portrait's gilded edge caught the moonlight. Jett smiled as Dee took off her denim jacket. She tried to wipe away the dust, but couldn't reach the painting. "Famous French artist ... something with an S ..." she muttered, bouncing on her toes. Jett bit his lip to suppress a laugh as he crouched, bracing himself as Dee, his younger sister, scrambled onto his shoulders, her knees digging into his collarbone. The jacket swept across the unbroken glass in frantic arcs, sending cobwebs floating like ghosts to the floorboards. Beneath the grime, a woman's face emerged—porcelain skin, dark eyes, perfect features, and a soft smile.

Jett lowered himself so Dee could slide off his shoulders just as Grant entered the room with the others trailing behind. Cal aimed his camera at the portrait, the shutter clicking rapidly.

"A painting like this, just abandoned?" Cal murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. "That is unbelievable."

Eddie eyed the portrait. "She was hot." Jett and Dee glared. He shrugged. "What?"

"Clock's ticking," Cal muttered, disappearing back into the foyer. Eddie and Grant exchanged a look before following.

"She was an extraordinary woman," Dee said, nodding toward the portrait. "Rumor has it she finished another manuscript before she died." Jett's gaze lingered on the painting. "It's supposedly hidden somewhere in here. Today would have been her birthday. She was twenty-eight when consumption claimed her. Her brilliant mind trapped in a body that betrayed her one labored breath at a time." Grant bellowed her name over the thunderstorm's assault. Dee sighed and left the room.

Jett reached into his pocket, fingers closing around soft petals. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure nobody was watching. He then placed a small bundle of violets, slightly crushed, from his pocket on the mantel. With a quick sweep of his hand, he brushed a fine layer of dust over them. "One writer to another," he whispered. "Happy Birthday, Ms. Monet."

The trio of ghosts exchanged astonished glances."A gentleman after all," Chester murmured, his spectral eyes following Jett with newfound respect. "Perhaps humanity isn't entirely lost on this generation."

Adelaide's translucent form shimmered with excitement. "May I give them a proper fright?"

Sophia smiled as she inclined her head. "A scare, yes, but no harm," she instructed, gesturing for Chester to accompany her maid. After they drifted through the wall, Sophia abandoned her chair and glided silently toward Jett, who swept his flashlight beam across the room. Moonlight played across the sharp angles of his face, casting his features in silver and shadow as if nature itself couldn't decide whether to reveal or conceal his good looks. The lean muscles of his forearms flexed beneath his jacket. She floated beside him, close enough that, had she been corporeal, she would have felt the living heat radiating from his skin — a feeling she hadn't experienced in over a century, a forgotten sensation that made her ghostly form tremble with longing.

He walked back toward the fireplace, flashlight beam moving across the mantel. The violets he'd placed there rose into the air, suspended by invisible fingers. Jett's breath caught in his throat. The air shimmered, coalescing into the translucent outline of a woman. Her eyes, the same knowing eyes from the portrait, fixed on his. His legs turned to stone. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. One of the cherub carvings on the fireplace rotated with a grinding of ancient mechanisms. A small compartment at the base clicked open, revealing yellowed pages bound with faded ribbon. The ghost's transparent finger extended toward the hidden treasure, her expression a mix of pleading and hope.

"Take it and let my words live again," she whispered. "Find your voice through mine."

Jett's fingers trembled as they closed around the brittle manuscript. The paper felt warm, as if it had absorbed the sun's heat despite being hidden in darkness for decades. He tucked it inside his jacket. Her form dispersed like morning mist.

"Wait," His hand reached through empty air.

"I haven't had a birthday gift for a very long time," her voice echoed inside his skull, intimate as a lover's whisper. "Thank you."

The high-pitched wail tore through the air. Jett's muscles tensed, and his body spun around. Cal's face had gone chalk-white, fingers already fumbling with the camera and bags as he looked toward Jett.

"We're getting out of here!" He screamed. "Something grabbed Eddie and pushed him to the ground." He dashed out the door into the rain.

Grant dropped his flashlight, and it rolled down the stairs before him. He stumbled back to pick it up, its beam swinging wildly across the walls. Dee shoved past Grant and burst through the door. Rain swallowed her silhouette as she fled down the overgrown path, each step distancing her from what she had just witnessed.

Eddie's feet thundered down the stairs, face pale as milk. "It doesn't like me!" His eyes darted over his shoulder with terror as he looked back at Jett. He tumbled forward, sprawling across weathered porch boards, then scrambled up, disappearing into the rain.

Jett turned back toward the living room. She stood where nothing had been seconds before, clutching the violets whose petals trembled though no breeze stirred them.

"Thank you," Jett whispered, backing away before turning to flee.

Chester's form coalesced beside her, translucent edges solidifying. "The manuscript?" His eyebrow arched as she inclined her head. "And if his writing proves ... inadequate?"

"It won't, can't you see he's a romantic?" Sophia's fingers caressed the violet petals. She drifted upward, passing Adelaide, who loomed at the landing, her smile slicing across her face like a wound, eyes gleaming with the savage triumph of a predator who'd just drawn first blood. The air around her vibrated with the electric thrill of her unspoken confession. Sofia's head swayed in gentle disapproval as she floated past her.

Seasons bled into one another, an endless procession.

Paranormal investigators continued to come and go, oblivious to Sofia and her spectral companions, who watched with disinterest. Of all who had entered her home, a single soul is all she wanted to see again.

"He's returned," Adelaide said as she floated through he wall one autumn evening.

Sophia's hand froze halfway through a brushstroke, suspended above hair that cascaded to her waist. The ghostly brush slipped through her fingers, vanishing, while her tresses twisted upward, forming the elaborate Victorian coiffure she always wore. She glided out of the room, looking over the banister.

Below, Jett's flashlight beam cut through dust as he headed for the living room. Sophia was counting the silver threads in his dark hair that hadn't been there years ago. She drifted down, stopping in the living room doorway as he placed three leather-bound books on the mantel. His fingertips lingered over them for a moment as his eyes searched the room.

"Three bestsellers from your manuscript," he said, voice cracking on the second word. The binding made a soft pop as he opened to the dedication page and read out loud. "For Sophia, who whispered inspiration in my ear."

She floated into the room, standing beside him as she read the dedication. As Jett turned away, she concentrated until the air around her thickened and solidified.

"Digging up the Past," she read the title out loud.

Jett froze mid-step, then turned. She lifted the books, feeling their weight for just a moment before both they and she faded like mist. The words escaped Jett's lips like a confession.

"I felt bad for taking your manuscripts," he whispered, "but your vision consumed me. The writing flowed as if guided by your hand." His eyes searched for her, but finding nothing, he sighed and headed for the door.

"You're my ghostwriter now," came Sophia's voice, hovering just behind him. He turned to find her translucent form shimmering in the dim light, her smile tinged with ironic amusement, before she faded into nothingness. The weight that had pressed against his chest for months finally lifted.