From the October issue of Deb’s Quill.
Maggie sat in the empty lawyer’s office on Barrington Street, patiently awaiting his return. Her head still spun from the dizzying pace of Halifax, so different from her small town home in Kentville. “You can take the girl out of Annapolis Valley,” her mother used to say, “but you’ll never get the Valley out of the girl.” And it was true. She’d left home just two days ago, and already she missed the sweet scent of apple blossoms floating in the air and the red clay clinging to her boots.
How could anyone enjoy living here? Salt air stinging the nose and rusting every piece of iron in sight. No wonder so many buildings were made of glass, but how could the people here live in such a transparent world? Yes, everyone knew everyone in Kentville—and their business, which annoyed her sometimes. But here? Everyone could see everyone’s business. Crazy.
And why on earth had Nana Sophie moved from Annapolis Royal to this sterile city? It didn’t make sense. Nana’s home in Royal was a palace compared to anything Maggie had lived in. True, it was old. Older, even than Nana, and she was ancient.
Maggie choked back a sob. Was. Nana was dead now. Died in her sleep two nights ago, short of her one hundredth birthday by two months and three days. She’d never get to attend the wonderful birthday celebration the Valley had planned for her. It would have been something. Dad had even arranged for the Premier to visit and pay his respects. How cool would that have been?
Dad should be here for the reading of Nana’s will. Not her. But he and Mom were off cruising through Europe, celebrating his retirement. He’d loved Nana, but there was nothing he could do for her now, and he’d asked Maggie to step into his shoes this one time. That, and the lawyer had insisted she be here. So she was.
Finally, he breezed through the door, moving at a pace that was normal for Halifax but would make folks back home wonder where the fire was.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Sullivan.” He swept behind his desk, plunked a file on it with a thud, sat and pulled his chair so close to the desk that his stomach inched over the top.
“Maggie,” she said, unable to tear her eyes away from his belly, even though she knew that was rude.
“Well, Maggie, let me say how sorry I am for your loss. I knew your grandmother going on thirty years. She was a wonderful woman. Very sensible and down to earth.”
She swallowed her sorrow and blinked back her tears. Nana was wonderful – wonderfully eccentric and occasionally downright weird – but Maggie loved every kooky idiosyncrasy. And she’d miss her for the rest of her life.
“I’ll get right to the point. She left you this letter. And her home in Annapolis Royal. And fifty thousand dollars that she hopes you will use to fix the place up, but it comes with no strings, so you are free to use it any way you want.”
He handed over a set of keys, a cheque and a letter. “If you’ll just sign here, please?”
She started to take the papers, but hesitated. Accepting Nana’s gift would make everything so final. But it was final, and she had to accept that Nana was gone. Her hand shook as she took the papers from him.
“I’ll leave you alone to read the letter. Just shut the door on your way out.” Then he breezed out the door, his draft scattering papers off his desk.
When she opened the letter, Nana’s loopy script careened across the page. A tear escaped and blotched her name, which startled a wet laugh out of her.
Maggie, dearest. I know this is a surprise, but you are the only one in the family who will appreciate Femurshire Manor the way I do. You don’t remember it now, but when you were five, you snuck into the upstairs music room and opened the forbidden closet. And you laughed. I knew then that you had my gift. So I’m asking you to go there, live in the Manor for a month. If you don’t love it as much as I do after that, then go ahead and sell it. But I think you’ll be hooked. Love Nana.
She remembered an upstairs room that Nana kept locked at all times. She didn’t remember sneaking into it. And what was in the closet that made her laugh? If whatever was in there was funny, why didn’t Nana share it with the rest of the family?
Only one way to find out. She gathered her things and left, shutting the office door behind her.
***
On Waterfront Avenue, the fog buried the road and everything on it beneath a cold, salty blanket. Maggie’s knuckles were still white from the harrowing cab ride to Nana’s house. The fog had rolled in so suddenly that it blinded everyone on the road, including her driver. She heard him blare his horn and jerk hard to the right on screeching tires. Then she heard a bang and the screech of metal on metal. And wailing beneath it all, she heard the low, mournful fog horn echoing in from the Bay of Fundy.
Welcome to Annapolis Royal.
She stood outside Femurshire, only its top half visible. She’d forgotten how thoroughly the cold, wet fog seeped through each layer of clothing to take up residence in her bones. And it would stay there, making her teeth chatter and her joints ache for days after she left. And she was only thirty-five.
Maybe that’s why Nana moved to Halifax a year ago. Her bones must have turned to pure rust decades ago.
Maggie dug the key out and started up the long walkway. The scraggly tops of—what? Bushes? Hedges?—swayed out of and dipped into the fog in a weird sea dance. Her toe smacked against wood, and while she couldn’t see it, she realized she’d reached the steps.
She felt her way up and stood in the swirling mist before the great door. Paint peeled off in goopy strands, the knocker hung loose on one screw, and there was a gaping hole where the doorbell used to be.
Her sigh drifted below the mist, along with her hand as she reached for the doorknob. She didn’t mean to turn the knob—she was only searching for the keyhole— but the door creaked open an inch.
Great. Nana had left it unlocked. If she’d left anything of value inside, it would be long gone.
Maggie took hesitant steps inside and shut the fog out … for the minute it took for the door to squeak open again. Her lips pursed, and a corner of her mouth hiked up. It was too dark to see if there was writing on the wall, but clearly, there was.
Her hand moved slowly over the wall, searching for a light switch, and got wrapped in something soft and filmy. She jumped back, heart pounding, adrenaline surging, shaking her hand wildly and rubbing it against her jeans. If there was a spider in that web, she was out of here.
She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly through her nose, held the breath, then exhaled slowly through her mouth—and repeated—until her heart calmed and her panic subsided. Smarter now, she flipped on her cell phone light and searched the wall for the light switch.
Click. Nothing. Click, click, click. Still nothing,
Nana, what the heck?
Did she dare go further, with no lights? But then the wail of the foghorn sailed in, reminding her that she’d be certifiable to risk a car ride back to her hotel. This place was creepy, but it wouldn’t be lethal. She hoped.
Her cell light spilled around the great hall. She remembered some of the layout. The formal dining room, off to the left, and the kitchen tucked discreetly behind it. And behind that, the servants’ quarters ran the width of the Manor, with back stairs to the second floor.
To the right, she’d find the living room and the library. She remembered spending hours there, reading Greek Mythology and old-world classics. Not her interest anymore, but she’d enjoyed them at the time.
Ahead lay the winding staircase. The room she most wanted to see was up there. She needed a laugh right about now. Nana better make good on that promise, she thought. The wooden floors creaked beneath her feet as she inched toward the stairs. Her hand reached for the newel post, and the cap came off in her hand. Of course, it did. It jarred out a memory of her favourite Christmas movie, as she stuck the newel cap back on.
This one’s for you, George Bailey. She laughed.
The carpet lining the stairs was so torn, it would trip even the most careful climber. It would be the first thing she ripped out if she decided to stay. But fifty thousand? From what she was seeing, it was a single drop in a very deep well.
By the time she got to the top, her thighs ached from the strain of careful steps and near falls. But she made it. She couldn’t stay long. Her cell battery wouldn’t sustain its flashlight for long. The music room. She scanned left, then right, straining to remember. Left. Two doors down. Maybe.
But an image swept through her memory. Herself at five, pigtails swinging as she ran down this hall, Nana calling behind her, ordering her to come downstairs this instant. And ducking into the room she wasn’t supposed to go in, deciding to hide in the closet, so Nana wouldn’t find her and make her eat those horrible tuna fish sandwiches she hated.
And there her memory stopped. But she wanted to know what made her giggle as a child, and why that inspired Nana to leave her this mausoleum of a house.
You probably just went completely bats, Nana. But I have to know.
Oh, my God! It better not be bats!
She hurried down the hall and tried the second door. It creaked open but got stuck partway. An easy fix, she hoped, and a cheap one. A little oil on the hinges, maybe.
Inside, the carpet lay buried under years of dust and grime, grey, mouldy, and smelling of stale cat urine. She pinched her nose, ducked her head outside the room for cleaner air and gulped it down. Inhaling as much of it into her lungs as she could, she braved a step further inside.
And bumped into something. An old melody creaked out, making her jump. But then her heart calmed as she remembered.
Hello, old player piano friend. You taught me a few songs. I memorized the way your keys moved with each note. I can still play those songs.
She swept the dust off the keys, and a few strident notes piled on top of the piano roll’s notes. Her arm was covered in dust curls, but she didn’t care. And she thought Nana hadn’t known that she’d learned to pick the door lock, nor how many times she’d slipped in here to keep Piano company.
The closet, though. Her light was fading, and she had to leave soon, or she’d kill herself trying to get out in the dark. Her heart beat faster as she took slow, careful steps toward it. Her hand slid out, inched its way to the doorknob.
Then she yanked her hand back, slid out of her jacket and draped it over her head. If there were bats inside, they would not get tangled in her hair.
Covered, she braved the door again, inching it open, muscles strained and ready to flee the room.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you open this door already?” said a creaky voice from inside. “I don’t bite.”
Startled, heart thudding, Maggie fell back, yanking the door open as she stumbled. It took five rapid beats of her heart, but she recovered.
“You poor soul.” Why was someone in the closet? “Did you get locked in here by mistake?” But instead of the person she expected to find, a skeleton leaned against the back wall, a tattered leather jacket hanging off his bones.
“Stop staring, girl,” it said. “And close your mouth. There are all kinds of critters in here that would love to scoot inside.”
She snapped her mouth shut. “Who? What?”
“I’m Mortimer, darling girl. Mortimer Marrow. I used to own this house.” He stepped outside the closet, bones clinking together. He shook his head, confused—and it fell off and rolled across the floor.
“Don’t stand there gawking. Give me my head back.”
Maggie scrambled to catch it and handed it back. “I’ve fallen asleep. This isn’t real.”
Mortimer snapped his head back on. “Nonsense. I’m as real as you are.” He reached out and yanked her hair with his bony fingers. “See?”
“Ouch.” She batted his hand away, and it fell off. “Sorry.” She scrambled to return it.
“Give it a shake, will you?” Mortimer asked.
Maggie narrowed her eyes and shoved the hand at him. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he said, pouting.
Was it a pout, or was his jaw coming unhinged?
“You aren’t real.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and glared. “There must be magic mushrooms growing in this carpet.” She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “I need to get out of here.”
Mortimer tilted his head—carefully, this time. “I remember you. You’re wee Maggie. Sophie’s daughter.”
“Hah. You know nothing, Mortimer Marrow.” She inched backward towards the door, pounded her fist on the piano to stop its wailing, and reached behind her for the knob.
“Oh, delightful. You love moving pictures, too. Game of Thrones. Sophie loved that show. I got to watch every episode.”
He lumbered forward a few steps, paused and bowed. “I’d have made a great extra, don’t you think?”
She stood, stunned, her mind swirling.
“Don’t be such a poor sport,” Mortimer demanded. He tried to strike an exasperated pose with hands on hips, but his fist slid right through.
Maggie laughed.
“About time. I made you laugh when you were a kid. You don’t remember?”
She shook her head.
“Not everyone can see me. I’ve been very lonely.”
“Huh.” She scratched her head. Dream? Hallucination? Real? She didn’t know, but she’d always been a sucker for the lonely. Meals on Wheels. Kentville’s Community Care Network, VON’s Friendly Visiting Program – she volunteered for them all.
She knew everyone in Kentville, though. She didn’t know Mortimer, but a lonely person was a lonely person—even if it was a walking bag of bones.
“Okay,” she said, finally. “I’ll play. But first, I have to find a light source. My cell battery is running out of juice, and I don’t relish finding my way out of here in the dark.”
“No idea what a cell is. And the only juice I know of is something I once tried to drink. Sophie was furious with me. The mess.” His jaw vibrated, its hinges creaking with laughter.
“You are one creepy dude,” she said, laughing, “but what’s not to love about a guy with a sense of humour?” She swept her cell light around the room. “Any candles in here? And matches?”
“Oh. It’s light you want. Why didn’t you say so?” He clattered to the window and yanked open the drapes. Sunlight flooded in. “It comes in over the fog. This room always gets the morning light.”
Maggie tapped a button, and her cell light snapped off. She scanned the room. Just more grime and dust. More tattered cloth. More spider webs, with a big-ass web-weaver in the upper corner that made her shiver.
But no bats. She breathed out the air she forgot she was holding. “So, why are you here?” she asked.
“I live here.” He peered at her through his empty sockets. “Did you get hit on the head, Maggie?” He leaned forward, ran skeletal fingers over her scalp.
She batted his hand away. “Stop that.” She put distance between them so he couldn’t touch her again with his cold, bone-dry … bones. “I mean, you aren’t real. Even though I can see you, and …,” she shivered. “… feel you. If no one else can see you, you can’t be real. A ghost, maybe. So, why are you still here? Why haven’t you moved on to – I don’t know – wherever on is?”
Mortimer clambered onto the piano and sat, his femur, tibia and fibula hanging down. He grunted, and the fibula partially detached itself and started playing a tune. Maggie stared, stunned.
“Just a little trick I learned over the last hundred years.”
“Whatever.” This had to be a hallucination. It would make a great story once the magic mushrooms wore off. She scanned the room again but couldn’t see any. Maybe LSD, then? Had Nana dipped her toe into drugs? And that was why she was so kooky? It could be hiding in the layer of dust—well, everywhere— and who would be the wiser?
“You didn’t answer me. Why are you still here?” She figured the answer would come out of her subconscious through Mortimer’s mouth, and it would tell her heaps about herself. If she remembered it once she came down from her high.
“Oh, sweetie. I have no idea.” Mortimer focused on his tattered leather jacket. “I’ve been trying to get out of this rag for decades, but it just won’t come off.”
“I have a sweater and sweatpants I can bring you tomorrow,” she offered.
“Please,” he answered disdainfully. “You’re half my size.”
She giggled. “Depends on how you measure size, doesn’t it. You are tall and—well, beyond skinny. I’m short and round. Bet I have way more mass than you do.”
She turned her cell off. She needed the little battery remaining to call a cab later. “Besides, I’m not spending money on clothes for a figment of my imagination.”
“Well, hello to you, too,” Mortimer huffed. I’m more than a figment. And I’m definitely not your imagination.” His fibula stopped playing the piano. “Look, Maggie. I don’t know why I’m still here. Sophie tried to help me figure it out, but we never got very far. Maybe you can help me.”
He hopped off the piano. His left foot fell off, and he waited until Maggie fetched it for him. “I’m tired of the closet. Tired of these rags. Tired of being left alone every time one of you dies.” A dust tear slid down his cheek. “And tired of falling apart. Mostly, I miss Sophie.”
She missed Nana, too. She wanted to hug him, but was afraid she wouldn’t be able to put him back together again. An image of Mortimer with arms for legs, and legs for arms, made her laugh. “Okay. I’ll see if I can help.”
Mortimer wasn’t happy when she called a cab and returned to her hotel room, but she had to charge her phone and do some research. Mortimer would just have to chill until she got back.
Powering up her tablet, she opened her AI Chatbot and set it to searching: how to send a spirit on from this world to the next. It was all mythology, she knew that, but maybe it would help Mortimer. Or maybe she’d wake up and he wouldn’t be there.
Then she phoned the power company, agreed to gift them her firstborn child if they’d just hook up the power today.
And haggled with a handyman to fix the front door and rip out the carpet on the stairs, plus check for other hazards. He’d been inexpensive until he learned the address. Then refused to come until she promised to pay him double. What a scaredy-cat, afraid of a haunted house.
She got back to Femurshire by three in the afternoon. The lights were on, and she found Mortimer sulking at the foot of the stairs. Both feet had skidded out of his reach. She grinned and handed them back.
The handyman, Tony, knocked and wandered in, eyes scanning. If he saw Mortimer, he didn’t say, but he was so skittish, she doubted her friend was visible or Tony would run out like the devil was chasing him. She was sure of it.
When Tony wandered the rest of the house on an inspection tour, Maggie whispered to Morty. “I have some clothes for you, but let’s wait until Tony leaves. I don’t want to spook him.”
“He looks familiar,” Morty answered. His voice sounded like he was frowning, but who could tell on a skeleton?
“Maybe Nana had him fix a few things here,” she offered.
Morty snorted. “Sophie didn’t believe in hiring anyone to fix anything. Thought she could do it herself.” He swept his arm around the room—and his hand went flying. “That’s why nothing in here works. Sophie didn’t know which end of the hammer to hit a nail with.”
“I’d better bring duct tape with me next time,” she muttered, retrieving his hand. But she remembered watching Nana try to fix a jammed window. She’d hired someone to replace the broken glass, swearing at the repairman the whole time.
Maggie had learned a lot of new words that day, and Daddy had washed her mouth out with soap when she said them at home. Then refused to let her visit Nana again for a whole year. She’d cried at the time, but today, the memory made her smile.
Tony’s estimate made her wince, but she gave him the go-ahead. That carpet was a menace and needed to go. And if she was going to sleep here—she wasn’t certain she would—that front door had to lock.
Once the carpet was out, she was delighted to find hardwood exposed. Horribly worn in places, and scratched everywhere, but she could work with it. An electric sander, elbow grease and stain would fix most of it. And the worn spots would add charm. She shook herself. What was she thinking?
Tony left a few hours later, and she sent Skip The Dishes over to Opa for her dinner. Then she and Mortimer sat at the kitchen table. She gave him her sweats but made him hide from the driver when her dinner arrived. And she shared her research with him as she ate.
“My AI doesn’t believe in ghosts or ghostly skeletons. But he says that a seance is the most common way of sending ghosts on their way.”
“I don’t know what Aye Eye is, but if you trust him, then I’m game.” Morty reached over and grabbed a piece of chicken and plopped it in his mouth. It fell through, onto the floor. “I miss eating,” he said, watching the chicken piece roll across the floor.
If anyone else had snatched her food off her plate, she’d have slapped his hand. But she was tired of picking up Morty’s pieces. Instead, she moved her plate out of his reach. Lesson learned.
“We should have more people for the seance,” she said, reading. “But he says we can try it with just the two of us.” She looked over and grinned. “Of course, AI thinks you must be real, so who knows if this will work with me as the only living part of this … circle.”
“Nothing else to do,” Morty said. “You didn’t bring a TV, and I’ve read every book in the library. Twice.” His jaw quivered. “I’m so bored. I mean, how many times can one read War and Peace without wanting to bomb the whole world?”
“I hear you. Felt like a lifetime to wade through it once. More than once sounds like torture.”
She shut the curtains to block the late afternoon sun, grabbed the bag she’d brought with her and emptied its contents on the table. Candles, holders and matches. She set them up in a circle around the table and lit them. Then she turned off the kitchen light, plunging them into near darkness, with only the flames casting flickering shadows on the walls.
She said and reached for Mortimer’s bony hands, holding them gently in hers. She disengaged to move a candle. No point in their sleeves catching on fire. Then she took his hands again and started the chant.
“Nana, if you are listening, help us move the veil tonight.”
“What kind of veil?” Morty asked. “I know where Sophie’s bridal veil is. Will that do?” He grinned wickedly – or maybe it was just candlelight flickering across his face.
She tugged on his hand to shut him up, and remembered too late not to do that. “If you want this to work, Mortimer, you can’t make fun.” She waited for him to reattach his hand and started again.
“Hear us, Nana. Help us. Part the veil so Mortimer can find peace and move on.”
The flames flickered and went out. Maggie flicked on her cell light and relit the candles.
“Don’t bother, darling,” Morty said. “I’ve remembered something.”
She waited. Nothing. She tapped her toe. Still nothing. “Well, what did you remember?” she yelled, startling him.
“No need to get testy.” He tugged the too-short sweater down as far as it would go. If he still had a naval, it would have shown.
“I remember how I died.” He looked around the room, focused on a canister. “Don’t use that tea, darling. It’s poison.”
Her eyes followed his gaze. She rose and opened the can. Whatever had been inside was now dust. But why take the chance? She snapped the lid back on. Tomorrow, she’d call Poison Control and find out how to dispose of it.
“Do you know who murdered you?”
He nodded, head tilted – carefully – to the side. “My business partner. Samuel Forsythe. Sneaky bastard. We were about to sign a very lucrative shipbuilding contract to build the SS Valiant. One hundred thousand. Can you imagine? That was a lot of money.”
He paused, sat for a while. “I guess Samuel got it all.” He flicked a spider off the table and lost a finger.
Maggie handed it back to him. She opened her AI Chatbot and typed in a question. “Actually, Samuel never built that ship. Says here, he embezzled the money, was caught and went to prison.”
She looked up, sympathy etched on her face. “A bit of karma. Does it help?”
Mortimer’s jaw creaked in laughter. “A bit. But I’m still dead. Still gathering dust here.”
He sat for a few minutes. Then his head jerked up. Maggie caught it before it fell on the floor.
“I just remembered. Sophie was my daughter. Illegitimate. But I was going to change that. I’d just put her in my will.” He looked at her, and a soft smile—or the candles—lit his mouth. “That makes you ….”
“I’m your great-granddaughter,” she said. And it no longer felt like a hallucination. “Can I call you GG? For great-grandad?”
“Well, GG, now that you know, are you ready to move on?”
Mortimer looked away. “I guess so,” he said.
And Maggie swore she heard sadness in his voice.
“My research shows that we need to bury your bones, so you can get closure. How about you wait here? I’ll go dig a hole. I’m sure I can find a shovel in that old shed out back. If it doesn’t fall apart on me.”
Mortimer said nothing. Maggie went outside to do what needed to be done.
An hour later, the two of them stood at the edge of the hole.
“Are you ready?” she asked gently.
Mortimer looked at her, looked away, and then stepped into the hole.
“No witty banter,” she asked, not sure how she was supposed to feel about all this. About burying her GG.
“Looks like this house is going to cost you an arm and a leg,” he quipped. But he didn’t laugh.
Neither did she.
He looked at her, as serious as someone with no eyes could look. “I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t want you to go. Not yet.”
She helped Morty out of the grave, hopped down for the foot he left behind, and led him back inside.
***
A year later, Maggie officially opened Femurshire Haunted Bed and Breakfast. Her fifty thousand inheritance paid to fix things to make the Mansion safe for guests. A new roof. Some plumbing. Broken stairs. Locks. The rest, she left in its tattered state. Even the spiders and their webs were welcome.
Guests paid a fortune for the privilege of staying. And Mortimer, a born actor if ever there was one, delighted in spooking them. He blew out their candles, opened their bedroom windows in the dead of night, turned the player piano on when the guests were downstairs, and off again when they came charging up.
And after the guests were asleep and he’d finished pranking them, he and Maggie settled into the Parlour to share a glass of wine. He wore a bucket to catch his share, but he still felt like he was drinking. And his limbs no longer fell off. Maggie was true to her word and duct-taped him together.
“Are you happy, GG?” she asked.
“You bet your bones I am, darling,” he answered. He pressed an errant piece of duct tape back into place, and a finger bone got stuck. He sighed—or did the overhead fan send a breeze whistling through his nose?
“Can we afford designer duct tape yet? This stuff is so frightfully boring.”
The End
© Deborah Sarty. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced without permission.
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