10. Suspension of Belief

            Lia glanced down at her full skirt and diaphanous blouse with the sequined border. She did not remember dressing in this lavender gown of sorts. And where were her shoes? She gazed at her image in the antique mirror above her dresser and decided her look to be eccentric at best. But there were venues accepting of outliers. Like museums and historical societies. She had an appointment at 3 o’clock.

            “Seeking “ghost” to haunt the halls of Volodymyr Castle. No experience necessary. Interest in history a plus.”

            She’d spoken to the executive director. A board member had the bright idea to boost visitation by upgrading the usual docent interaction with a more direct connection to the past.

            “Lia Maelstrom? George Feris. Please have a seat. I must say that at first glance you fit the bill. A lavender dress, silvery blonde hair and an ethereal air, you seem to have a feel for this kind of work.”

            “Oh, I, …thank you,” said Lia feeling a bit tripped up. “I’ve always loved Volodymyr Castle since forever. I already know its halls and rooms. I’d love to work here.”

            “Your job would not be to give a tour. Rather you would create atmosphere by promoting an air of mystery. As you may know, this house had its share of tragedy and intrigue. Most people know the stories. We hope to bring it alive. The last few seasons have been rather slow. Hard to compete with contemporary attractions.”

            Her job, she was given to understand, was to be unavailable to the public in that she would never speak or answer inquiries. She would strive to show herself sparingly, peering from windows, drifting across landings, exiting doorways. Visitors would spy her in mirrored reflection, notice her hand brushing the door jamb. Just her sort of job thought Lia who knew herself to be a bit shy of strangers. A kind of theatrical fleeing was required.

            At home settled in her bed her lips curled into a tiny smile as she thought that she may actually frighten someone.

            Lia’s first week in the castle sparked her creative spirit. She made a collection of instrumentals inspired by Khachaturian’s Masquerade Waltz that she kept playing softly. The scent of lavender and spice lingered in the rooms. A gossamer scarf draped on a sofa would be gone when guests passed through a sitting room again. Goblets would be drained of ruby wine. Candles would be alight or showing a last whiff of smoke. Personal effects would be left as if their owner would just return. Lia received rave reviews that her haunting methods were well received. The museum staff decided to expand tours to night hours when the ghost would excite the imaginations of those more inclined to the macabre.

            One such tour had Lia disturbed. Her usual spectral touches were in place. As she passed through the castle on soft soled feet with the ease afforded by ballroom dancing shoes she noticed unexpected details. The French doors were left open wide blowing the gossamer curtains wildly into the drawing room. A fire was started in the hearth of the servant’s quarters common area.  A broken glass lay smashed on the stone floor of the great kitchen. Someone else was in the castle.

            Waiting on the main floor for the tour group to descend from above, she heard laughter. Odd, the elderly guide, Milton, rarely made jokes, and certainly never in the master bedroom where domestic tragedy had occurred. She knew his discourse by heart. Then a large dog’s scrabbling claws and throaty huffing presaged his reckless charge down the stairs directly to Lia’s hiding spot behind the wing-back chair. Raucous howls caused her to shrink to the ground. He exited through the French doors.

            Lia covered her mouth to stifle a shriek and dashed into the dining hall.  A bloody knife lay on the white damask table cloth. She jumped backwards into strong arms that grasped her securely. Turning to gaze into a man’s face the scream she’d hoped to prevent tore from her. She struggled as he pulled her into a small library beyond the stairs.

            “You scare easily,” he laughed.

            “You can release me if you please,” snorted Lia, annoyed at his cavalier attitude. “What are you doing here tonight? I work alone.”

            “Do you? I heard the museum folk were hoping to broaden the old place’s appeal and I thought I’d join in the fun. I’ve..”

            “Please, you think it’s fun to stain the white linens and allow the weather into the house? And how did you ever get permission to let that enormous hound in here?”

            “That’s my dog, Hunt.”

            “He almost gave me away!”

            “I sent him to find you. I’ve always thought the legacy of the castle would be better served if they had the nerve to be innovative like this. If some artifacts, easily replaced get soiled or destroyed what of it? This isn’t a mausoleum. It should be alive as it once was.”

            “Alive,” said Lia. “People died here.”

            “Have you ever stopped to think of how many residences have seen the deaths of inhabitants? Violently or otherwise?”

            “You’ve been working for the historical society for a while then?”

            “You could say that. I try to direct things if I can. I’ve been whispering in their ears, visiting their dreams, pushing them to bridge the stretch from life to death, past to present.”

            “You mean that you…” said Lia, pausing to swallow, “are, a…”

            “Non-living person of the past who has never yet left? Yes.”

            “I don’t believe in that possibility.”

            “Surely you do now.”

            Lia extended her hand. “I thought I was the only one.”

(950 words)