Drawtober 2024: Ghost

Ella woke in darkness.

At first, it was a darkness so complete that she thought both of her eyes must have popped out during her long fall down the stairs. But lifting a hand to her face, she discovered both sockets occupied as they should be. So she was not blinded. It was just very, very dark.

She sat up with a groan and felt around the space. Cold stone met her touch—a flat granite surface of some kind, and she used it to lever herself up to standing. Her foot was still missing, the stub of her bone jutting out and scraping against the stone in a way that made her teeth ache.

Limping around the granite slab, Ella felt along the walls. Quite abruptly, her hand met liquid. She raised her fingers to her nose and sniffed, detecting the scent of oil.

The beautiful gown that Astrid had created was half-melted by this point, still quite lovely but more dilapidated. Its half-formed state afforded Ella access to the pockets of her less elaborate dress beneath, and from these she produced a matchbook—miraculously dry, despite everything. Striking a match, she dropped it into the liquid and stepped back.

A long line of fire flared to life—a small trough had been carved into the stone along the wall and filled with oil, thus affording a way to illuminate the space. Turning, she realized the room she’d tumbled into wasn’t a chamber meant for the living at all.

It was a crypt. Elaborate stone coffins with carved lids lined the chamber. Those silent tombs depicted men and women in repose, holding lilies, swords, cups, books, and bones. Some wore crowns; others did not. Some were cracked and near blackened with age, while others looked well-kept indeed. Turning around, Ella started back. She had been leaning against the newest of the bunch—the stone was still bright, the woman carved into its lid fresh and unbroken. This was not the reason she started back.

No, that was because of the ghost.

In a world where vampires are commonplace and werewolves work as grocers, it might surprise you to learn that ghosts were not a very common sight. Oh, there were invisible men aplenty, as well as unseen servants, and even the occasional golem of finest glass. But ghosts—true ghosts, the lingering spirits of the dead—were rare indeed.

Many a reader will now be raising their hands in objection. What of unfinished business, you protest. To that, I merely laugh. Every person has unfinished business, dearest reader. When I die, the pile of unfinished manuscripts on my desk will number in the hundreds, and that is not even to mention all the places I wished to visit, the people I wished to say goodbye to, the books I meant to read. Were every spirit to linger on just to finish their laundry, there would be far more ghosts than people.

But some ghosts did remain. Those that stayed did not do so for themselves. They did so in the hopes of preventing others from suffering their fates.

So it was with the King’s recently deceased wife. She sat upon her coffin, looking sadly at Ella. She was lovely in the way werefolk often were—wild curls cascaded around her head, framing a heart-shaped face with a wide mouth and sad eyes. Ella saw the shifting flames behind her and the stone clearly through her translucent body.

“Who are you?” she demanded, voice shaking. (Reader, you already know who this ghost was, but we must allow that Ella does not have the benefit of my most excellent narration.)

I am Madeleine, the ghost replied. I saved you in the ballroom.

“S-saved me? How—” And then Ella broke off, remembering the voice, the strange pressure on her hand guiding her to the door and the tower. The voice had known exactly where to go, as though it had walked that path many times before. “Oh. Oh. You’re the King’s wife, aren’t you?”

I was.

“Why are you still here?”

Can you not guess?

Ella took a breath. She could guess. Very easily, in fact. She thought of the spellbook, the abruptness of the ball, the eager hunger in his eyes. It was not hard to make the leap from there.

“He killed you.”

He did.

“But why?”

Because he is dying. Madeleine drifted off her cold, stone seat, gliding past Ella into the darker recesses of the vault. Ella followed slowly, her missing foot aching and her shoulders shivering from where Madeleine had brushed against her. Even a ghoul can feel the touch of death when it comes so very close.

Madeleine stopped in front of one of the oldest tombs in the darkened crypt. The carving atop it was nearly worn away, the stone rough with age. She put a translucent hand atop the stone where the carving’s own hands might have rested, if it still had them.

A disease has followed the King’s family for generations, she whispered to Ella. All of them have died of it. It eats you up inside, burns you out until there is nothing left.

“What disease?”

Mortality.

Ella blinked. “But all humans die eventually.”

Exactly.

“So…he will, too.”

But he doesn’t wish to, you see. He is afraid.

Ella stared at Madeleine with puzzlement. “He could become a vampire,” she said slowly. “I’m sure that loads of pretty ladies would be willing to bite him.”

Even then, he can die. In sunlight or by holy water or at the end of a sharp stake, that life unending would come to an end, would it not?

“Well, I suppose…a ghoul, perhaps? Like me? Although, to be honest, I’m not sure how one becomes a ghoul.”

Madeleine looked at her sadly. One day you, too, will die. The world will eat away at you. You are already falling apart. She looked pointedly at Ella’s missing foot. What the King seeks is something none of us can give him—true immortality. Longevity without end.

Ella considered Madeleine’s words. Eternal life. There had long been rumors of true immortality. Philosopher’s stones and magic fountains and goblets filled with the blood of gods. All untrue, in the end. She thought of Lucinda’s books of stars and remembered that even stars die eventually. Nothing lives forever.

“If he’s seeking immortality,” Ella said, “then why did he kill you?”

Because he was trying to steal my life and add it to his own. Madeleine’s form flickered as she spoke, sparks of red shooting through it before she settled back to ghostly white. A perversion, a desecration. He cut me open to try prying the life from me. The only consolation I now have is that it did not work.

Madeleine reached out a chill hand and laid it upon Ella’s forearm. There was a slight sensation there, as if her wrist were passing through a morning fog, but no real feeling of being touched. He means to do it again. He planned on taking you next.

“Why?”

Because you are alone. And he thinks no one will miss you.

Ella opened her mouth to protest. Of course there would be people who would miss her! Of course people would notice if she suddenly went missing. Then, she stopped.

Wouldn’t they?

She thought Peter would. They were friends, and he always looked for her when they were both in town. But he was awfully busy, and he was a weremouse. He might forget about her quite easily. Her stepmother wouldn’t miss her, that was certain. The Countess would probably be relieved to have the burdensome ghoul removed. And Lucinda…she wanted to think that Lucinda would miss her. Then again, they had not been close for many years. Lucinda might assume Ella had finally taken her own advice and run off.

Ella sank down onto the cold floor. “What am I supposed to do?” she whispered.

Run, the specter said. Run so far away that he cannot chase you.

“How?” Ella demanded, holding up her calf. The bone jutted out like a crooked tooth.

Madeleine looked uncomfortable. I can lead you back to the tower where you lost your foot. But you should not go searching for it. You should simply go.

“I’m not leaving my foot behind,” Ella snapped. “Not if I don’t have to.”

The ghost sighed, the sound like the rustling of bare branches. Fine. Follow me.

#

Madeleine led her out of the vault of tombs. Unable to walk far without some help, Ella raided one of the coffins—an ancestor of the King had been buried with an iron-tipped cane that Ella now leaned upon as she hobbled after the ghost.

You hit your head, Madeleine said as they walked through a winding passageway. I had to press the lever to get you through. That was not easy for me to do.

“What lever?” Ella asked as they rounded a corner. They had reached an alcove where the statue of an angel stood, face upturned and hands raised in supplication. Wordlessly, Madeleine pointed to the angel’s left hand.

Push down.

Ella did. The angel’s arm slid downward with a thunk, and behind the angel, a passage opened to the tower she had fallen down.

This is as far as I go, Madeleine said. At the bottom of this tower, there is a door to the outside. Once you have your foot, run. Get as far from here as you can.

“What about you?”

Madeleine gave her a sad smile. As long as he lives, I will stay. Now, go. Dawn is not far away.

With a last look at the ghost, Ella stepped out of the catacombs and back into the winding tower. She looked up the stone stairs with more than a little trepidation. It was not going to be an easy climb. Still, she meant what she’d said to Madeleine—she wasn’t leaving without her foot. Stealing herself, she began stumping up the stairs.

The hour was so late as to be edging on early, and Ella did not encounter anyone else as she made her way back up. Once or twice, she thought she heard a tiny scratching sound, like a pen nib on stone, but whenever she looked for it she couldn’t find it. Her dress had now melted away almost entirely, only a few flurries of frost left behind to coat her skin. She regretted its loss, but she was also relieved not to have to drag the voluminous skirts up the long stairs.

The longer she climbed, the more anxious Ella grew. Surely she would have reached her foot by now. The grand ballroom was not so very high in the palace. She’d passed at least three doors, but none of them had her foot outside. A slow trickle of dread started in her stomach as she thought of what might have become of it.

Then, she rounded a corner and stopped. A smear of blood lay on the stair, a puddle of ice water nearby. Between the two lay a note written in an elegant hand.

Come and get it.

Ella sat down heavily on the stairs, note shaking in her hands. He’d taken it. The King had her foot.

Now, you may be asking yourself why our dear Ella did not simply go and chomp off someone else’s foot to use instead. But like shoes, feet must fit right. Despite all appearances, Ella had grown rather attached to her foot (who could blame her?). She didn’t want to have to find a new one.

A tiny squeak broke through Ella’s reverie, and she looked down to find a small, gray mouse with long whiskers and a twitching nose crouched on the steps beside her. Her heart would have leapt with joy if it still had that capability.

Because the mouse was Peter.

“Oh, Peter,” Ella said, holding out a hand for him to scamper onto. She was surprised how relieved she felt to see him, to know she wasn’t entirely alone in this empty palace. “It’s so good to see you! How did you find me?”

Peter squeaked, pointing at the note in her hands before pointing down to the stub of her leg. Then, he gestured up the stairs.

“My foot? Do you know where it is?”

The mouse nodded.

“Can you take me there?”

And the mouse nodded again.

#

While this castle had many, many chambers in it, with many secret passages leading to them, I find circular structures narratively pleasing. Thus, it should not surprise you when I say that Peter led Ella back to the study where she had first discovered the King’s sorcerous secret all those weeks ago. The castle halls remained unnervingly empty, the sound of Ella’s iron-tipped cane sounding loud against the walls. She wanted to ask Peter where everyone was, but being a mouse, he could not reply. She supposed everyone was merely sleeping off the party.

Peter sprung off her palm as they rounded the corner to the study, scurrying over to the door and squeaking. Ella shushed him as she came and tried the handle.

It was unlocked.

Steeling herself, Ella gave the door a gently shove. It swung open on quiet hinges. The room beyond was just as she remembered it—dark bookshelves, sliding ladder, large desk. Shadows blanketed the room, and she had to move forward cautiously, feeling her way along shelves and towards the desk.

“Peter,” she hissed, “Peter, where did he put it?”

Peter did not make a sound.

“Peter?” Ella repeated. “What—”

The door slammed. A match flared to life. And a dark voice chuckled near the door.

“Your friend is indisposed.”

Ella whirled around, hand flying to her throat. Peter lay beside the closed door, no longer a mouse but a young man, pale and still as death. Standing above him was the King. In one hand he held a lantern, its light casting a pale glow over the room.

In the other was her foot.

“I have long wondered who the weremouse was,” the King said conversationally, giving Peter’s body a kick. “I didn’t suspect the kitchen boy.”

“What do you want with me?” Ella demanded.

“Why, my dearest girl, I want to make you my bride. We already know so much about each other. For example, you know that I am a sorcerer. And I know that no one will miss you.”

He stepped over Peter’s body, pacing towards her. Ella found herself backing up. Her movements were ungainly, the cane heavy in her hand as he drew closer.

“I shall scream,” she warned. “I have no regard for the health of my vocal chords. I shall scream very loud and someone will come and find me.”

The King chuckled. “Unlikely. For, you see, every last one of my servants, guards, and attendants are all out, searching for the ghoulish girl who so caught their Lord’s fancy at the ball tonight. I’m afraid you are quite alone.”

“Your plan won’t work,” Ella said desperately. Her back hit the shelves lining the room. “Madeleine told me. You can’t become really immortal. It’s impossible.”

At the sound of his dead wife’s name, the King wrinkled his nose. “Is she still skulking about in the crypts? I should have known. Troublesome wretch. But no, my dear, it is not impossible. I intend to show the world what true immortality looks like. No more lurking in shadows, afraid of daylight and churches. No howling at the moon or shambling around in a decaying shell. No, I will have true immortality. I will be a god.”

He was right upon her now, standing there with a terrifying gleam in his eyes. Ella knew he would not let her leave this room with what was left of her life. And she knew that such a thing was unacceptable. Even if no one would miss her, she would miss herself. That was enough.

With a great yell, Ella swung with her iron-tipped cane. She struck the King hard in the temple. The movement overbalanced her, and she fell, but not before the King dropped with her. Blood seeped from the gash in his head, spilling crimson over the floor, the scent of iron overwhelming.

Ella, smelling it, realized she had not eaten for nearly twenty-four hours. As I mentioned earlier, it was a dangerous thing when Ella went hungry. For though she was no vampire, she was still one of the undead. And the undead, as we all know, must feast eventually.

Pupils blown black with hunger, Ella scrabbled across the ground to the fallen King. She forgot about her foot. She forgot about Peter, lying by the door. She may have even forgotten her own name. She fell upon the King with savage hunger. Her fingers, so used to mending clothes and stoking fires, now snapped bones and raked flesh, peeling up the tasty meat beneath. The King screamed, trying to beat her off with flying hands and legs, but Ella did not heed him. She could not even feel pain through the cloying hunger, the urge to eat and eat and eat.

She did not notice when the King stopped screaming. She did not notice when his blood began to cool and harden on the hem of her dress. She did not even notice when the lock of the door clicked, the bolt being drawn back.

But she did notice when a voice—a well-remembered, well-loved voice—spoke behind her.

“Ella?” Lucinda said. “Is that you?”