Chapter 2: 2 – Leo

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Leo paused at the gate to the old house, a hand on the iron. The overcast sky spit the odd bit of drizzle at him now and then, just enough for water to bead on his blue-and-green sweater, not enough to really be a problem. Besides, he’d be inside soon enough, he hoped.

All his research had told him that the house was big, but he hadn’t realized quite how large it was. Not as big as some, admittedly, but it certainly made a declaration to the world about the owner. It had been a great stately home, built in the late 1800s, an era of servants crowded into small quarters staying out of sight while attending to all the needs of the landowner’s family and their luxurious spacious residence.

Which didn’t mean that the persistent rumours of ghosts concerned only one group or the other. The stories he’d been able to collect locally included a wide variety. A common one involved a housemaid who had been either raped by or in love with the master of the house and got pregnant, who had died by her own hand or that of the master or mistress or her outraged fiance, depending on the version. Another involved a young stableboy who had been bullied and abused until he fell ill and was left to die in the stable. A hybrid variant claimed the master of the house liked young men, possibly with little regard for how they felt. Others included the standard tales of a young woman pining for her lover, who had to go away and never returned, leaving her still walking. History was hard to unearth via mentions in a few books and asking about local legends, let alone to verify, and he’d heard variants of them all about other houses.

It didn’t matter. With so many stories of sightings, there was a high likelihood of lingering presence, especially on Hallowe’en, when the walls between worlds were thin. Belief was too scattered and inconsistent to have much hope of creating anything, but this house would have experienced the vivid highs and lows of life and almost certainly death as well.

It was called the Mallory house, and the name Mallory meant unlucky. Probably it could be taken as bad luck that the house had been occupied for a relatively short time between construction and abandonment—details varied, but averaged out to something like a decade. That probably contributed to the sinister reputation, even if presumably it was just the last name of the owner.

He had no trouble fitting between the gates, and walked up to the front door. It wasn’t yet so dark that he couldn’t see the state of the yard, the driveway, the fountain, the stairs. The condition of the property was a tragedy, like an untimely death: everything went back to dust eventually, but that didn’t mean it should happen prematurely.

Lying on a white marble circular table beside the door was a skeleton key threaded onto a ribbon of some dark colour.

He tried the door and found it locked, but the key fit perfectly and turned without effort. He slid it into the pocket of his faded, colourfully-patched thrift-store jeans before reaching into the sturdy messenger bag at his side. He’d done this before and had a good idea what he should bring, and a good flashlight with extra batteries was high on the list. With that in hand and turned on, he pushed the door open and ventured inside.

The flashlight’s beam picked up the traces of the ostentatious decor that had once served to demonstrate the wealth and influence of the owner. He hadn’t been able to find a map of the building layout, so he was going to have to do some guesswork. The dining room shouldn’t be all that far from the primary door, and from there, he could find his way to the service area of the house, the kitchen and so on that were positioned as far as possible from the main part of the house. Heaven forbid that any trace of the scents or sounds of hard labour reach the gracious owners of the house, after all.

Going straight ahead took him through a wide doorway into an even wider hallway with a few chairs on either side, alternating with small decorative tables and what must be full-height statues, judging by the shapes under the protective sheets. It opened out into an enormous room with more seating, a mixture of chairs and sofas, with more tables and statues, and an immense ornate birdcage by the windows, and a huge fireplace.

He found a dusty music room to one side, but more success on the other: that was unquestionably a formal dining room, dominated by a table big enough for ten. Getting warmer! He found a breakfast room with a smaller circular table and more windows, and they each had a door to the butler’s pantry, a staging area for serving food and a storage place for valuable silver and for other dishes and the various odds and ends that were used to set a formal table. Behind that, he’d be able to find the kitchen, and the scullery—and if any room lent itself to despair and misery, that was it—plus the servants’ hall where they dined and socialized away from their employers while listening for that bell to summon them. The grand rooms might be beautiful, but an awful lot of actual living would be happening in the service area and the servants’ quarters just above, and he’d had success before by focusing there first.

Once he actually found any kind of presence, he could figure out what to do. Did they just not realize yet that they had died? In that case, gently pointing that out might be enough to help them move on. Was there something unfinished keeping them here? His intuition and sensitivity were so high that he should be able to pick up enough details to determine whether he could do it and release them. It could be that he’d find no one, even if he spent the whole night searching. That happened now and then. He didn’t mind. It just meant one more place he could verify was not a trap for anyone.

He didn’t have all that long. He’d spent several days collecting local information, and would soon have to go home, back to work, to paying the bills and being part of everyday life. But when he could arrange these trips, visiting the forgotten places where ghosts lingered and might need a little help to move on to the spirit world... that mattered.

He couldn’t do trance channelling or energy healing or any of the other things he’d seen others who shared his worldview perform, but he could communicate with ghosts, and that came with a responsibility to do so.

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He pulled his favourite accessory, a spear of quartz crystal supported by copper wire and suspended on a cord of braided undyed black wool, out from under his blue-and-green sweater, and wrapped his free hand around it. It had no magic itself, but he was sure it helped his concentration and made him more alert to his surroundings, and he could use all the help he could get on these sorts of searches.

He explored the service area thoroughly, and finally returned to the servants’ hall. It was comfortably large, he had to admit, and would be very bright during the day.

“Hello?” he said to the air, softly. “Is there anyone here? I won’t be afraid. I’d like to help, if I can, but you’ll need to talk to me. I promise to listen to the best of my ability. Do you live here? Did you die here?”

Nothing answered, by sound or by feeling. Undeterred, Leo sat at the great table and closed his eyes, methodically shutting out the physical world in favour of whatever his intuition could tell him.

It was singularly silent.

Finally, he got up, and climbed the narrow, steep back stairs to the servants’ living quarters.

Room after room, tiny and utilitarian, and he got no more sign of psychic presence than he did of mice or insects. The place was completely barren.

The rest of the house might not be, however, and that was a lot of ground to cover, so he’d best get on with it.

Oddly, as he approached the back stairs to go back to the ground floor, he thought he heard the rattling of pots and pans, and an androgynous resonant voice singing. Had someone else snuck into the house? He hoped not—that could complicate matters. But the music didn’t sound familiar at all, and why would someone be preparing food in an abandoned house?

He hastened downstairs to investigate, and discovered, at the bottom of the stairs, that the kitchen was fully illuminated by soft yellowish light, and there were definitely sounds of motion and singing within. He hadn’t seen any electric fixtures, and presumably the power was off anyway; he had seen gas fixtures, but likewise, the gas should be long since disconnected.

Cautiously, he stepped back into the kitchen.

“Ah, company,” the cook said cheerfully. “Do come in and have a seat. What’s your favourite soup? Beef and barley, or chicken noodle? Since you’re right here, you get to choose.”

“Ah... I’m vegetarian,” Leo said, too astonished to do anything but simply reply.

“Tomato vegetable it is. Have a seat, there are stools over there at the table. Just let me get this started and I’ll find you some nice fresh bread and butter.”

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