Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.




Anna clearly thought the old woman was crazy.

“Take care,” the old woman had said, “take care of the house and it will take care of you.” (She seemed, in that moment, more lucid than she had been in some time.)

“Alright,” Anna had replied. But not in the tone of someone who believes or someone who understands. It didn’t matter. There was time.

The girl seemed young. At least, the house thought she was young. It was hard to tell with humans these days. Maybe it had always been hard to tell. Maybe it wasn’t clear what young meant. The other humans called her Anna, and the house accepted this.

Anna was taking the place of the old woman, who had once been referred to as Granny or Ma. No one had called her anything as of late. She had been alone for a long time. When she was younger, she had had a different name, and she would walk through the house slowly, tracing her fingers on the whorls in the wood of the banister, delicately stepping along the fault lines on her toes.

“Hello,” she would say, “you wouldn’t believe how grey the sky is. It’s solid, like steel, like slate, just pushing down with all its greyness. I wish you could see it. Can you see it out the windows, maybe?”

And she would wait, and she would understand, and she would follow up with, “Well, I suppose it’s hard to explain the concept of grey. Like if you took all the dirt in the world and made it the same and spread it out into a thin layer and it were stone and also air but you knew it was really just dirt? Does that make sense?”

And to the house it did.

Years ago she started eating her words. The house wasn’t sure what had happened, but she appeared a ghost of herself of late.

Anna didn’t talk to the house like that. She didn’t talk to the house at all. Sometimes she spoke to herself, occasionally to the plants as she watered them, offering them gentle encouragement. There were nights when she would scream and weep and the house wished the girl could just know she wasn’t completely alone, but it was impossible.

If a house could sigh, this one would have done so many times over. Eventually, it decided on the plants. Its way in would be through the plants.

                                                                     ***

When Granny was young, before she was Granny, before she was even Ma, she was a dancer. The house loved when she danced. Other people would criticize her for landing too loudly, for being too much matter and not enough air, but the house found it comforting. Not many people connected with it in that way. Not many people thought about how gravity drew them all together, tried to make an impact, did so hard enough that it rang through the walls and caused restlessness.

Granny-before-she-was-Granny started bringing home a man. The house called him No, or sometimes Don’t. The house could smell it on him; these two words were his downfall and her downfall and the thing that would make him so, so angry.

The house tried to encourage him away. It prickled itself into leaving splinters, it forced cold drafts through its windows, it blocked up the pipes when he wanted to shower. But No didn’t get angry at the house, because No could never hear the house. He got angry at Granny-before-she-was-Granny.

Granny-before-she-was-Granny got bigger, and then there was some new little human. Angel, Granny called it. No didn’t call it much of anything. Granny had stopped dancing when she got bigger, and the house thought she might start again, might teach Angel, or at least grab the tiny bundle in her arms and twirl her through the air so the house could truly meet her.

Angel grew bigger. Granny grew more still. No shifted the focus of his anger.

                                                                     ***

It was an accident, that’s what all the men in uniforms said when they arrived.  The banister broke in just the right place, or the wrong one, the wind had blown the shards of glass just so—No didn’t have a chance of survival.

The house watched as Angel wept and wept and Granny held still as a stone. Motionless even when the men like little toys came and took Angel away after seeing fading bruises on pale flesh. Granny left for a while, too, but she came back.

“Thank you,” she said, and her voice was different than the voice of the girl she had been.

The house wanted to tell her that it was okay, that it would protect her, but it found it couldn’t talk to her any longer. It wasn’t her age; it had talked to people older than her. It wasn’t her grief; it was an old house, and had seen many things. But it couldn’t tell her any longer that if she brought in another man like No or Don’t it would do the same for her all over again. She just smiled sadly into the silence and patted the wall beside her. She knew there wouldn’t be a response.

                                                                     ***

Anna was quick to wake in the morning. She cleaned, nearly every day, alternating between the rooms. The house had never felt this bright or beautiful, but it worried, too. She didn’t seem happy as she cleaned. She seemed frantic. Her hands weren’t pale but red, and sometimes she inhaled the cleaning chemicals so strongly she would choke for minutes on end. But when they grew too strong, the house would ensure that a window opened nearby, that the scent was diluted.

The house worried about her. There was the time she forgot to turn off the oven, so it had to shut down the gas line itself as she sat there on the kitchen floor, staring into nothingness. That day was cold, but the house made sure to direct all the heat it could towards Anna, so eventually she fell asleep like that, leaning against a cabinet. When she awoke there was a strange look on her face, like she wanted to laugh and to cry and couldn’t manage either. Anna cleaned the stove thoroughly after that, but she didn’t use it again.

                                                                     ***

After No was gone, as Angel grew, as Granny went through her phase of life as “Ma,” she began to turn inward. The hollows beneath her eyes made her seem wan and bedeviled. She talked less and less, to the house, to Angel. It was a slow process, but by the time Angel had left with her own little bundle, by the time the house realized it would never see her again, Granny and the house didn’t communicate at all.

                                                                     ***

Then there was the time Anna fell asleep in her bath, slipping below the water line as it continued to pour. The house thought she would wake then, but her eyes stayed shut. So the house let the drain open, and the water shut off, until she was just lying naked and shivering in the porcelain tub, and the house coaxed the remaining heat into the bathroom. The next day she scrubbed the bathrooms, all of them, until there wasn’t a speck of dirt left.

It wasn’t until Anna stood right where No had fallen, studying the repaired banister, that the house took more direct action.

A pot of irises crashed to the ground. Anna jumped at the sound, spinning around to see what could have caused it. But she was alone. Looking confused, she nonetheless retreated from the banister and set to collecting the plants. The house had been careful not to damage the root system in the fall, though Anna seemed surprised they were still intact.

“Little miracle,” she murmured. And she gently gathered up the larger clumps of earth and the irises and she took them together to put in a large, ceramic bowl. Then she cleaned all the shards of broken pottery and the rest of the dirt and replaced the irises in their beam of sunlight.

The house asked the irises for a favor: could they please bloom the biggest and brightest they ever had? It was for the girl who had saved them. And the irises agreed. Overnight they transformed, and when Anna came downstairs the next morning, her face split into one of the few grins the house had seen.

“Come on,” she said to a nearby planter of chrysanthemums, “let’s see what we can do for you.”

And over the next few days, the house watched with pride as each plant was carefully repotted, and Anna’s hands grew dark with dirt, and the corners between the wall and the floor were no longer spotless. And Anna was less prone to accidents, and she began to leave the windows open, and the house wondered if it might talk to her.

                                                                     ***

“Anna!” Granny said. “What on earth have you done? You were meant to be keeping this clean but look at the state of things! There’s leaves all over the front hall.”

Anna took a step back from where she’d been going to embrace the older woman. “I—I’m sorry. I guess I hadn’t realized.”

“No will not be happy about this,” she said, worrying her thin lip between her teeth. “He’ll be home from work soon.”

Anna’s face contorted slightly. “He—you know he—it’s been years—” A deep sigh. She looked—resigned. “No isn’t—he’s not going to see this. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Granny shouted. “It’s his house, and we have to keep it clean!”

“Okay,” Anna said quietly, “okay. I’ll clean it. Why don’t you go lay down.”

The house wondered when Granny’s footsteps had gotten so faint. She was sure never to disturb anyone as she walked. But there was no joy in her movement, or in her face. Her expression reminded the house of No, of Don’t, of shouting that happened in the past. Anna cleaned the front hall very carefully, scrubbing the spaces between the tiles to make sure nothing remained. The house didn’t feel sparkling. It felt stripped bare.

It worried that night as Anna stood over the tub, as she slipped in. But she didn’t fall asleep and go under. She looked subdued, and the house asked the geraniums to grow extra large for her tomorrow.

“What are those?” Granny asked, pointing at the burnt umber flowers. “They’re hideous.”

“They’re flowers,” Anna replied quietly.

“I know they’re flowers, but they don’t belong here. This house isn’t for the living any longer, can’t you tell? It killed my husband. It’s a place of death.”

No, the house wanted to protest. It’s a place of life. It just stopped the man who was killing her, who was going to kill her child. Who had apparently killed her inside enough, so that now she didn’t dance and didn’t speak to the house and she missed the man who caused the bruises to appear on pale flesh.

“Granny,” said Anna gently, “It’s a house. It can’t kill anyone. It was just an accident that he died.”

Granny laughed but her mouth was twisted down. “An accident? Look at what you’ve done! Broken pots, dirt, the gas line disconnected from the stove!”

No, the house wanted to protest, that was me. I was protecting her. But it didn’t need to, because as Granny spoke, Anna’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re wrong,” she said.

Granny stopped short. “What did you just say?”

“You’re wrong. This isn’t a place of death. This is a place of life. This is a place where flowers bloom and girls aren’t allowed to slip into the nothingness. This is a place that protects the living, Granny, why can’t you see that anymore?”

“It was a place for the living—for me. But since your mother left—just left me here, until she forced me into one of those places—it’s ruined now.” Granny shook her head. “You fool. I was a fool for believing. Only you can protect yourself. And if you can’t, no one else will do it for you. Your mother should have taught you better.” And she gathered herself up and tottered out the door.

Anna stood slowly, and moved a hand to caress the geraniums. “My mother did teach me better. She taught me that mothers protect their daughters.” She looked around, at the floors and the walls and the ceiling, at the tiles and the flowers and the dirt. “I will take care of you,” she said.

“Thank you,” she said.

And the house gathered itself, and knew she understood as it told her, You’re welcome.


​                                                                      💀💀💀


Maia is a symphony of papercuts, banged-up knees, and stubborn determination. She believes in the altruism of strangers, the power of direct action, and the use of the Oxford comma. She strives to offer what she can; here, that offering is her words.
Her book of poetry And My Blood Sang is available here on Amazon.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.


Our Queen came from the longest and purest royal bloodline in history—her many titles and multi-hyphenated name, which she herself struggled to recall, were a testament to that. 

A triumph amongst her siblings, out of the twelve children her mother had birthed, she was the only one to survive into adulthood. Most went still in the womb, some relented within the first months, a few lasted until their early childhood, all leaving behind tiny graves—sweet marble babies fast asleep underneath granite duvets, the deformities that killed them nowhere to be found. Only the Queen wore her dynasty’s signature face long enough for others to remember. Persistent and tenacious as she was, she almost made it to twenty.

In her palace the curtains were always drawn, and the only sources of light were the fireplaces and scattered candles, amber chandeliers reflecting flickers they weren’t allowed to produce. All servants wore soft shoes and spoke in hushed tones—dismissed for making any noise, they tried their hardest to maintain the death-like quiet, until even the creaks of the wooden floor seemed muffled. Still lifes and painted faces lurked from every shadow, the same features repeating themselves endlessly—the Queen’s long face and pointed chin, her glassy, bulging, half-closed eyes—frozen at various stages of development, adorned most walls and reflected in shimmering crystal mirrors. The original, bedridden and locked in, was rarely seen outside of her chambers, a shadow of the glorious Queen reigning within golden frames.

The final painting, finished after her death, showed the young Queen in her prime on a black stallion, back straight, chest puffed, and chin raised. The image sat in a thick gilded wooden frame carved into elegant floral shapes, sharp leaves and thin stalks extending towards the Stately Dining Room, as if they were reaching out to grab onto something. In reality, the Queen posed on an arm of a sofa, arched at an uncomfortable angle, held up by three servants, until she began to wail from the discomfort of it—the face contorted and no longer serviceable as a model, hands slapping the heads and shoulders boxing her in. In the end, her diamond ring cut through the cheek of her chambermaid, smearing blood all over the ruffled cuffs, screams intensifying, saliva dripping onto the layers upon layers of silk, on and on until the Queen’s breath ran too short for her to continue.

The portrait, which informed the marriage negotiations, posed particular challenges. The attempts to make her beautiful rendered the likeness unrecognisable, defeating the purpose of the endeavour. Her painted cheeks were bright and rosy, a striking contrast to her real face which resembled a jellyfish washed out of the sea—transparent and milky, with dark veins peeking through, a blood-filled net suspended in gooey tissue. Her balding head was disguised by a stunning wig made of some woman’s real tresses, teeth painted in, and jaw straightened allowing her to welcome her future partner with a closed-lip smile. He, however, did not need to be introduced to her features, familiar despite never meeting her, on account of being her second cousin and a man quite fond of his own reflection, regardless of how it repelled others. 

As a married woman, the Queen made the effort to dine outside of her bedroom and visit the gardens at least once per week. Her tongue was so swollen she struggled to eat or speak, and her long jaw clicked, the protruded row of teeth failing to meet the one above. Ravenous, she swallowed the food whole, choking often, her bug like eyes searching the room for servants who remained at her side at all times—feeding her, supporting her as she walked, interpreting her ravings, seeking sense in her hallucinations, and more accustomed to the sound of her wet snores and the screech of her teeth grinding in the night than the King ever was.

Those close to the newlyweds plotted and made decisions while the Queen and the King nodded without understanding. Their signatures always looked different, which wasn’t really surprising considering the frequent epileptic attacks and all the shaking. The court was thriving under their reign, all expectations fulfilled but for one. Barren, unable to bear either the children of her husband, or their chief military adviser, whom she was always too weak to push off, the Queen kept failing to deliver an heir. The production of the future king, a grim necessity to all involved, was approached with absolute dedication and cruel persistence, but to no effect.

By the time she reached the age of seventeen, the Queen’s elongated heart began to struggle, shrouding the world with a shimmering curtain of green and blue each time she moved. Her bed was made presentable with expensive silks and embroidery, and became crowded by the world’s best doctors at all times. Her skin was cut, blood spilled into golden bowls every morning and evening, pale arms and legs covered with leeches and blooming in shades of yellow and purple around swollen incisions until the sight made her gag, and the servants had to catch her vomit in a precious Chinese porcelain vase standing on the bedside table. The specialists added small doses of arsenic to her food, made her swallow powdered diamonds, fed her silver and precious stones, covering every inch of the bed in glimmering riches, until her chamber resembled an Egyptian tomb, her face remaining the only colourless object in view. 

She lived on for over a year in a feverish haze, the rot setting in, the rustling of whispers and prayers persisting even in her dreams. The wise men, the astronomers, the scientists and the prophets, the Pope himself and the heads of multiple kingdoms, her subjects and slaves begged the stars, the gods, and fate to save her, but her heart, a delicate meaty contraption, paid them no heed, and stopped all the same. So instead, they opened her up with a sharp, silver knife and removed her blackened womb and shaped a boy, the perfect heir, not recoiling at the smell of the decaying flesh, sculpting in the softness of the flaking tissue, and waited. And waited.

After two days and nights of prayer, the unimaginable happened—the baby screamed. His cry echoed against the marble walls and the ceiling almost ten metres high, building into a piercing cacophony of despair, a sound so saturated with pain, it seemed to contain the wail of his dying mother, the sobs of those who lost their children on blood-soaked battlefields, the lament of those subjected to years stretched into decades and lifetimes of servitude, the sound of skin torn with steel and burned with red hot metal. The cry carried on and on, until it left the palace through one of the seven hundred and twenty windows, and reached the crowd. 

It was a miracle. The nation was saved, and the people rejoiced.

                                                                    💀💀💀


Hana Carolina is a pseudonym of an Edinburgh-based creative and academic writer. Born in Poland, she moved to Scotland and studied literature, film and television for many years. Since then, she has been working as a tutor, interpreter, and researcher, and publishing academically while writing dark stories about horrible people. Her work has been published in Every Day Fiction, Crow & Cross Keys, Five on the Fifth, the Chamber Magazine, BRUISER, The Horror Tree, Black Sheep Magazine, and others. You can find her on X/Twitter @HanaCarolinaSCO and BlueSky @hanacarolina.bsky.social.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.




Mantegna the Psychic opened the cab door and set his extra-special-bought-for-this-occasion patent leather shoes smack into the middle of an enormous puddle. The ice cold water, being just ever so slightly deeper than the tops of his shoes, sent a jolt down his foot, up his leg, into his spine and all the way to the very top of his head. He shivered and scrunched his shoulders to shield his neck from the rain.

The bellhop shouted at the cab driver, “You parked right in the middle of a puddle,” before continuing to unload Mantegna’s suitcases from the rear of the car.

The cabbie just shrugged. When Mantegna slammed the car door, he heard a muffled, “Where’s my tip asshole?”

Mantegna hopped up onto the curb, accompanied by the cabbie’s parting shot, “Thanks for nothing jackass,” as the yellow banana of a car screeched into traffic, where it lurched to a stop mere yards away, after wedging itself into the heavy downtown congestion.

Mantegna growled but let his better angel win. He turned back to the bellhop, just in time to see his flat, puce colored hat and blazer sucked through the revolving door into the lobby of the Lord Elroy Hotel.

The elegant, five star Lord Elroy Hotel — could it really be true? Mantegna gazed at the sign, reading the words for the fourth time, just to be certain. Satisfied (and reassured), he scurried up the steps and entered the legendary property. Inside, he marveled at the dazzling brass, nary a fingerprint to be seen, and the heavy oak panelling, thick as the hull of Old Ironsides. The air was clean, but the ghostly impression of pipe smoke was impossible for him to miss, ingrained in the walls as it was, by more than a century of non-stop smoking.

The bellhop had his nose buried in a newspaper and Mantegna could only see the top of his flat puce hat. He handed over a few bills, grabbed his suitcases and headed for the front desk. 

The clerks were extremely busy. One was fiddling with a fax machine on the back counter. Another was talking loudly into a phone, “No, sir, we do not have all-day breakfast.” A third appeared free, although her face was cast downward as she stared at a glowing screen. 

“Name?” clickety-clack on the keyboard without looking up. “Mantegna, Mantegna, yes, here we are. Hmmm, you’re a guest of the Legal Society?”

Mantegna said that sounded correct.

“A moment sir,” she turned away and flipped open a small cabinet door. He couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, but she finally said, “At last, here’s your key, Mr. Mantegna.” She reached over and dropped it on the counter. “Room 1206,” she closed the small door, just as a phone rang. She turned away to pick up the receiver, “Lord Elroy, please hold,” she held the phone away from her ear, “Mr. Mantegna, everything is in order, you can go to your room.” Then she spoke into the receiver again, “Thank you for waiting, how may I help you?”

She seemed overworked. In fact, all the clerks were occupied. Maybe they needed more staff, Mantegna reflected. Busy or not, he had his key, so he walked towards the elevator with his luggage rolling silently behind him on the soft carpet. The elevator door was open and a man stepped inside, joining a few people already crammed in. The man then leaned sideways, his head around the edge of the door,  and reached out, apparently pressing a floor button. His back screened the other occupants from Mantegna’s view. The door began to close.

“Hey, hold that door,” Mantegna called out and picked up his pace.

“Elevator’s full,” a voice called from narrowing gap.

The doors closed in his face just as Mantegna reached them. He jabbed at the up button, but too late, the elevator was ascending. He watched it climb steadily and pause at three. He started to grumble but his better angel prevailed yet again. He would just have to wait a minute for the next elevator, that’s all.

The fact was, this Legal Society gig was his biggest job yet. Things were finally starting to look up and it would take a lot to upset him right now. He would do his stage show, and several groups of attendees had also booked private seance sessions — very lucrative, and very welcome.

With a ding that prodded him from his thoughts, the elevator opened — now empty. He whistled a little tune and stepped inside. No one joined him as he rode to his floor in solitude. The hall was silent and empty. He spent a quiet evening in his room, and the next morning the hallway was just as deserted. The front desk clerks in the lobby seemed even busier than the previous night, despite attending to no guests. In fact, apart from Mantegna, not a single guest was in sight. 

Like hummingbirds, the clerks flitted here and there behind the counter, answering phones, searching cabinets, sending faxes. None of them stood still long enough for him to get a good look at their face. Come to think of it, last night had been the same. He was unable to recall a single face. How strange.

He shrugged and made his way to the restaurant. What he found was not good for his rumbling stomach. Closed — the damn place was closed. He bit his lip, counted to three and reestablished his mood. Bring it on baby. Nothing could bring him down. A handwritten not was taped to the door — it mentioned vague apologies to the valued guests. Blah, blah and blah. The kitchen had been closed for urgent work. Come back for lunch.  

In the meantime, the note mentioned, he could go to the café next door for breakfast. They would even take room charges. He spun on his heel. See — it wasn’t so bad after all, told himself. He went back to the lobby, where he discovered something very strange — the revolving door was gone. At least it was definitely not where he remembered. He looked for a bellhop. Naturally, none were present. 
He looked over to the front desk to get his bearings. That, at least, was exactly as he remembered. When he came through the doors last night, the desk was on his right, just as it was now. So where was the door? He turned around and took in the expansive wall, bordered on either side by semi-translucent windows. He made out the cloudy motion of vehicles passing by and the slower, perpendicular shapes of pedestrians bobbling along. The door was gone. Goddammit.

Was he going crazy? He circled the room. Maybe there were two lobbies. Could it be? One, with a door to the street, the other with only some strange interior access. That must be. He probably got on the wrong elevator and ended up on some mysterious level of the hotel. Now, if only he could find some someone, anyone, to give him directions.

There was a bellhop — the flat, puce hat loping across the expanse of the lobby.
“Excuse me,” he raised his hand, “I just need some directions.”

Mantegna hurried after the bellhop, who refused to spare him even the hint of a glance. In fact, he now seemed to be increasing his speed. The faster Mantegna hurried, the faster the bellhop scurried. He was heading for a door marked employees only. Mantega doubled down and broke into a run. He sucked in air and sprinted across the carpet, trying to cut off the bellhop, who was setting a pretty decent speed-walking pace by this point.

The bellhop reached the door first, sliding through. Mantegna poured on the speed but was hobbled by a stitch in his side. He watched the door close, ever so slowly, and he reached out, wedged his hand in the door and miraculously prevented its closure.

“Hey, excuse me,” he huffed his words into the narrow gap, “I could use a little help here.”
​
He tried to shove his shoulder into the door, to push it open, but it wouldn’t move another inch. The bellhop seemed to be on the other side, somehow braced against the door. Was he pushing back goddammit? Mantega leaned forward like a linebacker and heaved the door open just enough for him to get his head around the corner. He tried to get a look at the bellhop’s face but the frantic employee turned his head sharply away and pushed even harder against the door.

Mantegna growled and fought back with all his might until, at last, the bellhop surrendered. The door lurched open. The bellhop brought his hand up, hiding his face, and walked away. Mantegna entered the doorway and saw it led into a shadowy hallway with earwax colored carpet.

The bellhop was already impossibly far away, hardly visible under the obscure lighting in the far reaches of the hall.

The door was closing behind him now and Mantegna’s alarm bells started going off. He didn’t think it would be such a good idea to be on this side of the door when it closed. He started to sweat and recognized the first signs of panic. He bolted for the door, crashed through and fell face-first into the lobby.

The front desk clerks were there, of course, busy as always. Naturally — bellhops now crisscrossed the wide room. A family, their backs to him, entered the elevator just at the doors were closing. The revolving door was still missing. Mantegna took a few deep breaths to rally his courage and crawled back to his feet.

He staggered to the front desk, his beating heart pumping away his previous bliss with the surge of each trembling pulse. The truth was, he had felt uneasy even since he climbed out of the yellow cab the night before, he had just refused to acknowledge his growing unease. But it was more than unease now.
Whatever was going on, he had get to the bottom of it. He had to be ready for his performance. He banged on the service bell at the counter. There were four clerks busying themselves with a variety of tasks, and not a single one looked his way. Why did they never let him see their faces? 

“Just one moment sir,” one said.

“Thank you for your patience,” said another.

“Goddammit,” growled Mantegna. What would it take?

Just as he was thinking about taking his chances with the employee-only corridor, he saw something so amazing, something so wonderful, that hope fluttered aloft in his chest like a paper airplane in a breeze — he saw a face. An older man, with clipped, graying hair and reading spectacles, perhaps in his late sixties, was standing by a counter inside the office behind the front desk. The door was open and Mantegna could see him, flipping through a  stack of files.

“Hello,” he called out. The man continued examining his files.  “Hello,” Mantegna waved his hands. The man glanced his way, peering over his spectacles which were in the process of sliding down his nose. He pushed them back up with a practiced gesture and turned back to his files.

Mantegna was relentless. He even tried to scramble over the counter but two bellhops restrained him from behind. But his tactics worked and the man finally looked his way again. As the bellhops yanked him backwards and set his feet on the lobby floor, the man strolled to the counter.

“Can you — see me?” he asked, his voice tentative and halting, as if Mantegna could only be a mirage, certain to evaporate when directly addressed.

“Yes, yes yes, oh yes,” Mantegna shouted in relief, “Can you see me?”

The man rocked backwards, shocked by his enthusiasm, but he soon collected his wits and smiled back. “Oh yes, I most certainly can.”

With that, he turned around and ran back inside the office and slammed the door.
Mantegna’s heart sank again. What a freakin’ roller coaster. “Wait, don’t go,” he called out.

He heard another door slamming and the man’s muffled voice from inside the office, “Hold on, don’t move.” Seconds later, he bustled around the corner, now appearing on Mantegna’s side of the counter. He grabbed Mantegna’s hand and pumped it like a thirsty Texas cowpoke at the ranch well. 

Mantegna finally got his chance to ask, “Just what in the hell is going on around here?”

“I have to apologize because it’s probably my fault, but I think you’re here to see me,” the man said, looking sideways with a guilty wince.

“To see you? What does that mean?”

“Follow me,” the man led Mantegna through a side door into the accounting office behind the front desk. “For decades, I was the night auditor here at the Elroy,” the man said, “This was my office, and, you might as well say, it was my life. I spent every night here, balancing the books for the accountants the next day. More than fifty years and never once out of balance. Not many can say as much.”

“What happened to cause all this?” Mantegna asked, waving his hands around.

“One night in 1998, just as I finished up the books — as always, balanced to the penny — I felt this sensation of pressure in my chest. Then shortness of breath. Then there was  a flash of light, and when I could see again, there I was, still at my desk. But I could see my body. I was face down in my ledger — heart attack,” the night auditor said.

“So you died here at the Elroy?” Mantegna asked.

“In the very office right here, behind the counter,” the man nodded. “I just didn’t know what to do when it happened. So I did what I always had done, I kept coming to work.”

Mantegna shook his head in wonder. All these years?

The auditor continued, “For many years I sat with my many replacements. There was such a steady stream of them coming and going. It’s a rare night when the books balance these days, let me tell you. They leave everything for accounting to deal with in the morning.”

His brow was furrowed and there was a line forming between his eyes. The last thing Mantegna wanted was an angry ghost on his hands so he prodded him to continue, “The younger generation — what can I say?” he shrugged. 

“I gave up on them,” the night auditor said, nodding his agreement. “They were beyond help. No matter what I said or did, they never even looked at me. Even when I tried to move things, it didn’t help. I would roll their pen off the desk, or make a sound, and it made no difference. They would always look away.

“Just like what’s happening to me,” Mantegna said.

“Yes, exactly,” the ghost agreed. “In this place, the living will always look away.”

“Am I dead?” Mantegna asked, suddenly more than a little worried. Still, he was pretty sure he wasn’t dead. He had been in a few strange situations before. This was probably like that. Nothing to worry about. Even so, he felt a pleasant pang of relief when the ghost shook his head. Not dead. That’s always a good start anyway. Still, he had questions.

“You said you brought me here,” he said, “What can I do for you?”

“I have been caught in this limbo between worlds for many years now — I just can’t move on.”

“To the afterlife you mean?”

The man nodded.

He thinks I can help him, Mantegna thought. Unquiet spirits had sought him out in the past. Somehow, these spirits found him, usually to deliver some last message to the land of the living. Never before had a ghost asked him for advice. To make things worse, he seemed to be at the mercy of this confused spirit. One way or another, he was trapped in this hotel purgatory.

“Do you have any unfinished business?” Mantegna asked.

The spirit shook his head. No.

“Family or lost loves to share any parting words with?”

“I had only my work,” the ghost said, “I never married. I had no family.”

The auditor, who up until this moment had seemed solid, now seemed gray and translucent, faded somehow. The sadness of his empty life was ravaging the night auditor’s soul. Perhaps in time, perhaps even soon, this malaise would spread and the fabric of his spirit would collapse into tatters and dissolve into nothingness. There could be no afterlife for such a soul, in the end it would be as if he had never lived.

Mantegna felt a deep sorrow for the man — aafter more than seventy living years and a couple decades of this miserable afterlife, the night auditor remained a cipher, even to himself. What could he do for such a man? He watched the fibers of this spirit fraying before his eyes. Mantegna could see right through him, he could see the calendar on the wall. It was so clear to him, he could even read the date — November, 1948. Mantegna walked around the miserable shade and laid the palm of his hand on the sheet of paper. The auditor would have been a young man. Mantegna closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, he was still in the office, but everything had changed. Instead of a ghostly specter, the auditor was now real flesh and blood — and young, almost boyish. The calendar date remained November, 1948. 

The smell of cigarette smoke was in the air. Brimming ashtrays lurked everywhere, waiting to be emptied. The clock showed a quarter after ten and a radio was playing something that sounded disturbingly cheerful. Mantegna shivered — something, something, buttons and bows, something, something, other things — the song was like crack, one hit of that chorus and he knew he would be humming it for days.

 A young woman was seated at one of the desks and the auditor himself was talking with a short, bearded man wearing a green jacket.

“Here’s the deposits,” the man told the young auditor. He handed over a wooden cash box. He slapped a stack of slips on top, “And here’s the room charges.”

He took the box and stack of papers from the green-jacketed man and handed them over to the woman. The green-jacketed man, his mission accomplished, said goodnight and scurried out of the room.  The auditor returned to his desk, sitting across from the woman. 

The present day night ghostly auditor appeared from nowhere at his elbow,  “Her name was Della,” he whispered.

Della opened the cash box and began counting the bills. She hummed along with the music. Something, something, rings and things — Mantegna gritted his teeth. The auditor began copying the room charge slips into his ledger. They worked in silence.

“Her husband died in the war,” he offered. Mantegna noticed a warmth in the man’s voice he had not previously detected. Could it be, this ghost wasn’t quite the hollow husk that he appeared to be.

“She had two children to provide for,” the spectral man continued, “and we worked together every night for a few years. Then one day she was gone.”

“Just like that?” Mantegna asked, “And you don’t know why?”

The ghost mumbled, “We didn’t talk about — personal things.”

“You worked together for years and you don’t even know why she left?” As a stage psychic, Mantegna had learned to read people pretty well, but even he was staggered by the sheer level of paralyzing reticence on display. Then again, like his father always said — listen boy, not everyone yaps on endlessly about whatever pops into their heads.

The auditor continued, “I expect she got married and moved out of state. Yes, I believe that’s what happened. I seem to recall the housekeepers had a sendoff party for her.”

“Did you go?” Mantegna asked.

“I — no,” he hung his head, “She probably didn’t even notice I wasn’t there. I’m sure she had a happy life, wherever she ended up.”

Della chose that moment to look up from her paperwork. She took a sip from her coffee and looked at the clock — 4am. She looked over at the seated Darling, head down, buried in the ledgers. “We should go for breakfast when our shift’s over. Would you come Mr. Darling? A little sunlight would do us good.”

Mr. Darling? So that was his name. The auditor looked up from his books, “I have to stay late this morning Mrs. Piper, a meeting with the accountants you see.”

“Ahh, right,” she said, “Well, that’s important I suppose.” Mantegna couldn’t help but notice the downcast look on her face even though she (unnecessarily) hid it from the auditor.

“Why didn’t you go?” he asked the older ghost.

The auditor looked away, “I had a meeting of course, just as I told her.” He turned and walked to the door. “I’m sure she had a wonderful life,” he said, leaving Mantegna alone with the two apparitions from the past.

Mantega approached the desk and looked down at the bookkeepers, their heads down. They were facing each other, yes, but not looking, not seeing, at least the night auditor. He took a chance and reached out, covering Della’s hand. Even though she was an apparition, she felt warm and real. His touch raised goosebumps on her forearms and she shivered.

“Mr. Darling, is it cold in here?” she asked. Darling shook his head, not looking up.
Mantegna maintained contact and closed his eyes. He began to see images, scenes like a movie playing inside his eyelids. They were at a small party at a restaurant. Della was there, a half dozen other ladies, some in their hotel uniforms, even a couple of bellhops. This must be the going away party the housekeepers threw for Della.

They were all chatting and having a good time. The coffee and cake was circulating and Della was happy — or maybe happy looking was a better way of putting it. Every now and then she glanced at the door, lingered for a moment and then turned back to the party.

“Did any of you talk to Perry?” she asked a couple of bellhops. They looked blankly at her so she added, “Mr. Darling, the night auditor, did he say he would come?”

“That cold fish?” one of them laughed. “Good luck seeing him out of the office.”
“He probably went home, to the bottom of the East River, to be with the all the other fish.”

“Nah, he’s by himself, no fish can survive down there.”

They all laughed, except for Della.

The scene changed, now back to the office — the same stacks of ledgers, the same coffee thermos. They stood facing each other. Darling held out his hand. She brushed it aside and gave him a hug. 

“I’ll miss you Mr. Darling — Perry”, she said.

“Good luck in the future Mrs. Piper,” the look of shock from her hug still on his face.
Mantegna saw tears in her eyes.

“Call me Della, please Perry,” she said.

The scene faded and a new vision presented itself — there was Della, along with her two small children. Darling had been right — there was a man. He and Della were not married, but still he was there, and that was enough for Della to give her children what they needed. At least at first.

The children grew older, and the man became abusive. Verbal remarks gave way to yelling. The yelling steadily escalated to shoving. She showed Mantegna fragments of what had been.

The man slapping her. They were not his children anyway, he yelled, so who cares?
She was trapped, unable to return to the city, unable to leave, with no family to help.

Her children grew unhappy. They were scared of the man — the man she had, after all, brought into their life.

The boy, in trouble — in and out of jail. 

The girl, leaving at sixteen, never to return.

Della leaving when her kids were gone. 

He saw her working as a clerk in a department store. She never met anyone else. She never saw her children again and she spent her remaining years in her apartment, alone, growing more bitter as each year passed. At the end she was no longer recognizable to Mantegna. The young woman he first saw in his visions was gone.

Finally Mantegna lifted his hand away from hers and, in a blink, they returned to the office. There sat Della and Perry, carefully checking their numbers, carefully looking away.

“Skip the meeting Perry,” Mantegna said to the suffering spirit at his elbow.

“I — how? It’s too late for me,” the creaky ghost protested.

“Just try, sit down there and try,” Mantegna ordered. He had to get something going or he could be stuck in Darling’s personal purgatory forever.

Darling stood beside his younger self, chewing his lip. Mantegna waved him down, and at last the ghost closed his eyes and sat. His immaterial form settled into his younger self.

Mantegna watched the forms merge. Nothing changed. Della did not look up. Darling continued scratching away with his pen — but then, he stopped. He looked up over his heap of papers, like a prairie dog from its burrow.  The ghost was gone now, submerged in his younger self — lost in time and reliving the past. Mantegna crossed his fingers.

“Have a spine Perry, have a spine,” he murmured under his breath.

Darling at last blurted out, “You know, Della, let’s grab that breakfast you mentioned.”

She looked up, eyes round in surprise.

“Ohh, but what about your meeting?” she said.

“Don’t worry about the meeting,” he replied, “We deserve a break, just like everyone else.”

They were smiling now, looking into one another’s eyes. Mantegna patted himself on the shoulder. Now that they were all lovey-dovey, would he finally get to leave? The office scene vanished and Mantegna was abruptly back in the lobby. Was that it? Was that enough to get me out of here? He rang the service bell.

A clerk backed out of the office, balancing a tottering stack of files.

“One minute sir,” the clerk said just before he promptly vanished around the corner.

Damn, still here, Mantegna cursed. He sank to the floor and leaned his back against the counter. His ran his hands over the plush carpet, a shade of orangey brown that reminded him of old cheese. Well, it hides the dirt, I suppose, he thought. He was out of ideas. Goddamn, this night auditor was one tough nut to crack.

He leaned his head against the counter, and was looking up at the ceiling when he heard his name. He opened his eyes. There was Darling, peering over the countertop, his face inverted, from Mantegna’s point of view.

“Mr. Mantegna, Mr. Mantegna,” he said, “Wait til you hear what happened.”

Mantegna struggled to his feet and slapped a smile on his face. Come on, he thought. As his father used to say, the show must go on. The excited night auditor breathlessly related a tale about how he had for years been trapped inside an awful dream — a nightmare really — where his life was spent miserable and alone. He had only just awoke, and could not express his relief when the details of his life with Della had come flooding back.

Mantegna sighed, “Why are we still here Perry?”

“What do you mean?” the ghostly auditor asked.

“You found the love of your life and didn’t die alone. Shouldn’t you be moving on? Della must be waiting for you in the afterlife. Why are you lingering in this limbo?”

The ghost looked confused and mumbled “I’m not ready to go. I’m truly sorry, but someone is keeping me here.”

“I don’t understand,” Mantegna said.

“An innocent person died because of me. She won’t let go until she has justice.”
Mantegna was willing to bet, that even now with a family at home, the night auditor wasn’t anyone’s idea of a party animal. The idea that anyone could be dead because of this wish-washy wimp seemed ridiculous.

“Have you ever heard of the Baby Garret Murder?”

Mantegna shook his head.

“Let me show you.”

Before Mantegna knew what was happening, he was again transported into the office of yesteryear. This time the calendar reported August, 1971. Things looked about the same — still stacked with brimming ashtrays, still a radio on the counter, just a little smaller — and plastic. Darling was there at his desk, a little older maybe, but as dedicated as ever to his books. Della was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she took a job elsewhere in the intervening years, or she was home for some reason.

Mantegna was startled by the ghostly Darling appearing beside him. “If she had been here, I know things would have been different,” the ghost mumbled. Together they watched his younger self jab a pile of slips onto the spike file beside his ashtray. Mantegna shivered, those things gave him the creeps. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if he accidentally missed with the paper and transfixed his own hand. With some effort, he looked away from the evil device.

The time was five after four according to the clock. Darling ambled to the coffee pot on the counter to top up his cup with the motor oil brew. He paused, pot in hand, and cocked his head as if to listen for a noise. Mantegna joined him at the counter. A sound was coming from the air duct in the wall above the counter. Voices. Darling turned off the radio. Yes, there it was — two men, talking in heated voices. Mantegna strained to listen to the sounds wafting from the ventilation system.

The first voice, reedy and high, “Did the cops take her away?”

“Yes,” a second voice, deeper, calmer, “She’s been arrested, charges will come.”
The first voice again, “Christ, I need a drink.” After a pause, “You’re sure they believed my story?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t they? Your father owns half the state and she’s not even a citizen.”

“I just want to be sure, dammit,” the first voice said. “If they suspect what really happened, they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.” Mantegna detected more than a trace of hysteria in those last words.

“Get a hold of yourself,” the second voice reassured, “That will never happen.”

The younger Darling was now still as a statue, perhaps trying to make sense of what he had heard. After a moment, he took his sludgy coffee back to his desk, lit a cigarette and picked up another stack of slips.

Mantegna looked for the ghostly present-day Darling. There he was, hovering at the edge of the room.

“What was that about?” Mantegna asked.

The night auditor didn’t answer. Instead he hid his face in his hands and shuddered.
 
“Perry, tell me what this is about. Why am I here?” Mantegna demanded.

“She died,” the ghost sobbed. “The baby died, two days later. So they executed the girl.”

“You’re not making sense,” Mantegna said, “What baby? What girl?”

He dropped his hands from his face and told the terrible story. That night, the night they had just watched, a baby had been injured in one of the suites —severely injured. The mother was out, her parents were staying in the hotel and they were all in the dining room when it happened. Only the baby’s father was in the room — along with the nanny.

After the injury, the nanny called emergency. Paramedics and police showed up, and at first, they suspected the father, who had been drinking. But before long the police turned their suspicions on the nanny and arrested her shortly thereafter. Two days later the baby died and the nanny was charged with murder. After the guilty verdict, she was executed.

“Those voices from the duct,” Mantegna asked, “the father?”

“Yes, and his father’s majordomo, his fixer,” Darling said. “Like he said, the family owned half the state.”

“And you didn’t tell the police what you heard?”

“No, I — I didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t know the baby would die, I swear. When the news came, I was afraid to tell the police because of how long I had waited. The nanny was an Au Pair. Nobody believed her. It was her word against the father, and the family was so rich, she never stood a chance.”

“Maybe you could have saved her,” Mantegna said, “Or at least tried.”

“It haunts me,” the ghost said, “ and I can’t leave. She keeps us all here.” He pointed over Mantegna’s shoulder.

A young woman stood behind him — dark haired, beautiful — in her arms a sleeping baby. Mantegna turned towards her, Darling’s ghost tugging at his arm.

“She keeps me here,” he whispered, his voice dry as a corn husk. “She came from Europe — from Spain — to serve as an Au Pair for a year.

The woman looked at Mantegna, her eyes like magnets. She didn’t seem to want to talk and instead seemed content to let Darling tell her story.

“The baby, is that the —”

“Yes,” Darling said, “that’s the baby who died. Bernard Garrett III.”

“Why doesn’t she speak?” Mantegna asked.

“When the guilt verdict was returned and the sentence came down, she cursed the courtroom. As they dragged her away, her last screams were in Spanish. After that she never uttered another word, even at the very end, when they shaved her head, blindfolded her and strapped her in the chair.”

“What did she say in this curse?”

“She said that everyone who knows the truth and holds their tongue will never sleep until justice is done,” the ghost recited. “She has been true to her word ever since and keeps us all here.”

“All? Are there more of you?”

Darling looked at him, eyes wide, “Oh yes, there are more.”

In front of the woman, Mantegna could see several other figures now, where before there were none. The first of those were two men, one short, bald, the other, tall and thin, both unshaven, in cheap looking crumpled suits.

“The detectives,” Darling whispered.

“We knew but had no proof,” the first detective said.

“The family was too powerful, how could we stand up against them?” said the second.

“The chief said to arrest the girl. It wasn’t our fault,” they said together.

Then, another man came forward, his short hair and round head made it look as if he was wearing a helmet. “The father’s majordomo,” Darling mumbled in his ear.

“I was only doing my job,” the round-headed man said, “Doing what was best for the family. Only what they paid me to do. No more. No less. How could I be to blame? It wasn’t my fault.”

An elderly couple was next, frail and distinguished looking, the man with silver hair, the woman bedecked in pearls. “The father’s parents,” Darling said.

“My boy could never hurt his own child,” the mother said, “It’s just not in his nature.”

“Can you imagine the scandal if it got out?” the father said. “The press would have a field day dragging our family name through the mud.”

“We did what we did to protect the family,” the mother moaned.

“What happened to the nanny was sad, but it wasn’t our fault,” the father said.

A young woman, stood alone, with wide, sad blue eyes and her hat in her hands. “The baby’s mother,” Darling whispered.

“Oh god, what could I do? I knew he killed Bernie. He was drunk and crazy. But I was so scared. You don’t know that family. They would have killed me too. I was helpless. It wasn’t my fault.”

A man came forward, he wore dark robes and sported a razor-sharp, pencil-thin mustache. “The judge,” poor Darling murmured.

“I can only judge a case based on the facts presented,” the man said. “How could I do otherwise? Surely you understand? Besides, the family was always so generous. Their donations kept me on the bench all those years. Think of all the good work I did. Would you erase all of that for just one woman? One foreign woman? Justice is blind. It’s not my fault.”

Then one last, final figure stood before him — a slouching man with receding hair and a red nose. “The baby’s father,” Darling spat, the pathetic spirit at last showing some fire.

“I never meant to kill poor Bernie,” he said. “He just wouldn’t stop crying and the damned girl wouldn’t do a thing to shut him up. It was just a mistake, I only wanted him to be quiet. It wasn’t my fault.”

Mantegna stared at the figures in front of him in shock. Were all these people, all these tortured spirits, held prisoner by this curse? The crowd parted for the woman as she walked forward. Each one faced her in silence with a bowed head. Her anger was real — fiery and palpable — forged by the heat of this calamitous miscarriage of justice.

“Her curse keeps all of you trapped here?” Mantega asked the night auditor’s ghost.
The man nodded and hung his head, from shame or weariness Mantegna couldn’t say. Perhaps it was both. His problem was now clear — the Spanish Au Pair nanny was holding the night auditor here. He, in turn, had drawn Mantegna into this mess.
Why did all these crazy spirits seemed to want to dump their problems on him? He gazed over the enthralled figures, from the detectives, to the baby’s family, and even the night auditor. What a pathetic collection of lost souls, trapped as they were in the Au Pair nanny’s web.

He considered them and made his decision. Like his father always said — boy, stop burning daylight, I haven’t got all goddamn day.

 Of all of the ghosts, the majordomo seemed to him like weakest link. 

“Perry, let’s go back to the office in 1971,” he said.

The night auditor looked flustered at first. He glanced at the Au Pair nanny. Mantegna noticed her slight nod, then he blinked and he and the night auditor were again alone in the office, watching his younger self balance the books, the calendar again on August, 1971.

Mantegna rushed out and stood behind the front desk. There was a small crowd in the lobby — police, paramedics, hotel staff and members of the baby’s family.
He scanned the faces, finding the pair he was looking for — the detectives. He crawled over the desk and approached the men. This was not the first time Mantegna had ever found himself in this type of situation and he knew he had to shake things up. He seized both men by their hands and established his link.

He pushed a vision of the duct grate laying on the counter where Darling had set it down. He showed the night auditor standing, hand cupped to his ear, listening. He let them hear the conversation between the majordomo and the perpetrator’s father.

When the conversation was over, he hurried back to the front desk, vaulted the counter and ran into the office. The younger Darling was just beginning to rise, preparing to refill his coffee. Mantegna hurried to the duct and tore the grate from the wall.

He had no idea if it would work, but work it did, and the grate went flying. The duct was left wide open. Darling, having seen the grate fly off the wall, had frozen, empty cup shattered on the floor beside him, his jaw hanging open. 

The two detectives hurried into the room and stopped at the threshold. Their eyes went to the exposed duct and the grating on the floor. They silently slunk to the counter and stood huddled beneath the opening and listened as the majordomo and the father began to speak. They quietly took in the entire conversation. 

“Dammit, dammit, god damn” the bald one said, “I knew that rat was lying to us.”

His partner shook his head, “How can we go to the chief with this? We already arrested the girl for Chrissakes.”

“How about we just put that there grate back up on the wall and make like we heard nothin’?”

Mantegna felt his stomach roll over. People never failed to surprise him— in all the wrong ways.

The thin one looked at his partner, his eyes narrowed, “Will that work?”

His partner laughed, “Yeah, so long as we don’t piss off the chief.”

After a chuckle, the thin one said, “Ok, ok, so we’ll just never mention this again, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Sounds —,” his partner’s reply was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

They pivoted on their heels and blinked at Darling. He stood there in his brown jacket, his brown hair, his brown pants — perfectly camouflaged against the brown carpet and brown curtains.

Mantegna had to laugh. Darling really did look like one of those bugs whose pattern and coloration so closely reflect their environment that they are invisible until they start to move. Unlike Mantegna, the detectives didn’t find anything funny about their current situation. Mantegna saw murder in their eyes. What if they went after Darling?

His worry lasted less than a second, and was instantly dispelled when a front desk clerk appeared at the door.

“Perry, Della called,” the clerk said, “She’s wants to know what to get you for breakfast, said she’ll bring it in when she starts her shift.”

The clerk then noticed the shattered coffee cup and the pair of detectives under the open duct.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “Can I help you?”

There was a moment of silence, finally broken by Darling, “Gentlemen?”

Mantegna was still smiling as the vision began to dissolve and he found himself once again in the same office, present day. The collection of ghosts that had surrounded the nanny had apparently departed, leaving only her, with the baby still in her arms, and, of course, Darling. They were waving at him.

Darling seemed reborn. The dreary workaholic who dropped dead at his desk was gone, replaced by the young auditor, full of hope. The nanny hugged the baby, kissed his cheek. Their voices broke the silence, coming to him as if from a great distance.

“Thank you,” he heard them say.

A bright light began to shine behind them and they began to slowly fade away. Blurry edges became gauzy forms, washed out by the brightening light like an ice cube in hot water. Before long, they were gone, their last words in his ears like the remembered winds of last winter’s snowstorms.

Mantegna looked around. He was standing at the front desk. What year was it? Hell, was this even real?

“Sir? Can I help you?” the clerk repeated.

He blinked several times, he looked at the clerk’s face, not without a feeling a dread. What if this still wasn’t over? He didn’t think he would be able to handle that. The clerk however, returned his glance — and, he didn’t look away. Thank God.

“Uh, I was just wondering when the dining room will reopen?” he said lamely.

“Reopen? It was never closed,” the clerk pointed across the lobby. Sure enough the doors were wide open. “It’s open right now.” You dummy. Except he didn’t say it. Mantegna knew it was what he was thinking.  He was, after all, a psychic.

Mantegna mumbled a few words of thanks and headed for the restaurant. Soon he was seated at a table with his morning coffee. He pulled out his phone and did a search for the Baby Garrett Murder. The story popped up. Bernard Garrett II was found guilty of the accidental death of his son Bernard Garrett III and spent ten years in prison.

Mr. Garrett was the scion of the Garrett coal mining dynasty and the events proved devastating for the family. His father died shortly thereafter and his mother later remarried Reginald Duclose, the Garrett’s former majordomo. The case was interesting because the police had originally charged the Garrett’s Spanish Au Pair nanny, but a pair of steadfast detectives were credited with uncovering the truth. Mantegna shivered and put down his phone.

Late that afternoon, his show now over, Mantegna sat at another table, signing autographs. Autographs? Me? Why would anyone want that? he wondered — but, for whatever reason, it seemed like they did, and so he found himself scratching away with a marker. It wasn’t so bad —  and he did love to chat after all.

The line slowly dwindled until the last attendee — a young woman —  sat down across from him. She slid a small envelope his way. He immediately readied his pen, but she reached out in alarm.

“No, no, don’t sign it,” she said, “It’s a note, for you.”

“For me? Who is it from?” He glanced at her name tag: Fiona Darling.

“It’s from my grandfather,” she said.

He examined the envelope, now noticing the aged, yellow paper, so brittle in his hands. He carefully extracted the note, gently unfolding it and laying it flat. It was from Perry Darling, the night auditor. 

“Dear Mr. Mantegna, Thanks for all your help back in ’71. You saved my life.” That’s all it said. It was signed Perry Darling and dated June, 2005.

“He gave it to my mother, and she gave it to me,” Fiona said. “Correct me but I don’t see how you could have been alive in 1971.”

“I was born in the nineties,” Mantegna said.

“How did he know about you?” she asked.

“Well, I am a psychic,” he said.

 She smirked, “I would almost say this is total crap, except — ”

“Except what?” Mantegna asked.

“Except he told my mother the exact time and place to deliver this letter,” she said. “I never believed, but I came just to see — out of curiosity mostly — and there you are.”

“And here I am,” Mantegna agreed. Here I am.


                                                               💀💀💀


Geoffrey Marshall is a writer in Aurora, Canada. He knows just enough to be dangerous (mostly to himself) in several different fields. You can find his work in The Ansible, Academy of the Heart and Mind and the September 2022 issue of MoonPark Review. His education never really took, through no fault of his instructors (debatable) but he did manage to acquire a BA in English Literature from Carleton University. Find him on twitter @g_k_marshall.