Mina ✓

•|chapter fifteen(ii): the ghost of mina [1882]

That night the sleepless Jonathan had secluded himself in his bedroom, playing a most melancholic tune on his violin.

The tunes were sharp and pierced the otherwise uncomfortable silence that night brought upon the town. His attuned fingers moved faster than the twirling ballerina whilst his eyes were closed in deep concentration. If there was anything in common that the three siblings shared, it was their love for music.

While Jonathan's skills lay with the violin there was no one in the town who could beat Johansson when it came to playing the flute. And Mina? She was good at both the instruments and had the sweetest voice among the three. Music was a shared gift that they had inherited from their forefathers.

He put the violin upon the bed beside, putting a hand upon his eyes. Why did he have to think of her again tonight? He was irritated with himself and his thoughts. Mina was dead and gone, gone forever, a thing he had ensured himself. There was no use thinking of her anymore.

Opening his eyes he looked over at the violin. Made of precious walnut wood with streaks of gold all over, the violin was a thing Jonathan held close to his heart. Yet soon he would have to part with it, he would have to sell it to pay those two goons their increased amount.

"Those bloody cockroaches!" He muttered angrily, clenching his fist till his knuckles turned white. He could not believe that people of their class would dare behave with him like this. Yet he could not downright deny paying the amount; they could easily spill all his secrets, from the mystery behind the death of Felicity Rose, the disappearance of his sister and the history of his debts.

Jonathan sighed. Those dreaded debts. They were once who had brought all these troubles. Clutched tightly in the grasp of grief, Jonathan had resorted to gambling. A meagre thing, really just a matter of a few bucks.

But as time went by the amount increased and Jonathan began to lose constantly until at last, he accumulated such a large debt that his creditors had made clear their intentions of massacring the entire family to retrieve the money.

He was left with no other way but to fabricate the signatures of his siblings and sell a major part of their ancestral estate to pay the debts. But the murders? They were never meant to be if Felicity had not overheard his conversations with those crooks.

He feared and rightly feared that upon knowing of his deeds his siblings, especially Mina, given her woman's nature, shall surely take legal actions against him, rendering him of the little dignity he had left, making him a beggar of the streets.

He was so lost in his thoughts that had not even felt the seeping chill at first. He had not noticed the swirls of mist forming at the base of the chair he sat on or his bed, despite both the windows in the room being shut tight. He had not noticed the phantom behind his back, not until the whisper sounded.

"Mina...Mina..."

At that instant, Jonathan's bones chilled while his heart stopped its motion. He felt his toes and fingers numbing with the chill. A disturbing feeling of someone staring at him from behind arose in his mind.

"But I had closed the door!" Exclaiming in surprise he turned around, the sight rendering him speechless. His mouth remained agape resembling the letter 'O'. Despite the form being all misty and smoky, there was no mistaking that face. He knew it too well.

It was Mina. No matter how far-fetched the situation seemed, it was his sister standing behind him, her expression cold and blank. Jonathan rubbed his eyes in disbelief. How could his dead sister, the whom he had murdered with his own hands, be standing in his room? Wasn't it incredulous?

"Mina...Mina..."

His own voice, demented and demonic resounded in his ears. He sat still with fear, transfixed by the spirit. The ghost of Mina advanced slowly towards him spreading the otherworldly chill and mist with every step. The end played out in front of Jonathan's eyes.

He was going to be killed alone in his bedroom by the spirit of his sister. The next morning Johansson would find his cold, hard body lying limp upon this chair. What would the townsfolk say though? Would they say that he died due to a heart attack, in the shock of his sister's disappearance? But what about Winona? How would she bear the pain of losing both her father and her aunt?

"NO!" The thought of Winona gave a surge of strength to his paralysed bones. He leapt from the chair, falling face down on the carpeted floor, his forehead hitting the wall nearby. Several sharp jolts of pain rushed throughout his head yet he did not look or sat up, clutching onto the carpet for his dear. No, this is not how he is supposed to die. No, he shall not die at the hands of a spirit.

The chill dispersed suddenly as it had come. It retracted sharply, leaving only a slight hint of frostiness in the air of the room. Cautiously Jonathan raised himself, looking all around to make sure no one was there. And as it had been previously the room was empty and locked. Subsequently, he touched his throbbing forehead with his fingers. Feeling slight wetness he brought his fingers to nostrils.

"Yuck!" Jonathan felt that he would vomit. It was the smell of blood, salty and metallic. It smelled just like that instant when the knife pierced through Mina's skin and muscles, perforating her organs, spilling the crimson fluid all over the pristine snow. He hated that smell, he hated it a lot.

He put his hands on either side of his head, his eyes dilated with a maddened expression. What was happening to him? Was he going mad? Was there no respite?

Oh how dearly he wished he could confide all his secrets to someone, someone who would guard them till the coming of death. But who would do that? They would spill it all, for who has the daring to hide a secret as dark as that of a murder?

That was when his eyes fell upon the stack of parchments, bottles of ink and the quills on the table to his right. He sprang up as if his feet had developed a mind of their own and pulled the fallen chair to the table. Sitting down upon the chair, he pulled out a parchment and a quill. Dipping it in a bottle of ink he began to write.

A paper is more patient than a man after all.