Ghosts One Shots

Nigel / Thomas : Ghostwriter (pt 2)

The Captain cleared his throat. "And that's all?"

Thomas was dumbfounded by the response. "Do you not believe I am fabulous, Sir?"

"No, not at all Thorne – wait, sorry no, the other way around." He hesitated for the words. "I don't believe that you aren't 'fabulous', as you say. Your poetry is fairly on the higher end of the average poetry for your time, I suppose, although I still fail to see how one lasted two hours-"

"This is a waste of time!" Thomas whined.

"To be fair, old chap, we do have almost all the time in the world."

"Yes," the Poet said, thoughtfully, his hand reaching carefully at the air as if he were drawing an imaginary curtain aside for him to finally see his genius. "I must write about that! Immortality, all the people, the parties, the lovers..." he sighed, "the rest of eternal lifetime waiting to take you away."

"Yes, well," The Captain started, unsure of what to make of Thomas's ramblings, "very good. I really must, hm-hm, ...go, I suppose. Busy day."

"Yes... a busy day... of reminiscing...."

-----

It had been a cold wind that stroke Thomas's face as he passed, and he couldn't have said he'd been glad to be shot, nor see a gang of ghosts gathered around him, staring down, intrigued. He couldn't bear the thought, so he ran inside, then couldn't bear Isabelle's face – the face that had never come to say goodbye as he died.

He wandered all around the house, but in every corner, someone was standing, almost waiting for him.

He tried the attic, but it was too dull. Too lonely. Even the pantry had someone in there – a child, singing. So the rumours were true.

Backing down the stairs, he reversed into the basement. Down here it was cold (he was unsure as to why he was able to tell this – weren't ghosts not supposed to feel the cold?) and dark, and damp, and he was alone. Again. At least this time he didn't have to stare out over his dead body, and in the days that had came and gone, the tree from which his body was taken from.

"Oh god, I thought we had some peace."

Thomas turned, only to see in the half-light the face of the voice that had spoken. He couldn't exactly make it out, but there were some very abnormal lumps across the face. "Who... are you?" Thomas Thorne, recently dead, asked.

"Well, I'm Walter," the voice told him. "What happened to you?"

"I was shot in a duel. Very unfair, I had not even finished the 20 paces-"

"I'm no expert," another voice cut in. "Sorry," it clarified, "hi, yeah, me, over here- but aren't they normally... 10 paces?"

Over half a dozen ghost voices murmured assent, and Thomas felt the need to defend himself.

"Well, this one was 20. My cousin assured me so, that was what was agreed. I was not finished when he turned and shot me in the back!"

"Your cousin?" A voice asked.

"No, you malmsey-nose," Thomas said in anguish, "the pigeon-livered ratbag who insulted my fair lover Isabelle right before my eyes!"

"Well that's not very nice," another voice said.

"Thank you, sir!" The poet exclaimed. "Why, pray tell, what is your name?"

"Nigel."

"Ah," he muttered. "Nevermind. I do hope your face is more becoming of your kind nature than your name."

"Well, I was quite the looker back when we were alive."

A stifled laugh could be heard, but the two ignored it.

"What do you do?" Asked Nigel.

Thomas's eyes lit up – or probably would have, if he was alive and not in the dark of a basement. "I am an artiste! One day I shall recite them again - my poems, that is- but for now... I cannot... for my poor Isabelle. All alone. My poems cannot help her from beyond the grave."

"I don't think they would have helped before the grave either," another voice piped up.

"Excuse me! Who was that?"

"The name's Geoff."

"And I'm Walter," another voice said (presumably Walter), "and I can't say I disagree."

"Ooh, naughty," yet another voice.

And the voices just continued, clamouring over one another, until Thomas cried a wail of exhaustion. "I simply cannot cope down here!"

And with that he stormed out, only to run away to the attic when he caught a glimpse of the ghost that he would later find out to be Robin with Mary. He sat in the window and sighed, before finding it lonely once again – he had nobody to lament to up here, only his own thoughts, which – since he couldn't write them down – turned out to be wretched and rather annoying. And so, he retreated into the basement. A process he would repeat every few days for around three or so decades until he plucked up the courage to speak to the others.