Old-Fashioned, or Another Story With Ghosts

Chapter 4. The police stops investigation and ghosts insist

"I saw a police car outside. Would somebody... help the young gentleman?"

The bride slowly swallowed the rest of the drink in her mouth, looking at the man and then at the wall right above the fireplace where the old picture depicting the same man was looking gloomily at the party squad.

Policeman crossed himself whispering some prayer.

James followed the gaze and stepped into the lights away from the shadow.

"Oh. Excuse my intrusion, please. That happens to be the portrait of my great great grandfather, was told we are very much alike. I'm James Blacke. Officer, would you please explain why exactly you are here?"

"The young man... called. Said you were killed."

"Curious. I don't believe we have met... for God's sake, somebody, give him water."

The bridesmaid, who was already slapping Greg's cheeks, shovelled water into his shaking hands. Greg was watching the newly arrived character with the widest and the most terrified eyes.

The character did not seem impressed, though. "What have you seen, young man?"

Greg jerked his gaze aside.

"He still has blood on his shirt... look. Like I told."

"I'm afraid that's coffee. For Lord's sake..." James finally circled the table coming closer, took his shaking hand and put on the forearm. "See? Flesh and bones. I gather it was a false alarm. I'll stay here today in the private rooms. Won't interrupt the party, of course. Please, do continue as planned. Officer. Ladies. Gentlemen."

James nodded to everyone exiting the room into the shadows again. The property manager squeaked and rushed after him. Greg blinked looking at his still opened palm which just touched the dead man's shoulder.

"Somebody, tell me, have I already called Margaret or not?!" The bride demanded finishing the bottle. "Cause if no, I won't. It's even better than planned! Real ghosts! The agency's grt. Greg, everybody! More wine and I want to paint my face into a witch!" She hiccuped.

"You seem to manage it rather fine already." The policeman coughed. "I mean, we're done here. Ma'am. Gentlemen."

***

"...Aye, ma. N-no. No. It's getting fine, don't worry! I know it's late, it's the part of the job! Yes, I'm doing all fine, stop asking me! I'm not five, you know!.." Greg was trying to get all his stuff out of the bad at once using just one hand and probably one half of the brain. Another half was busy talking to his mum. It didn't went well, like every time he was dealing with two issues at ones.

The zipper on the bag's main part suddenly weakened, and all Greg's possessions including pants, another pair of pants, Batman socks, British flag socks, notebooks, Wacom and laptop covered the bed and - partly - the floor. Water pencils decided to become mice and hid under the bed and in the dark corners. 

"Shite!!.. Oh, no, no, ma, I'm sorry! It's-it's just, the bag, the zipper broke... what? I wasn't drinking! Yes, I still have a job! And it starts tomorrow at 7 am!.."

He barely managed through the long and hearty good-byes before dropping the phone and kicking the bed. More careful this time. But not careful enough.

The message in WhatsApp from Margaret informed him to be ready to pack his things if there'd be one more tiniest part of the word towards him another from compliments to guests and the couple.   

Technically, he did keep the job. Thanks to Alice's alcohol preferences... and the dead man. No, his relative. 

James. 

Greg gasped and began collecting his escaped pencils.

***

It was 3 am on his phone's clock. The rain was chatting with the trees and rose hip bushes in the garden. 

Greg was sitting on the bed hugging his knees and dreaming of dreaming. The worst thing was he wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. He had the day ahead. But he was terrible drinker and, even worse, couldn't sleep after alcohol. And the gals made him drink, of course. At least, it was after they've finished with ghostly makeups and pitiful attempts in ghost stories. Which was good - Greg was still not perfectly in shape, even after James, the current James, appearance. 

The night was not yet over. The house was quiet and seemingly peaceful. Maybe, it was peaceful for somebody who was used to the enormous space and feeling of owning such space. Including the surroundings. He tried to imagine how would it feel, but could make up only James reading in the cabinet and then standing near the window with the cup of coffee holding it like William Hanson taught in his videos. 

He could try to sketch  it. Sketching always helped. 

Somebody knocked.

Greg squeaked and rolled from the bed hiding behind it.

James could not sleep. He was watching the thick fog whirling silently over under the silent rain and over the rose bushes. Interestingly, he was never aware fog and rain could appear at the same time. He was also sure he heard some laughing downstairs again, but it was somewhat not important. He was late somewhere, wasn't he? Then why was he going to sleep anyway?

Greg was not a brave lad. But he knew how to weight priorities. So after some minutes of literally dying from fear behind the bed he crawled back on it. Took the phone - to do photos, hopefully, not to call the police again - and dragged himself out of the dusty room. 

There are plenty of people in the freaking house, aren't there? 

But are they dead or alive?

Bad questioning. 

When he was stepping on the steps of the central stairs crawling to the kitchen as the last destination, it was getting better. He glanced downstairs. Well, at least, Batman socks would embarrass any aristocratic ghost. 

The kitchen was filled with prepared food, and the fact was healing. While waiting the water to boil, he almost could laugh on his fears and ready to conquer. Mint tea teabags were the closest in one of the cupboard. He chose the biggest cup from the neighbouring cupboard aside from the professional kitchen, and was proudly smiling on the way back.

Till there was him again in the armchair near the fireplace. James, sad and still wearing the shirt with drops of blood.

Coffee.

And then James again. Standing near the armchair and looking straight at Greg.

Together with another one. 

When James  - current James, as Greg would referred - found himself suddenly in the middle of a hallway, he hummed shortly, raising his brow again and looked around. The fireplace was long dead, just ambers shining softly in the darkness, his distant relative honestly very bad portrait was looking down at him sadly.

"How strangely curious." He said quietly, walking closely to the fireplace, noticing someone in the armchair, looking at the dying ambers.

Both faces turned to the sound of a breaking cup behind their backs. James nodded shortly.

"You seem unlucky today, Mr. Bay." James said quietly, watching the young man stepping backwards to the wall. He made a few steps and turned on the electric lights, leaving the armchair empty and himself way to real compared to his own feeling.

"I guess we both need cup of tea." He looked down at the broken cup. "Well, one more cup of tea in your case. Shall we?"

***