Finding Havers, plus other Ghosts short stories

Le Comte de Monte Cristo 2024 + Ghosts

"Je suis le Comte de Monte Cristo." The man said. His eyes were dark, inky black. His outift flowing black leather. His left hand was resting on his walking stick. A golden ring set with a shining green stone made a clacking sound as he tapped his finger on the top of the silvery metal handle. The sharp "tack" rang through the drawing room.

The Captain admired his walking stick, gazing down at his own swagger stick. 

"Robin, what did he say?" Alison bent over and whispered to the caveman. "I'm the Count of Monte Cristo." he barked gruffly.

"No you are not, sir!" said Thomas indignantly. "How dare you tarnish that outstanding novel with your primitive behaviour." 

"Thomas! That's mean! Also, he's translating. You're just being dramatic." Alison scolded him.

"That's what I do." he muttered under his breath. 

The man, or the Count as the Ghosts now knew, had strolled in that morning, cutting a path through the winter fog like a knife through butter. The birds had not sang since he stepped foot in Button House. The house was eerily quiet. His top hat was tipped low on his head, casting a shadow over his glittering eyes. He had just uttered these words. The Ghosts were enthralled. 

"Do you bunch of misfits understand French? Or should I switch to English?" he spoke again. The Ghosts all practically jumped up in shock. "Oh, English is ideal." Lady Button managed to utter, eyes wide in curiosity. "French." growled Robin. "This is a democracy, and clearly, you're losing. Sorry mate, English it is." Julian slapped a hand on Robin's shoulder and smirked. 

"You see, in my lifetime, I travelled the world. Arabia, Eastern Europe, Italy, Persia. You name it, I have been there. As you English would say. Please excuse me if my manner seems too Arabian, Persian or Slovakian in nature. I am a cultured man." The man's English was startlingly good, his accent deceptively vivid. His voice was low and calm, with an undertone that he could kill everyone in the room with just one movement. Like the sea before a storm. 

Kitty piped up, voice trembling. "What- what's your real name? Count what?" His head snapped up, gaze focussed. His eyes softened then, and clouded over. Perhaps with memories, perhaps with sorrow. "Edmond. Edmond Dantes. But Count is enough for now. Or Comte, if you feel you can speak enough French." 

"Enough about me. What are your names? I walked here from the coast, seeking shelter and company. Now all I get is a bunch of lemmings who all want to know my life story." 

The motley crew shuffled on their feet, murming their names in the tiniest voices. Finally, Thomas stepped forward.

"Thomas Thorne. Romantic Regency poet. Enchante, as the French say." He extended out a hand, and slowly put it back down again. If he thought his dialogue would make the Count crack a smile, he had to think again. The Count's mouth turned up ever so lightly at the corners, and his arm almost moved, but he remained still. He beat his stick on the ground. "And what about the rest of you? Come on, I haven't got all day."

Pat stepped forward. "Actually, you have. Years. Decades actually. We can take our time. Unfortunately." "Oh sorry, I forgot. Pat Butcher, Scouts leader." He pushed his glasses up his nose and retreated back into the group of Ghosts.

Now the Count raised an arm. "You. Caveman. Why do you know French?"

"Euhh, it's a long story actually. I'll tell you later." he grinned sheepishly. "C'est une longue histoire. Je vais te raconter plutot."

"You? A long story? One thousand three hundred pages long, perhaps? I thought not. My story is long, monsieur. And I shall tell it to you. In due course. There seems to be nothing else to do around here." The Count was animated, slightly peeved off, even. He took off his cap, and threw it into a corner, only to see it disintegrate and return atop his head. His eyes narrowed, fuming. 

"Is this the life of a Ghost? Quel dommage. How are you all still sane here?"

"I doubt it." Julian whispered to Robin, who snickered. 

"Bof." he shrugged. "It's no Chateau d'If, at least. Does this house have a bibliotheque? Library?" "Upstairs." Alison said, voice shaky. "Bien." The Count whisked his long coat around him and disappeared through a wall and up the staircase. 

The Ghosts heard "Quoi? I cannot touch these books?" Then some coughing, and back downstairs. "Your library is very dusty. Oh, and I need someone alive to get me a book." He stared at Alison then, and she cleared her throat and avoided his gaze. After seeemingly hours of this standoff, she went upstairs.

"Find me Le Comte de Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas. Surely you have this novel. It is a masterpiece." Alison searched feverishly, fingertips grey with dust. She coughed "I can't see it, so sorry." In a tinier voice "Please don't kill me." The Count laughed then, "Ah. I do not see why you lot are so scared of me. Well, actually I do. I have taken vengeance on basically everyone I know, and beat my worst enemy in a sword fight, and spent 14 years in prison. There's more, but I'll spare you the details. I guess, I am to be feared. It makes sense."

"I'll tell you my story then. Chapter by chapter. We meet in the drawing room, at 9pm every evening." Kitty's eyes lit up, and she almost jumped up and down with excitement. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the group of Ghosts, and they prepared to meet in the drawing room.

The clock struck 9pm. It was pitch black outside. The Ghosts were all huddled and sat on the sofa, the fire was roaring, and even Mike had come down to accompany Alison, still thoroughly confused. Thinking that the Ghosts floated, he was still looking up. The murmur suddenly dropped right down to pitch silence. The Count materialised through the large doors, and stood infront of the group. He cleared his throat. "Does he... does he think we float? Why is he looking up?" the Count said, brow furrowed. Alison elnowed Mike, whispering "They don't float, surely you remember?" He shifted and his cheeks reddened. "Oh, of course." He lowered his gaze to a spot on the wall, roughly at eye level. "Bon, now I can begin." the Count said.

"Since my story is complicated, and your caveman knows French, I shall speak it in French. Il etait une fois, un homme qui s'appelle Edmond Dantes.- Quoi? There are more of you? Who are these (literal) peasants?"

The Plague Ghosts, hearing the news on the grapevine, were all eager to hear the Count's story, and had resurfaced from the boiler room to hear the story. 

Alison said "Oh, don't worry about those. Just a bunch of Ghosts who died of the Plague and were buried below the house. They just want to hear the story too, is all." The rest of the Ghosts were in a state of shock. It was always hard to see this group of grubby, bedraggled creatures. The Count himself wrinkled his nose, straightened his posture, and began again. 

And so it was, for almost a whole year. The Ghosts would gather together each evening to learn of the Count's life story, one chapter at a time. Once the plot reached the character of Haydee, the Count was delighted to know that Alison was musically inclined. He taught her to sing "Dorul", Haydee's song, and she devised a piano part to it. 

This story telling was not just exciting for the Ghosts, but it seemed to be healing, almost therapeutic for the Count. His retelling often got very animated and dramatic, and he would always go to sleep invigorated. This retelling of his life helped him come to terms with his trials and tribulations. 

Eventually he came to tell them of his death.

"I was back on my boat, the Pharaon, the Pharaoh, and I was sailing towards England. Along the coast was a freak storm. I regret, now, that I had moments of, inattention. I was so content with my final lifestyle, absorbing the weak but warm English sun, thinking of the life I could have had, and memories of Mercedes, that I did not see a storm approaching. By the time the grey clouds were upon me, I was completely trapped. The sea reared up, green and angry, carrying my small boat on a wave of its wrath. I did not drown, no monsieur. I am too good at swimming for that. I was dashed against the rocks, and bled out on the shore. My old wound from my sword fight with Fernand had opened up, and so I died there. A day later, as a Ghost, I walked inland for who knows how long, until I found your mansion. Seeing lights on in the windows, I prepared to knock on the door. Seeing my fist disappear through it, I just walked in and found all of you. 

That is my story. C'est fini maintenant." He bowed, face glowing with memories and pride, and sat down to listen to Alison's rendition of Dorul, her sweet singing voice washing gently over the Ghosts.