Spirits

Chapter 1

Something was definitely wrong.

A bit of pale sunlight was attempting to make its way through the clouds and meekly glow through the blinds, and that was quite normal. Also quite normal was the sound of the pipes in the walls popping and banging as they transported hot water by the room. But something else, something else was not normal and definitely wrong.

Caspar could not find his shoes.

He always left them by his armchair where he kicked them off each night when he read, before he headed off to bed. But they were not there, nor were they by his bed, or his window, or by his closet. He had checked.

"Miss Pella! Miss Pella!"

"Yes, Mr. Cunnings?" a woman's voice called back from the kitchen.

"I can't find my shoes!"

"Well I suppose you've misplaced them again haven't you? I haven't moved them. Have you looked around?"

"Of course I bloody have..." Caspar grumbled. With a heave he sat up from his bed where he'd been taking a break from his search. He put a hand to his back briefly, stabilizing himself, before he turned and looked about the room again.

"Oh..."

There they were, the black leather shoes with the fading edges. They were setting on his pillow.

Caspar sighed as he grabbed them and sat once more, beginning the ritual of putting them on. He clenched his jaw as he did, privately furious with himself. These sorts of things happened all the time anymore, and with each one he grew more upset with himself. Only the other day he'd gone off on Miss Pella, berating her about the state of the place, even though it was just as tidy as she always made it, simply because of his own internal furiousness.

"Have you found them yet, dear?" She called.

"Yes," he called back tiredly. With a heave he was up again and making his way to the kitchen. "Have you got my tea ready?"

Miss Pella only took a glance at his feet, probably just to make sure he had actually put his shoes on and not something random like his stocking cap, but kindly did not ask where he had found them. "Yes your tea is at the table, sit down and put your lumps in." She smiled kindly. She was wearing her white apron and had her hair tied up in a blue kerchief this morning, tangles of dark blond hair poking out of her bun. Caspar sat down and fixed his tea as he waited for her to bring him his eggs. She was a good woman, besides being good help, and Caspar felt ashamed of the way he'd treated her the other day. "Thank you, Miss Pella..." He said sort of quietly. "You really are too good to this old man."

"Oh I'm just doing my job, Mr. Cunnings. Think nothing of it." She said as she slid his breakfast onto his plate. "Now eat up! You've got to get going soon!"

It was cold and smoggy as he stepped down to the street. He smacked his lips a bit at the flavor of the air, and remarked to himself that no one would live in this little hellhole unless they were born here. He pulled his overcoat tighter around himself and began making his way down the street. He himself had not been born here, but that was irrelevant, his remark he felt, still stood.

The streets were bustling, horses with carriages and noisy automobiles clamored down the streets, front ways and back ways, narrowly avoiding the pedestrian crowds that made their way down the sidewalks.

Down the way a block or so was the kid. He had a grubby little nose and hands that were stained with boot polish. He waited on his crate by the corner of Damon's Tailoring, his shoe shine box open and ready for customers.

"Ey! Mr. Cunnings!" He cried when he spotted the bundled figure of the old man. "Ya shoes are lookin' a might dull don't ya think?"

"Ah, I suppose they do need some work don't they?" Caspar sighed as he came over and sat himself on the chair the boy offered.