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writerproblem193Title: stories for sleeping on
Fandom: Original
Relationship: Seer & Ghost
Prompt: Wild Card (12.4 Ghosts and Hauntings)
Rating: G
Warnings: Since it's a ghost story, mentions of death.
Summary: Sometimes ghosts need to be read stories before they can sleep.
###
Mausoleums were always my least favourite kind of gravesite. The dead weren’t allowed to sleep beneath the earth. Instead, they were trapped in stone, here, with us. It was no wonder this place was so full of ghosts that the hairs on the back of my neck were making runs for it.
My fingers were fumbling against the lock in the cold. The family had given me the key, but nobody had been into the mausoleum in an age so the lock was reluctant to open. I hoped the ghost inside was a little more accepting of change.
I didn’t see anything when I opened the door. It wasn’t until I closed it that I saw her, forming as the cracks of moonlight coming through the door faded. Lace flickered at the ends of her dress, the clothes she was buried in trying to assert themselves. The look on her face told me that the lacy ends of her burial gown were the only parts of it that were going to get anywhere.
I didn’t pretend I couldn’t see her, but I didn’t try to engage either. I set my bag on the bench, wrestled out my book, stored the key. All the while, the ghost watched me, hands fisted in the bell of her skirts.
I started my book, sitting on the ground with my back against the bench. I’d learned it was better to have back support than pretend the social convention of not sitting on the floor was important to ghosts.
Well. It didn’t tend to be important to the kind of ghosts I helped.
I was on chapter three before she said, “This isn’t a very effective exorcism.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be.” I closed the book on my thumb, staring up at her. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark and the not-real, I could see her a lot more clearly. The faintest hint of fur was wrapped around her shoulders to protect against whatever cold the not-real held. “I like your stole. Is it mink?”
She only stared. I let her. I knew what I looked like these days, even in the not-real. Not-short but not-tall, friendship bracelets and the ghosts of them from my sisters wringing my wrists and enough hair to qualify me as a fourteenth-century princess. My sweater was old and well-loved enough I was probably also wearing it in the not-real, but it was hard to be sure.
Another moment passed. I opened my book again.
This time, I only made it a few pages before she interrupted. Clara Patrick’s skirts fanned out in front of me, the lace banished to folds and shadows. “Why are you here?”
I angled the cover of my book toward her. It was one of my newer ones, two laughing girls pressed against paper in matte colour. “Reading.”
“Here?”
“Sorry, were you busy?”
Clara’s hand was a whisper of cold wind over mine. I let her move my fingers away from the cover, the author, the pitches from other popular authors. The corners of her eyes were crows-foot lined against the smooth youth of her cheeks, her eyes squinting at the dark as she did her best to read upside down. “Haven’t heard of any of those.”
My smile was crooked. “I’m shocked.” I let the book go, Clara half-catching it, the gravity allowing the not-real a partial victory. “Did you want-?”
Clara let it fall the rest of the way to the ground. I would have winced if I hadn’t been sitting already. The worst it would get was dusty and well, that was just what it was like for books around me. “Not your thing?”
“Why are you here?” This time, Clara sounded almost angry.
I breathed the still air of the mausoleum. She had been resting here long enough, and the place built well enough, that all I smelled was dust and old leaves from a decade ago. “Sleepless nights, you know.” Slowly, I picked up the book. Clara watched me brush it off and set it on top of my bag. “Don’t you want to sleep, sometimes?”
Lace flashed against her skirt, the white tangles climbing almost to her knees. Clara leaned back, the smiles around her eyes vanishing. “No.”
“Really?”
“Would you, knowing that was roaring out there?” She gestured at the walls of her resting place, what might have once been an engagement ring flashing. “I hear it. I hear echoes. I hear them crying when they pass by. You think I can sleep?”
“I know.” I shifted on the cold marble, trying to match the engravings at my back with the thicker parts of my sweater. “I’m the same half these days. Shouldn’t I be doing more?”
The lace, which had been slowly retreating, started its climb again. “Shouldn’t you?” Clara challenged. “Spend your time better?”
Really, if she wanted me gone, she’d have to be more direct about it. I smiled at her in the most annoying way I could. I had a lot of little siblings. It was pretty good. “Just reading.”
Clara stared. Slowly, the lace retreated. I could see the detailing in her dress now, the soft ribbing of the cotton against the deep green.
I went back to reading.
“What’s it about?” Clara said, finally. When I looked up, it was just her, the age and the smiles back around her eyes, the lace so far gone I couldn’t see even a trace.
“Oh, it’s lovely.” I turned the back to her this time, let her squint at whatever nonsense the marketing team had slapped the book with. “I mean, that’s not a good explanation. It’s more like-”
###
Fandom: Original
Relationship: Seer & Ghost
Prompt: Wild Card (12.4 Ghosts and Hauntings)
Rating: G
Warnings: Since it's a ghost story, mentions of death.
Summary: Sometimes ghosts need to be read stories before they can sleep.
###
Mausoleums were always my least favourite kind of gravesite. The dead weren’t allowed to sleep beneath the earth. Instead, they were trapped in stone, here, with us. It was no wonder this place was so full of ghosts that the hairs on the back of my neck were making runs for it.
My fingers were fumbling against the lock in the cold. The family had given me the key, but nobody had been into the mausoleum in an age so the lock was reluctant to open. I hoped the ghost inside was a little more accepting of change.
I didn’t see anything when I opened the door. It wasn’t until I closed it that I saw her, forming as the cracks of moonlight coming through the door faded. Lace flickered at the ends of her dress, the clothes she was buried in trying to assert themselves. The look on her face told me that the lacy ends of her burial gown were the only parts of it that were going to get anywhere.
I didn’t pretend I couldn’t see her, but I didn’t try to engage either. I set my bag on the bench, wrestled out my book, stored the key. All the while, the ghost watched me, hands fisted in the bell of her skirts.
I started my book, sitting on the ground with my back against the bench. I’d learned it was better to have back support than pretend the social convention of not sitting on the floor was important to ghosts.
Well. It didn’t tend to be important to the kind of ghosts I helped.
I was on chapter three before she said, “This isn’t a very effective exorcism.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be.” I closed the book on my thumb, staring up at her. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark and the not-real, I could see her a lot more clearly. The faintest hint of fur was wrapped around her shoulders to protect against whatever cold the not-real held. “I like your stole. Is it mink?”
She only stared. I let her. I knew what I looked like these days, even in the not-real. Not-short but not-tall, friendship bracelets and the ghosts of them from my sisters wringing my wrists and enough hair to qualify me as a fourteenth-century princess. My sweater was old and well-loved enough I was probably also wearing it in the not-real, but it was hard to be sure.
Another moment passed. I opened my book again.
This time, I only made it a few pages before she interrupted. Clara Patrick’s skirts fanned out in front of me, the lace banished to folds and shadows. “Why are you here?”
I angled the cover of my book toward her. It was one of my newer ones, two laughing girls pressed against paper in matte colour. “Reading.”
“Here?”
“Sorry, were you busy?”
Clara’s hand was a whisper of cold wind over mine. I let her move my fingers away from the cover, the author, the pitches from other popular authors. The corners of her eyes were crows-foot lined against the smooth youth of her cheeks, her eyes squinting at the dark as she did her best to read upside down. “Haven’t heard of any of those.”
My smile was crooked. “I’m shocked.” I let the book go, Clara half-catching it, the gravity allowing the not-real a partial victory. “Did you want-?”
Clara let it fall the rest of the way to the ground. I would have winced if I hadn’t been sitting already. The worst it would get was dusty and well, that was just what it was like for books around me. “Not your thing?”
“Why are you here?” This time, Clara sounded almost angry.
I breathed the still air of the mausoleum. She had been resting here long enough, and the place built well enough, that all I smelled was dust and old leaves from a decade ago. “Sleepless nights, you know.” Slowly, I picked up the book. Clara watched me brush it off and set it on top of my bag. “Don’t you want to sleep, sometimes?”
Lace flashed against her skirt, the white tangles climbing almost to her knees. Clara leaned back, the smiles around her eyes vanishing. “No.”
“Really?”
“Would you, knowing that was roaring out there?” She gestured at the walls of her resting place, what might have once been an engagement ring flashing. “I hear it. I hear echoes. I hear them crying when they pass by. You think I can sleep?”
“I know.” I shifted on the cold marble, trying to match the engravings at my back with the thicker parts of my sweater. “I’m the same half these days. Shouldn’t I be doing more?”
The lace, which had been slowly retreating, started its climb again. “Shouldn’t you?” Clara challenged. “Spend your time better?”
Really, if she wanted me gone, she’d have to be more direct about it. I smiled at her in the most annoying way I could. I had a lot of little siblings. It was pretty good. “Just reading.”
Clara stared. Slowly, the lace retreated. I could see the detailing in her dress now, the soft ribbing of the cotton against the deep green.
I went back to reading.
“What’s it about?” Clara said, finally. When I looked up, it was just her, the age and the smiles back around her eyes, the lace so far gone I couldn’t see even a trace.
“Oh, it’s lovely.” I turned the back to her this time, let her squint at whatever nonsense the marketing team had slapped the book with. “I mean, that’s not a good explanation. It’s more like-”
###
When dawn broke and I locked up the mausoleum behind me, I was stiff all over and more than ready to get some sleep but… Happy. I think.
It was always easier to explain it without explaining it. To come by again and again. Maybe to wake some of the more settled ones nearby, let them wrap each other in not-real but no less cozy hugs. I didn’t mind reading the ghosts to sleep, sometimes. They appreciated it a lot more than my nieces did, and the good thing about adults is that they got the point a lot quicker than kids did.
The thing is about sleeping is that it means waking up again. And people needed sleep, no matter how old they were. Sleep, to heal. To understand themselves. To dream of what the world could look like, if it was better.
The world needed more of us well rested. I was happy to help, any way I could.
It was always easier to explain it without explaining it. To come by again and again. Maybe to wake some of the more settled ones nearby, let them wrap each other in not-real but no less cozy hugs. I didn’t mind reading the ghosts to sleep, sometimes. They appreciated it a lot more than my nieces did, and the good thing about adults is that they got the point a lot quicker than kids did.
The thing is about sleeping is that it means waking up again. And people needed sleep, no matter how old they were. Sleep, to heal. To understand themselves. To dream of what the world could look like, if it was better.
The world needed more of us well rested. I was happy to help, any way I could.
