Haley Thistle
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Monster March: A Ghost Story
🕑 Added 2023-03-21 18:00:01 +0000 UTCYou’ve gone to live with your great-uncle Beauregard while you were attending school. He’s a reclusive man, but his generosity has paid for your tuition. As such, you’re going to live him, not just for the room and board, but because he’s elderly and needs help around the home. Ages ago, back when he was a young man, he had married one of the most brilliant opera stars to grace the stage. She died in a tragic fire one month into their marriage. Beauregard suffered disfiguring burns because of it, and it has made him a recluse.
He is not short of money though. He’s a brilliant investment banker and has amassed a fortune for himself on top of his inheritance. His not only paid for your tuition, but his donations alone pay for the Grand Rose Opera House.
You arrive by carriage at his home, no one comes to greet you. The driver helps you take your bags to the door and then leaves. You walk inside, and the place is as frigid as it is outside.
You look around and feel a ghastly dread all about you. You take a few steps inside and look into the living room. There is a great fireplace inside, but it is sealed shut. Most homes have portraits and paintings hanging about. Here, the walls are bare. You see a piano in the corner, and when you step towards it, you hear the creaking of stairs. You see a shadow on the wall as someone slowly makes their way down. You step back out into the foyer, but there is no one on the stairs.
You look up them with wide eyes and look around. You had seen the shadow, you had heard the footsteps. You knew your faculties were sound. You turn around to go back into the living room, and someone is standing in the doorway. You scream, and the man holds his hand out.
“Calm down, kid, calm down,” he says. “Stop screaming.”
You cup your hand over your mouth, seeing a young man standing there, looking posh and proper, his glasses were askew from jolting at your screaming.
“Where did you come from?” You gasp, clutching your chest.
The young man furrows his brow at you. He seems more confused than you are. He’s tall and gangly. His nose is hooked, but his complexion is fair and creamy. His blond hair is curly, and while it looks like he tried to comb it, it still appears wild and curly.
“Mr. Beldon and I were in the back office, just beyond the salon.” He fixes his glasses. “I’m Mr. Beldon’s assistant, Samson,” he replies. His voice is just as posh and proper as his appearance. He seemed boring at a glance.
You swallow back the lump in your throat and sigh. “Why did no one meet me outside?” You ask.
“We weren’t aware you’d arrived. Mr. Beldon and I were in the back office doing some work, and then we heard the door.” Samson answers.
You point to the stairs. “Is anyone else here?” You ask.
He furrows his brow. “No,” he answers slowly. “At least I hope not.”
“Is that my relative?” A raspy voice calls out. “Did they make it?” You hear the thud of a cane on the floor and the slow drag of a stiff leg.
“Yes, Mr. Beldon,” Samson turns as Beauregard makes his way to the front.
You’ve never met him before, but your father had told you stories about his burns and disfigurement. He had escaped the fire, at first, but he had gone back in like a raving lunatic to save his wife. His hands were burned beyond repair, so he always had to wear gloves. Half his face was burnt, so he kept his head bald. The right half was melted and red, a streak of pure white and yellow mixed, making his skin look shiny and pulled tight, yet melted at the same time. Your father had once said he looked like a pig’s ass covered in boils. Unfortunately, he wasn’t too far off. Still, his burns looked better than ass boils.
“Look at you! I’ve never seen you before in my life!” Beauregard laughs.
Samson looks at him and then back at you. “Do you want to be shown to your room first? Perhaps have yourself a rest.”
“Nonsense,” Beauregard comes forward. “They look mighty hungry, don’t you think?” He reaches out, poking your ribs. “Your father wrote to me, telling me I could expect an empty pantry before the winter is over.”
You look at Samson and feel your face burn. “I promise, that’s not going to happen.”
“Like I care,” Beauregard huffs. “Samson, get us the tea, I’ll sit with them in the salon so we can catch up.”
Samson doesn’t look very pleased, but he nods and vanishes down the hall. You go back into the salon with Beauregard and sit down around the table. He leans back in a large, plush chair and sighs.
“It has been many a moon since I had willing company,” he groans. You can almost hear the squeaking and groaning of his bones as he relaxes. “I mainly have Samson here, sometimes the cook comes. Then it’s all business, money, and business,” he frowns. “It is nice to have a new soul in the house.”
You glance at the stairs for a moment then back to Beauregard. “I’m very grateful to be here,” you reply. “It’s the least I can do for all you’ve done for me.”
“I have enough money to be kind,” Beauregard grunts. “Most men will tell you otherwise, but they’re all pinching pennies hoping they’ll turn into diamonds.”
You hear the kettle whistle in the kitchen and Beauregard visibly flinches. He sighs and shakes his head.
Samson returns a few moments later, carrying the tea tray. There are two regular cups and one that is filled with ice. Samson pours into the regular cups, then fills the glass with ice, handing it to Beauregard.
“Do you mind if I ask why it’s so cold?” You look at Samson. “Can we light a fi-” Beauregard’s cane cracks down on the table before you.
“Mr. Beldon prohibits the use of the fireplaces in the home,” he replies. “I suggest you bundle up or stay at the school.”
Beauregard grumbles something under his breath as he retracts his cane. He stirs his iced tea and sighs. “You’ll learn to live with it. If you had seen the things I’d seen in the fire, you wouldn’t want it in your home either.”
That evening, as you’re laying in bed, you hear the squeaking of your door. You sit up, seeing your door is still closed. You roll your eyes and lay back down in bed. After a moment, you hear the squeaking of your door again. You try to ignore it, telling yourself Samson or Beauregard is walking the halls. But then your door flies open, hitting the wall and slamming back shut.
You sit up in bed, feeling colder than you thought possible. You take a few, deep, long breaths and get out of bed. You reach out with a trembling hand, opening the door and looking out into the dark hallway. You see nothing, but it sounds like someone is walking down the stairs. Crossing the hall, you look over the railing. You see someone leave the stairs and turn towards the long hallway.
“What are you doing up?”
You jump and look over at Samson at the opposite end of the hallway. “Don’t do that!” You hiss at him. “You scared me!”
“I seem to be good at that.” He’s wearing a thick robe and the same scarf he had on earlier. “No, seriously, what are you doing?”
“My door,” you point to it. “I kept hearing it squeak and it slammed open.”
Samson looks at your door and then back at you. “Were you dreaming?”
You glare at him. “Why would I dream of a door slamming?” You snap at him. “I know what I saw. I also heard someone running down the stairs.”
“Would that be the same person you heard earlier today?” Samson comes to the railing and looks down. “No one.”
You roll your eyes and head back to your room. “Fine, don’t believe me.”
“All houses make noise,” Samson throws at you.
You whip around and glare at him. “Yes, but doors don’t open unattended!” You shut your door and go back to bed. But sleep is not easily found. You toss and turn most of the night and find yourself staring blankly into the shadows of your room.
In the morning you feel exhausted beyond all means. You get dressed, adding an extra layer as it’s horribly cold, and head downstairs. You see Samson carrying a tray to the solan, so you follow after him.
“Did you sleep well?” Beauregard asks as you walk in.
You rub your eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Ah well,” he sighs. “You’re in a new home, that’s expected.”
Samson is quiet, he mentions nothing about meeting you in the hall that night. He pours coffee, serving it hot for you and him, but pouring it over ice for Beauregard. You also notice that his breakfast is sliced fruits and vegetables. Nothing is warm for him at all.
Something else that you’ve come to realize about the house is that there isn’t a mirror in sight. Usually, the foyer has one so guests can check their appearance as they enter. There may be one in the solan and sometimes in the halls. You also cannot find one in any of the bathrooms in the house. You find this utterly bizarre. You wonder if it has something to do with Beauregard’s disfigurement. Luckily, for you, you had brought a small mirror in your things. You had set it up, above your desk.
You spend most of your time studying and reading or doing your homework. You glance up into your mirror and back down. You look back, having seen something before. It was the image of a red gown, decorated with gold beadwork and filigree. You turn around, looking behind you. All you see is your bed. You turn back around to your desk and see it’s on fire. You scream, falling to the ground and kicking yourself away. You strike at your arms, trying to put out the fire.
“What’s wrong?” Samson rushes in to find you wallering on the floor like a happy dog. He frowns at you. “What the hell is this? Are you crazy?”
You sit up and look at your desk. It’s fine. No fire, not even a sign of fire. “I was-” you try to collect yourself, stuttering and sputtering. “There was…I saw-” you look at Samson and his perplexed expression. You place your hands over your face. “Oh god, maybe I am crazy!” You bemoan.
Samson steps into the room and looks at the mirror over your desk. “Are you still hearing things?”
“Hearing!” You snap out your arm. “Seeing!” You throw your hand up towards the desk. “Maybe it’s stress.”
Samson sighs as kneels down beside you. “I haven’t had a proper sleep in this house since I started working for Mr. Beldon,” he admits.
“Then why did you treat me like I was crazy?” You bark back at him.
“Because it’s easier to keep pretending it’s not happening,” he says. He sits down on the floor with you, stretching out his long legs. “What did you see, just now?”
You look at your desk. “I saw something in the mirror,” you look at it. “Like a ballgown or something. And when I looked away, my desk was on fire.”
“Fire hasn’t been in this house since Mr. Beldon moved in,” Samson answers.
You glare at him. “What have you seen?”
“The stairs,” he confesses. “Much like you, I hear someone on them constantly. Going up and down, sometimes falling,” he grumbles. Samson has a distressed look to his eye. “I see people in the hallways,” he murmurs. “They’re there one second and gone the next.”
“Does Beauregard know?” You ask.
Samson shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Or if he does he doesn’t say anything,” he mutters. “He has night terrors,” he reveals. “He screams in his sleep, sometimes even walks. I caught him in the living room one-night just…dancing by himself.”
“How often does he do things like that?” You ask.
Samson shakes his head. “It’s been a while since the last one,” he says. “But I figure he’s due for another attack soon. I was hoping that having family here would help him.”
You shake your head. “I don’t think a person is capable of healing another person like that.” You glance out the window. “Physical wounds, sure. Mental wounds? That makes more than someone loving you to bandage.”
Samson chuckles. “You’re reading too much poetry,” he stands back up. “If you see anything else,” he glances at you. “Will you tell me?”
“Only if you tell me,” you nod. “And when I do I’ll probably scream.”
Samson holds out his hand and helps you off the floor as well. “Good thing your homework didn’t really catch fire.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” you admit. “Philosophy isn’t my best class.”
Samson grins. “Wasn’t mine either, but I could bullshit myself to a passing grade every time.”
You smirk and sit back down at the desk as he leaves.
You wake up one cold night to the sound of the wind howling outside your window. Ice and snow pelt the glass and your teeth chatter. You walk across your room to get your coat to wrap yourself up in. Still half asleep, you look into the mirror. The face you see there is lovely and soft.
“Are you cold?” She asks you.
It takes you a moment to realize she’s there. You gasp, and your breath comes out in a white cloud. You stumble away from your mirror and run out the door, clutching your coat to your chest. You stand in the hallway, staring back into your empty room. The howling wind continues, and now, ice starts to rattle against the glass like marbles in a jar. Then, all of a sudden, you hear the piano start to play.
You glance back to Samson’s door, wondering if you should wake him. Instead, you descend the stairs and go into the living room. You see someone hunched over the piano, playing it. You touch them and Beauregard whips around, grabbing your wrist hard.
“Ow!” You cry out.
“Oh!” He releases you instantly. “Oh god, I’m sorry,” he gasps. “Attacking my guest like that, how awful am I?”
“Beauregard, what are you doing?” You ask him.
“Oh, just practicing. Charlotte likes me to keep my fingers limber for when we have parties,” he stands up, walking towards the sofa. He’s not using his cane, and his leg isn’t dragging. I fact, he seems quite spry.
“Charlotte?” You ask him. “Beauregard, what are you talking about?”
“Her tour is finishing, and she’ll return soon,” he says. “Once she’s home and had some rest, we’ll have the wedding, don’t you know?”
You look around, wondering if he’s talking to someone else. “Beauregard,” you start again.
“She’s sublime isn’t she?” He sighs. “I truly am lucky. Can you believe the lady proposed to me?” He laughs and clasps his hand over his chest. You see he’s not wearing his gloves. His hands barely look real they’re so burnt and melted. You do notice that on his ring finger, there’s a golden wedding band.
“Did she?” You whisper.
He looks at his hand and sighs. “Some men might find that offensive, I thought it made better sense than me doing it. Women know better about these things, right?” He laughs loudly and grins from ear to ear.
You swallow back a lump in your throat. “Right.”
Beauregard sighs and goes to the window, looking out with a sad look on his face. “What am I supposed to do?” His voice trembles. Hail assails the window, and the howling of the wind grows louder.
You feel a sudden shift, and you hear the creaking of the stairs again. You step towards Beauregard, putting your hands on him. “Come on now,” you whisper to him. “Let’s go back to bed.”
Beauregard throws his arm out at you, and you nearly fall, but someone catches you. You look up, seeing absolutely no one there, but feeling them. You jump up and move away, turning back towards Beauregard as he presses himself against the window.
“What do I do?” He wails with the window. “Charlotte!” He cries. “My Lotte! Why was it you?” He bangs against the window, and you rush back to him, pulling him away as he starts to scream again.
Samson rushes down the stairs and helps you with Beauregard. You both manage to get him onto the couch, and he breaks down in pathetic sobbing.
“What happened?” Samson gasps.
“He was playing the piano! Then he did some sort of…monologue,” you say as you hold Beauregard while he cries.
Beauregard sniffles and snorts then grows very quiet. He lifts his head. “Oh,” he gasps. “Oh no,” he groans. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Not so bad this time, Mr. Beldon,” Samson replies. “We got to you in time.”
Beauregard looks at you. “Sorry, you had to see this.”
You shake your head. “I’ve seen worse,” you assure him.
Samson helps Beauregard back to bed. You stay on the sofa, staring out the window as the wind begins to die down and the hail finally stops. Samson sits beside you.
“Everything ok?” He asks.
“Beauregard hit me,” you huff. “Not to hurt me, just to make me go away. I feel,” you look up at him. “But something caught me.”
“Oh?” Samson whispers as his brow pinches together.
“Not just that,” you say. “I saw a woman in my room before I heard Beauregard play the piano.” You frown. “I think she was the one who caught me,” you look back to Samson. “I think Charlotte is haunting this place.”
Samson furrows his brow. “But…but she didn’t die here,” he replies.
“If not here, then maybe she’s just haunting Beauregard,” you reply. “Maybe she can’t leave him.”
Samson’s shoulders slouch and he moves his hand, taking hold of yours. He squeezes your hand tightly, and he looks toward the windows.
“Who was she?” You ask. “I’ve never heard Beauregard talk about her.”
“He doesn’t,” Samson whispers. “He doesn’t talk about anything from that long ago.” He let’s go of your hand and stands up. “All I know is that she died in that fire. And aside from what he speaks during his night terrors, that is all I know.”
In the morning, Samson leaves the house to tend to the mess of hail and snow outside. You stay in, making breakfast before Beauregard wakes up. He’s looking out the window as you bring the tray of food in.
“Poor Samson,” he clicks his tongue. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him work that hard. Did you sleep well, kid?”
You pour Beauregard’s iced coffee as he takes his seat. “The wind kept me up,” you tell him, not sure he remembers what happened that night.
“It’s all about moderation,” he says. “Too much nature will get you. Just like anything in this world.” He sips his coffee.
You sit back, watching him for a moment. “Can I ask you something?” You say after finally building up the courage.
“Oh sure,” he replies. “Is something wrong at school?”
“No,” you mutter, shaking your head. “It’s-” you stop when you hear the sound of someone on the stairs. It sounds like they stop halfway.
“Yes?” Beauregard urges. “Go on.”
You lick your lip and taking a steadying breath. “I was curious about Charlotte,” you finally say.
Beauregard sets his cup down. “Who?”
A long, tormented scream fills the entire house. The windows fly open and a cold wind tears through. It knocks over the chair not being sat in and sends the breakfast tray flying. Beauregard sits there as if he isn’t seeing this or is unaffected by it. The scream continues, filling the halls and walls like a balloon. The room feels tight and painful as it begins to crush you. You scream, and Beauregard still seems not to notice anything.
“What happened?”
Everything goes still and quiet as Samson rushes in. “I don’t-” you whimper, looking at Beauregard who hasn’t moved at all. “I don’t know,” you start to cry.
After calming down and cleaning up the solan. You and Samson sit down in the kitchen together. Your hands are still shaking so when Samson grabs hold of them it feels nice. You tell him everything.
“How could he not remember?” Samson whispers.
“I don’t know,” you say. “But when he said ‘who’ it was horrible! That screaming, the windows…and he just sat there! It was like he didn’t see anything!”
“I asked him what he thought happened,” Samson says. “He just said you started crying.”
You scoff. “She was screaming. She was in pain!”
“She?” Samson murmurs.
“Charlotte!” You gasp. “Who else could I mean?” You hang your head. “He’s blocked it all out. He’s forced it down. He would rather not remember her than bare not having her.”
“Then why is she here?” Samson asks.
“To make him remember,” you murmur.
You go to bed that evening, having tucked the mirror under your bed since you no longer have the heart to face anything that appears in it. You go to sleep and wake up standing in a grand hall. People in beautiful ball gowns and masquerade attire are floating around, dancing, eating, and drinking.
“Are you cold?” A familiar voice asks.
You gasp and turn around, seeing a red dress. The woman who wears it looks strikingly familiar. She has long dark hair and olive skin.
“Are you ok?” She asks again.
“Charlotte?” You gasp, but someone says it at the same time as you.
Charlotte smiles and turns around, embracing the man who comes to her. “Beau, there you are.” She says.
“Beauregard?” You gasp, looking at the handsome man who is holding on to Charlotte. He has dark hair and a long face with a neatly trimmed mustache.
Charlotte looks back at you, a sad look in her eyes, Beauregard doesn’t seem to notice you. “Isn’t this wonderful?” Beauregarde laughs as he whisks Charlotte away. You give chase after them following them into the ballroom. You watch as Beauregarde sweeps her across the floor, spinning, and dancing and throwing her high into the air. He red dress spins out, flourishing and spinning. You rush forward, trying to grab Beauregard by the hand but he keeps moving away.
You finally manage to grab Beauregarde and is hand changes. His wedding ring slips off and chimes against the ground. As it rolls away, it starts to spark. Its speed grows faster and faster, the sparks become flames, and it rips through the house.
“Where is she?” You turn around and see you’re standing outside the burning mansion. Beauregard is being forcibly held back by men. “Where is she? She was holding my hand where is she?” He screams. He breaks away from those holding him and barrels back into the burning house.
You chase after him, running inside and following him. You hear screaming, and you see Beauregarde trying to pull a beam off the ground. He’s on fire, but he’s still trying to save her. You look up, just above him there is a mirror that takes up the entire wall. The frame cracks, and it starts to fall.
“Beauregard!” You scream.
He turns and looks back at you. You feel something grab you and pull you. You watch as the mirror comes down like a guillotine. You hear the shattering of the glass and the painful screams from within.
“Help me!” Beauregard is screaming. “Please! Help me! Help me!” His voice is hoarse is desperate.
You sit up in bed screaming. “It’s alright!” Samson gasps, wrapping his arms around you.
You gasp for breath and are shaking from both the cold and the dream. You start to cry, grabbing him and holding him tight. You kiss him, grabbing hold of his face and pressing close to him. He kisses you back and slowly pulls away.
“Sorry,” you gasp. “I was-” you’re not sure why you did. Perhaps it was residue from your dream.
He clears his throat. “No, it’s…it’s ok.” His cheeks are flushed. “What happened?” he whispered. “I heard you sobbing, but you were still asleep.”
“I was dreaming,” you murmur. “Or maybe Charlotte was trying to show me something, I’m not sure.” You whisper. You then jump up out of bed. “I need to see Beauregard.” You rush downstairs with Samson giving chase. You go to Beauregard’s bedroom, finding he’s asleep. There’s a figure standing above him, and she’s wearing a red dress that is burnt and smoldering.
Samson stands still behind you. “Oh my god,” he whispers.
“Stay here,” you whisper as you step into the room. You stand beside Beauregard’s bed and reach out, touching his hand and holding it. He stirs slightly twitching in his sleep. His hand grips yours, his fingers digging in and causing you pain. You flinch but hold on.
Charlotte dips down, placing a small, flickering kiss on his lips. She then disappears like a puff of smoke and Beauregarde wakes up.
“Charlotte?” He coughs.
You kneel down. “It’s me,” you whisper.
“Where is she?” Beauregarde whispers. “She was behind me,” he whimpers as he looks at you. You touch his cheek and wipe away his tears. He squeezes your hand. “Oh,” he whispers. “Those awful dreams again.”
“Beauregard,” you say urgently. “Do you remember anything?”
“What am I supposed to remember?” he asks me. “Why are you in my room at this hour?” He shakes his head.
You squeeze his hand again. “Charlotte is waiting on you. Why won’t you just remember her?”
He furrows his brow at me. “You keep saying that name.”
“Your wife!” You hold up his hand, showing him the wedding ring on his finger. “Why do you wear this? Who is this for?”
Beauregarde squints his eyes at the ring.
“I know it hurts,” you whisper to him. “But you have to remember her.”
Samson comes in, carrying the mirror from your room. He places it in Beauregarde’s lap and steps back. Beauregarde lets go of your hand and holds the mirror. He stares intensely into it, and his tears splash against the glass.
“Aren’t you cold?” Charlotte whispers.
Samson squeezes your hand tight.
“Yes,” Beauregarde cries. “I’m so cold.”
Charlotte’s hands rise up from the mirror, touching his face. They’re burned and melted like he is. Bone shows through the flesh, and it smolders like coals.
“It’s ok,” Charlotte whispers. “Oh, my poor Beau.”
Beauregarde’s tears fall onto her palms, and she starts to heal. Her complexion becomes healthy and warm, the smoldering stops, and she starts to rise more from the mirror. She smiles at Beau, her long red gown becomes a wedding dress.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
Beauregard holds her. “I’m so sorry!”
“Hush now,” she whispers, touching his scarred face. “You did all you could do,” Charlotte replies. She smiles at him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Beauregarde nods, and he stands up, carrying Charlotte in her wedding gown. He looks young and handsome again. Samson watches them as they walk by you. But when you glance back at the bed, you see Beauregarde is still lying under the blankets. You cling to Samson, watching as Beauregarde carries Charlotte into the salon.
He sits down at the piano and starts playing. It’s the same song he played before. Charlotte smiles, looking at you and Samson with a bright expression on her face. She places her palms on Beauregarde’s shoulders and starts to sing. Her voice is beautiful, filling the house with a rapturous sound. She and Beauregarde begin to glow. They glow brighter and brighter as the song continues. Their blinding light makes you have to turn away, and when the song ends, they’re gone.
Samson is still holding on to you. His arms tight around you as you stand in the utter silence of the house.
“They’re gone,” he whispers.
You look back into the bedroom, seeing Beauregarde’s body. The ring slips from his finger and rolls towards you on the floor. You bend down and pick it up. Inside, you see the inscription. “Charlotte’s forever.”
Samson kisses the top of your head, and you put your arms back around him.
You and Samson travel back to Beauregarde’s manor. It’s burnt carcass remains untouched after all these years. Roses have taken over, growing along the debris and charred walls. You clutch Beauregarde’s urn in your arms as you stand before it.
“You own all this land,” Samson says as he looks around. “If you cleared it you could start a beautiful life here.”
You walk into the debris and roses, dumping out Beauregarde’s ashes. They catch a breeze and spiral about before landing where a there is a pile of shattered glass.
“All these years,” you whisper as you walk back to Samson. He holds his hands out for you as you step out of the charcoal and dust. You take hold of them. “Would this really be a place to live?”
“Land is important,” Samson replies. “If you have land you can do anything.”
You put your arm around him. “Where would we even begin?” You whisper. “What would Beauregarde even want?”
“He left it all to you, it’s not up to him anymore,” Samson says as he kisses the top of your head. “What do you want?”
You smile to yourself and lean into his side. “Just you.”
“Well then,” Samson chuckles. “You’ve got it.”
