Topic: Hopes Dashed

Katrina Nichols

Date: 2014-11-17 11:29 EST
Katrina's evening routine, no matter what time she eventually went to bed, was always the same. She wandered the house turning off all the lights and making sure every door and window was closed and locked before making her way upstairs to the master bedroom that was now entirely her own. Despite the fact that she had given Randal full permission to come into that room whenever he wished, she hadn't changed her habits, quite an immodest little thing when that door was closed. Her clothes went straight into the hamper, and she would spend a few minutes in the bathroom with ablutions and all those little things women needed to do before they could settle down to sleep.

Then off went the lights, and she scrambled into bed, leaning across to switch on the radio at a low volume. She hadn't been able to sleep without some kind of background noise for years, though the radio was rigged to switch off after a couple of hours. Just on long enough to ease her into a deep sleep, flat on her back, and spread-eagled diagonally across the bed. Kit certainly ascribed to being comfortable over being attractive.

Oddly, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the resident ghost in a few days - not since the night of the waltz in the piano room - despite his obvious loneliness and desire for companionship. Whether it was any fault of his own or not was unclear. He had told Kit that he was sometimes unsure when he could be seen and when he could not and that he didn't have any much control of his ghostly appearances as she might think. Despite that, the house had felt lighter since that night, less foreboding even to Kit, and there had been no strange noises, blinking lights, or unexplained voices since.

Randal's absence made her uneasy, sure that she'd upset him somehow, or that perhaps he had just decided not to keep his promise to come back and visit her again. It hadn't stopped her from talking as though he was there, chattering away, holding one-sided conversations while she was cooking or cleaning, or wrestling with the monumental task of clearing the attic. But in the evenings, it was lonely, knowing he was there and not choosing to even let her know he was watching, and often she found herself going to bed in a low mood. Tonight was no different - despite how quickly she fell asleep in the hour past midnight, her expression wasn't peaceful. Even asleep, she missed her strange new friend.

Perhaps it was the quiet, or maybe it was the music playing; perhaps it was the hour, as ghostly happenings tended to go on during the wee hours of the night, rather in broad daylight - whatever the reason, it wasn't until after Kit had fallen asleep that strange things started to happen. Whether they happened every night or just this particular night was hard to say, as she was usually in a deep sleep by now. The temperature in the room grew unnaturally chilly, as though a window was open, though it was not, and even the curtains stirred as if in a non-existent breeze. There were no footsteps or whispers or unexplained thumps, just a chill in the air that stirred the curtains and the feeling of an invisible presence somewhere close by, though she was unlikely to feel it while she was sleeping.

She sighed softly in her sleep, her head turning to one side, spilling dark hair across the pillow as one hand tucked the quilt a little higher over her chest. Oblivious to what was happening in the room, she seemed to stretch in her sleep, settling a little more comfortably in the embrace of her bed.

All of a sudden, there was a presence in her room, albeit a familiar one - a man with a military cap on his head, his tan uniform starched and pressed perfectly, the bars and brass indicating he held the rank of Captain in some military unit. She had not asked too many questions about the uniform or the job that went along with it, and he had not chosen to talk about it much the few times they had talked. Why he had appeared in her room at that moment was something only he could answer, but she had released him of the promise he had made to her grandmother - the master bedroom was no longer off limits.

The ghostly figure lingered there in the doorway for a brief span of time, a little lost in thought. This room had once belonged to him and his wife, and it held a mixture of memories both good and bad. It was not the room he would have chosen for Katrina, and yet, it was the largest of the bedrooms and probably the grandest. He wondered what she'd say if he requested she move to another room, one that held fewer memories for him, though the room had been completely decorated since then. He was almost afraid to step further into that room, afraid he might lose himself to the memories that flooded his mind and weighed on his heart, as incorporeal as he might be, but he found himself drawn to the sleeping figure on the bed, like a prince might be to a sleeping princess.

Katrina stirred once again, the flicker of a frown crossing her face as she rolled suddenly, one arm thrown toward the side of the bed as the covers tucked about her petite slenderness. He was not the only one discomforted by the room, but she had yet to pinpoint just what it was that seemed to be giving her restless nights here.

Isabelle's presence was strong in that room, even if she was as deceased as Randal. She had once been the mistress of the house and had tended to its care, especially when he'd been away at war or on business. Whether she'd been bold enough to have a lover in this room was hard to say, and it darkened Randal's heart to think of it. "Kit..." he called from where he stood, his voice quiet and little more than a whisper, waiting to see if she'd hear him or not. He could see the restlessness in her, even as she slept, and he wondered if she somehow felt the unrest and trouble that resided in this room.

She was deeply asleep, but some part of her responded to her name from his lips. Her outstretched hand opened in unconscious invitation as she nestled deeper into the covers, a low sigh slipping from her lips. "Randal ..."

Whether it was the fact that she was asleep and so not fully conscious or aware of his presence, or the fact that he was so bent on her not claiming this room for her own, he found himself drawn forward, his fingers sliding in that of her outstretched hand, as real and palpable as if he was of warm flesh and blood, if only for a moment. There was only one way to overwrite the memories and the events that had taken place in here and that was to give her the freedom and the trust to do what she wanted with the house; to make it her own, and yet, he wasn't sure he was ready for that just yet. He wondered at the brief touch of flesh, nearly moved to tears by the whisper of his name against her lips, his heart aching to touch her and hold her and love her as a living man might and knowing it was hopeless.

Kit seemed to stir once more as his hand slid into hers, hovering in the no-man's land between deep sleep and wakefulness as her fingers curled into his. Her body shifted, seeming to curl closer until her breath brushed his hand where it lay in hers. Asleep, she couldn't have known what was happening in that moment, how impossible it should have been to touch a ghost. All she knew was that someone she trusted was there, watching over her as she drifted in slumber.

Katrina Nichols

Date: 2014-11-17 11:29 EST
He wasn't sure how it was happening or what made it possible, but he found he was able to touch her cheek, just as he had that first night they'd met. It was a brief, gentle touch, like the kiss of a butterfly's wings, but to the ghost of a man who had not been able to feel the touch of a woman in nearly one hundred years, it was nothing short of a miracle. "Kit," he whispered again, then a little surer, "Katrina." But before she could open her eyes and see him there, before she broke the spell, he felt himself compelled to lean close and brush his lips against hers, softly and gently and with heartfelt desire.

She breathed him in as his lips brushed hers, barely aware on the edge of consciousness of the kiss he gave her, yet reacting easily to the gently given sign of affection. A soft, girlish sound of pleasure left her throat as slowly her eyes opened, blinking lazily as she fought her way up from sleep, eventually focusing on his face so close to hers. An owlish smile lit up her expression. "You came back."

He looked a little lost in that kiss for a moment, a little lost in the spell before it was broken, before her eyes opened and she saw him and smiled up at him, the sound of her voice drawing him back to the reality of their situation. His hand lingered in hers a moment longer before it suddenly became as insubstantial as mist on a cold spring morning. The look on his face though, his eyes never leaving hers, was one of both wonder and confusion as he stated very matter-of-factly, "I never left."

For a brief moment, she could have sworn she felt his hand in hers, warm and solid, a living touch she could hold onto, and yet when her fingers flexed, she felt only that gentle tingle that told her that her flesh had passed through the image of his. "I missed you," she murmured into the darkness, her sleepy eyes on his, not wanting to look away, trying not to wish so hard that he could climb in beside her.

His mouth twitched downward into a guilty, apologetic frown. "I'm sorry....I don't have much concept of time, I'm afraid. This existence..." He broke off, unsure how to put an explanation of that into words she might understand. "It's part of the curse, I suppose. My punishment, as it were." He made no move to leave her side, though he knew he should. Sweet Katrina, he thought to himself. How lovely you are in sleep, as in waking. Ah, poetry. What point is there to poetry when you're a bloody ghost'

She blinked, raising her hand to rub her eyes, not wanting to fall asleep again while he was there. Not now he had explained to her just why he hadn't seemed to be around. "I didn't know," she admitted quietly, belatedly remembering to tuck the covers about her chest before she completely embarrassed him. "I thought you were angry with me, or that maybe I'd done something to upset you."

"No," he said, a smile on his face that he hoped was reassuring. "I could never be angry with you." Never was a pretty strong word, but he was confident he was speaking the truth. He couldn't imagine getting angry with her; she wasn't Isabelle, after all. The smile turned to a frown when he saw her pull the blanket up a little tighter. Hadn't she given him permission to come here" "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not intruding," she was quick to assure him, her face lighting up with a soft, reassuring smile. "I don't wear anything in bed. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable." Her smile gentled, her hand reaching up to feign touching his cheek, bare millimeters from his luminous visage in a ghost touch that echoed the waltz they had shared. "I'm glad you're not angry with me."

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if savoring the touch that he could not quite feel or perhaps imagining what it might have felt like if he could. He would savor that kiss and brief touch of hands for as long as he possibly could. He only wished he could sort out how it had happened so it could happen again. "Why ever would I be angry with you?" he asked, clearly troubled that she'd think him capable of such a thing. Yes, she had been digging in the attic and she was sleeping in his room, but these things didn't make him angry. They resurrected memories of painful things he'd rather not remember. It was her house now, and it was natural that she would want to clear and clean things out, though there were a few things he wished kept in place where they were; a few things he wished left alone, though he had not yet asked anything of the sort of her.

"Because I've been changing things," she confessed quietly. "I've tried to keep some things where they are, but there's just so much here. You should tell me what I can and can't do, Randal. I would hate it if I upset you so much with my meddling that you just left without a word."

He arched a curious brow at her, appreciating her desire to please him, though the house belonged to her now. He had no need of possessions any longer, though there were a few things in the house he hoped she would leave as they were. He turned away with a sigh and went to the window to look out on the night. It was the only real way for him to gauge the passage of time, other than that of a clock. He did not hunger or grow weary, though he was damned tired of this life that wasn't really any life at all. It was like waiting interminably for something to happen, though he wasn't quite sure what. Death had brought him no peace, but these little exchanges between himself and Kit seemed to make his existence at least a little tolerable.

"I cannot leave this place, even if I wanted to. Not even on All Hallow's Eve. I am a prisoner within these walls until God takes enough pity on me to give me peace." He turned back to face her, his expression inscrutable. "This house belongs to you now, Kit, just as it did to your grandmother. There are few things I will deny you."

"But it's your house," she reminded him gently. "You conceived of it, you had it built. The house is a part of you. I won't touch the music room, except to renew the carvings. If you would prefer it, I'll stick to just what used to be the dining room and a bedroom and the kitchen. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or awkward, or not at home, in your own house, Randal. You're more important than things."

"I cannot make use of the house, Kit," he pointed out. "I do not require warmth or shelter or food or rest. The house is yours to do with as you wish, except..." There was that frown again, almost as if he was reluctant to continue, to tell her what was preying on his mind. "Have you had any trouble sleeping in this room?" he asked, as if he was merely curious, though there was a reason for the question.

She sighed softly, unable to make him understand that if he wasn't comfortable, then she wouldn't be. Settling onto her back once more, she considered his question with a faint frown. Did she want to admit to the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn't welcome in this room, or the vague, nebulously unpleasant dreams that made her sleep restless here" She bit her lip, rising up onto her elbows. "Why do you ask?"

Katrina Nichols

Date: 2014-11-17 11:30 EST
He shrugged his uniform-clad shoulders, as if it wasn't really that important, though it was. "This is the master bedroom," he pointed out, as if it should be obvious enough. It was the room he and Isabelle had shared in happier days; the same room she might have taken a lover, where he'd awoken screaming with nightmares upon his return, where he had eventually grieved her departure. "It was a happy place once." Long ago, long before Kit had even been born.

She hesitated, not wanting to lie to him, but uncertain which answer would give him the most comfort. "Oh," was what she eventually came out with. "I-I was actually thinking about, maybe, airing out another bedroom and using it instead," she confessed quietly. "I don't know what it is, but I don't think I'm sleeping very well. It might just be that I'm still getting used to the house."

He affected a sigh, more out of habit than need, wondering why they were suddenly tip-toeing around each other, instead of speaking outright. "Kit, you are sleeping in the same place where I slept with my wife, and later, where I slept alone. It used to be a happy place, but that was before..." He frowned a little again, turning away a little as if he didn't want her to see his face. "I have had years to think on things, and I often wonder if she ever loved me at all, even a little."

Tears rose in her eyes as he spoke, her throat tightening with compassionate sadness as she looked down at herself. "Would you like me to go?" she asked him, her voice thick but soft in the deep stillness of the night. "I could go and sleep in the summer house, if that would be better."

Whether a ghost could shed tears or not was debatable. He could certainly feel the heartache he had once felt at his wife's betrayal, but even if he was able to shed tears, he knew it would bring him no peace. He had grieved for too long; he didn't want to grieve any longer. Unaware of the tears in her eyes, he turned to face her, alarmed by her question, and even more so, by the suggestion that followed. "The summer house?" he echoed, clearly shocked. "God, no. Not the summer house. You will find no peace in that place," he told her, his expression softening almost as abruptly as it had darkened. "No, for you, I think the Blue Room," he suggested, unsure if she knew of which one he was referring.

The shock he felt seemed to radiate out from him, startling her with just how vehement his denial of her even approaching the summer house was. She swallowed, shifting to sit up, careful not to flash too much skin, not wanting to ask why he was so against her sleeping in the summer house. "Which one is the Blue Room?" she asked him quietly, not yet knowing the house as well as she should.

He smiled, almost amused by her question as the answer was such a simple one. "The one that's blue," he replied. Whatever it was that seemed to have upset him seemed to have passed, like a summer storm blowing quickly overhead and away. "It's on the east side of the house and catches the morning sun. It was a guest room once. Your grandmother was fond of it, but she didn't sleep there. She talked about making it your room, if you ever came to live here. I don't believe it's been occupied in many years." If ever.

Relief touched her expression as he smiled, though the answer was not quite as obvious as he had thought. She had walked all over the house when she had first moved in, but since then, she'd been working on one room at a time. Hearing her grandmother's plans for the room, however, made her smile. "All right," she agreed, and twisted, sliding from the bed with the sheet tucked about herself. "Show me?"

He could not help but looked shocked, turning his back so as not to see anything he should not, as she slipped from bed. She had warned him that she preferred to sleep in the nude, but somehow he'd forgotten. "Now?" he asked, obviously stunned by this request. If she was his, he would reclaim this room and make love to her right there, and follow that with soft whispered words of love. And in the morning, he would make her breakfast and bring it here on a tray, along with a poem and perhaps a single red rose, clipped fresh from the garden, but she was not his, and he could never hope to do any of those things, except perhaps a single night in every year. "There is not much to see, I'm afraid." Like the rest of the house, even the Blue Room needed a little work.

"But I don't know when I'll see you again," she pointed out softly, making sure the sheet hid everything it needed to before padding across the room toward him. "It's safe to look, you know. You won't see anything but shoulders and maybe a leg." Not that she would have minded him seeing what else she had to offer. She bit down on that thought, blushing just a little. There were other dreams that made her restless, too, but they were hardly unpleasant. "Please show me, Randal?"

"Dear girl," he started, turning to face her, as he really had no choice. "You really have no idea the effect you have on me, do you?" he asked. Yes, he was a ghost, but he had once been a man, and while this non-corporeal body could not feel the same kind of desire that a living man might, his heart and soul still earned for those same things even in this ghostly existence. He did his best to keep his gaze leveled somewhere above her neck, focusing on her face, so young and pretty and innocent even. He remembered her as a child, though it was the woman she'd grown into that had touched his heart. He sighed again, knowing he could deny her very little. "Very well," he said. "I shall lead the way."

"I have about the same idea of my effect on you, as you have of yours on me," she told him softly, her smile understanding, knowing the restrictions on them both as well as he did and still not trying to prevent herself from feeling and wishing. Aware of how careful he was to keep his eyes above her shoulders, her smile softened. "Would you feel better if I put a robe on?"

There went that brow again, a little surprised by her statement, though he could have just as easily felt it in her embrace and her kiss as he heard it in her voice and saw it in her eyes. She was doing exactly that which he'd asked her not to do; she was falling in love with him - a man who was no man at all anymore. He knew it was already too late for him, though he dared not admit it, adding further agony to an already dismal existence, though she was his one saving grace. "I thought you'd never ask," he countered with a small, almost mirthful smile.

She laughed at his dry tease, warm and easy company, even in the still of the night. "All right." And off went the sheet, without much warning, tossed onto the bed as she turned away to locate her robe. He might have regretted agreeing when she put on said robe - short, silky, and even worse at hiding what she wasn't wearing than the sheet had been. "Shall we?" his immodest companion encouraged with an innocent smile.

Katrina Nichols

Date: 2014-11-17 11:32 EST
"Good lord, woman!" he exclaimed in a shocked tone of voice that proved he was, indeed, capable of feeling emotion and not quite as reserved as he seemed. He turned his back to her quickly, but not quickly enough to miss catching a glimpse of the flash of flesh that greeted him as she tore off the sheet. "Have you no decency' It is fortunate for you I am dead, or you might have given me a heart attack."

Kit couldn't help grinning at his back, proved right in her assumption that he wouldn't feel comfortable seeing her exposed. "And that's why I was covering up in bed," she pointed out to him. "I'm decent. And I don't see why I should be ashamed of my body. I'm quite proud of it, really."

"Tell me when you are decent," he started, adding, almost as an afterthought, "Dressed." If he'd had a heart in his chest, he would have felt it pounding, but as it stood, he felt nothing of the kind, only some sort of numb shock and a strange yearning that was becoming more familiar the longer she remained in his house. "Your grandmother warned me that things had changed."

"You want me to get dressed." This time she did giggle softly, glancing down at the robe she was wearing. "Isn't this enough' Or am I really that disgusting to look at?" It was a pretty typical no-win question, but she figured he'd had control of the conversation long enough for now. She'd give it back when she was satisfied.

He had not turned around yet, so could not judge whether the robe was enough, though he imagined a sensible robe, long enough in length to cover both arms and legs. When he turned around to find her even less covered than she had been beneath the sheet, he gasped in renewed shock. "That is not decent or sensible. How do you expect that mere bit of fabric to keep you warm?" he asked, clearly perplexed.

"The house has central heating," she pointed out, holding his gaze. Her eyes narrowed a little. "What is the problem here?" she asked him, genuinely curious. "Is it me you're shocked with, or yourself" Am I awful to look at' Or is it that you're not comfortable with the way you feel seeing me?" To make matters worse for him, she undid the robe and pulled it off. "Don't you dare look away."

He was clearly not only shocked and perplexed, but flustered by her sudden desire to torment him, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop her, other than simply disappear from view. He visibly clenched his jaw, not in anger but in pure unadulterated shock, as if he was in a stupor. His knee-jerk reaction was to turn away, but she insisted on holding his gaze and demanding his attention. His form wavered a little, as though he might disappear on her again. It was hard to tell but his complexion had paled a little, not out of fear exactly, but frustration. "Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He had not lain with a woman in nearly a hundred years, nor could he do so now, even if he wanted to, which he did very much.

Holding his gaze, she felt guilty for putting him through this, but at the same time, she needed him to understand that he would have to get used to seeing a little skin from time to time. "Because the man who broke my heart, who broke me, did it through my body," she told him, her throat tight as she spoke. "I was too short, or too skinny, or too fat. It got to the point where he wouldn't even look at me. And it has taken me years to learn that he was wrong. When you scold me for having a body that I should be proud of, and pleased with, and comfortable in; when you refuse to even glance at me ....It hurts, Randal. And it doesn't just hurt me. There is nothing wrong with you for wanting to look."

Could it be any more apparent that they were from two very different worlds, or at least eras" He remembered being with a woman once upon a time, though it was hard to remember how it had felt. Was she trying to torment him in showing him what he was missing out on, what he could never have, or was she trying to make a point' He turned away from her then, not because she was ugly or that he found her disgusting, but just the opposite. He had no idea what she'd been through, though he could certainly guess, since he'd had similar experiences in his own past. "You don't understand, do you?" he asked, moving back to the window, the Blue Room completely forgotten for the moment.

Her eyes lowered as he turned away, old feelings resurfacing to chip at her confidence. "And neither do you," she said softly, turning away herself. She moved away from him, to the dresser, pulling out the most shapeless sweater and pants she owned to tuck herself into them. To hide.

He wasn't sure if he should explain. If she didn't understand already, how was he going to make her understand? He was sorely tempted to just dissipate into thin air, go brood somewhere else where he wouldn't have to see her and know how he'd disappointed her. "I understand that some man you once knew made you feel ugly. It was wrong of him. Very wrong, not only because it was cruel and hurtful, but because it's entirely untrue," he said, his back still turned, regretting what he deemed their first argument, though perhaps at the very least, it would help them understand each other better in the long run.

"And it doesn't compare in the slightest to what you've been through," she said quietly, hugging her arms about herself in the thick folds of clothing she'd gone straight to. "So let me guess ....I'm the one being cruel. I'm the one tormenting you. Despite the fact that I'm just as tormented with the knowledge that you can only look."

"I didn't say that," he retorted, though his back was still to her, almost afraid to turn back around, to face her now that they'd argued. "I cannot return the favor, you know," he told her quietly. "This is what I was wearing when I died, what I was buried in. I cannot change." Besides, he thought, you would only be disappointed by what is hidden beneath these clothes - by the scars, both seen and unseen.

"The uniform is not you," she pointed out, brave enough to turn and look at him where he stood, his back still resolutely turned toward her. "I didn't show you to try and make you show me. I would never expect anything in return. I don't know what I've done wrong this time, Randal. This is as much a part of me as everything else."

"You have reminded me that I am no longer living, that I can never be what you want me to be. That I can never truly love you, as I'd like to love you. And that I am deplorably outdated and out of touch with the modern world. I am dead, and you are very much alive. Alive and as beautiful as a sunrise. I shall never again feel the sun warm upon my face or know a woman's touch." She could not see his face, but there were tears in his voice, grief for a love that could never be and a life that could never be lived. "I'm sorry, Kit. You've done nothing wrong. You could never do anything wrong. It is me who is all wrong. Please forgive me." And before she could say another word, he was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

She stared at the empty space he had so briefly inhabited for what felt like an age, pain rippling through her heart. He hadn't even been able to look at her while asking for her forgiveness. Kit knew she'd gone too far. She'd chased him away, and a part of her knew he wouldn't be back. As that certainty crashed through her, the tears began, streaming down her cheeks as she ran to the bed, burying herself beneath the covers, pouring her aching heart out to the silence around her. Weeping without hope for something that could never be.

((The course of true love never did run smooth, eh' Especially when one of the true lovers is a little old-fashioned and, oh yes, dead. Many thanks to my partner - this one is a lot of fun!))