The Observer

Originally published in the Open Minds Quarterly, Winter 2022 edition (Transformation).
Minor changes have been made in this post. Check out the original publication here.
Word count: About 1700 words
Summary: A story about a ghost and their relationship with the castle in which they reside.

The call is strong tonight. Stronger than it’s been in a while. But I don’t know if I’m ready yet. I don’t know if I can face whatever lies beyond.

Rainwaters batter the roof while thunder and violent winds threaten to crumple what remains of this castle. It’s been raining for days. The air is thick with moisture that makes the wood swell and feeds the mold. The walls were strong once; nothing could shake them. It was a little fortress against all the evils that lurked in the world. At least, that’s how I thought of it when I was alive.

Lamp tenders used to keep the lamps burning, even throughout the night, so that no unruly shadow might fall and mar the etched walls or the pristine floors. Tonight, the only illumination comes from lightning which reveals the cracks in the walls and the decaying furniture before returning me to my void. I always hated the dark, but I have since learned to make peace with it. I know that nothing hides in this darkness, except me.

When I was alive, I thought no one was more blessed to have had such a place to call home. I spent all my days here in quiet contentment. I was sheltered from the hardships and worries of the world with all my needs tended to. I could not imagine sleeping under any other roof. Now, this is where I spend my death. I suppose many would say that it is still my home, but I would not call it that anymore.

No one knows this place like I do. Each item is imbued with memories which I have played so often and know so well that I question if they are real. Here is the desk where I learned my letters. There, the fireplace beside which I sat most evenings and where I would warm myself coming in from the rain or the cold.

I remember one late afternoon, at the end of a stormy day like this, I ran back home after being dismissed from my lessons. I laughed as I ran, happy to be free. I remember the mud squelching under my boots, my body growing tired under the weight of my waterlogged clothes. My mother scolded me for getting dirty and my father warned that I would catch a cold. But nothing ever felt as nice as sitting by the fire in fresh dry clothes and drinking that cup of lemon mint tea my nursemaid brought me.

I used to love running in the rain. But I hated the lightning. One evening a bolt struck down my favorite tree in the garden. I woke up to find the blacked splintered wood. I remember the smell of smoke and metal mingled with the scent of last night’s rain. After that, I couldn’t walk out in the rain without imagining myself struck; my blood boiling; my skin splitting.

I used to sit on a bench beneath that tree on clear days. I loved the smell of the garden air in spring when all the flowers were in bloom. That bench is still there, if a little weathered. But the plants that had once flourished were choked out by weeds decades ago. The paths that had been so carefully tended are now overgrown. I have to admit, there is a beauty to that unruly tangle of greenery and the wildflowers that have managed to make their way into the old beds. I wonder what they smell like.

As the rain and the wind continue to beat against the castle, I ascend the stairs to the second floor where there is a balcony that overlooks the grounds. This is my favorite place to stand. It is my only entry to the outside; my immaterial feet may never leave these old stones. That is, unless I heed the call.

On a clear day, I can see the whole grounds and the village down below. I love looking out in autumn when the hills are golden and the first tendrils of smoke seep from chimneys in the early morning and fiery leaves ride the wind. But right now I am surrounded by darkness with only the twinkling lights from the village, distorted in the rain, as proof that I am not alone in the world.

As a child I used to stand here and watch the other children from the village playing in the fields below. They ran around laughing and playing games with rules only they knew. I wanted to join their games. But I was afraid I would make a fool of myself and they would laugh at me. Besides, my mother had warned me not to play with children from the village. She said it was dangerous.

Children from the village still make visits up here. At first I was afraid. Before I knew they could not see or hear me. Now I just follow the visitors from room to room. I love how they speak in hushed voices and creep through the old halls, exploring the crevices with a wonder I have long since forgotten. They whisper that the castle’s haunted. I prefer to think of it as occupied by an observer. Sometimes I talk to them, tell them my own stories, though I know they will never hear me. Some claim they can feel me watching them. But I suspect they would say the same whether I was there or not.

I stick my hand out into the rain. I’m still not used to the drops passing right through me while I feel nothing. How I miss the touch and scent and taste of the world! I miss the feel of rain and the wind. I miss the smell of spring grass, the feel of an autumn chill, and the sun on my skin.

I wanted to experience everything the world had to offer. But I was too afraid to find those sensations I might not enjoy. I was afraid to face the rapid beating of my heart or breathlessness in my lungs. In short, I was afraid to be reminded that I was alive. So, I watched the world as it moved, and I enjoyed my comfort and solitude. And most days, I thought that was enough.

To the south, I can hear the ocean trying to devour the foundations upon which the castle stands. I can almost smell the salt. That is also where the harbor is, or what remains of it. On quiet summer nights I still imagine sailing off to some unknown land. Going on an adventure, like in the stories told by the fireside, of young heroes who go off to fight dragons and find long-lost treasure.

I often think about the warm afternoon in the late spring of my final year, when the captain and his crew came to visit the castle with an offering of trinkets from places I had never even heard of. He had offered me a spot on his ship. I wanted to go. I had almost gone. At least, that’s what I told myself. I was too afraid of the waves and things that dwell in the deep dark waters. In the end, I knew I could never leave my home.

The ship set sail the next morning. That was when I decided that adventures were meant for others. The world is too wide and cold and I was happy to sit here by my warm fire, never contending with the terrors in the night. One week later that truth would be unraveled.

I was standing on this balcony, looking out over the hills and the land beyond as the sun was setting. It had been a nice day, not a cloud in the sky. But as I stood there, I felt suddenly ill and my legs gave out beneath me as the world spun. I went to lay down and rest. Still, I didn’t suspect that when I went to sleep that night I would wake up in a different form.

The next morning, I was floating above my own body, distorted from death and whatever poison or plague had invaded these walls. I imagine I should have been horrified or grieved. But instead, I was overwhelmingly numb.

The unease settled in later, when the last person left the castle never to return. The lamps were dark and the rooms empty. I was alone. I spent many long nights wondering what I should do. It was almost a relief to find that I could no longer step outside the door and into the world. I was trapped, and happily so. It was all but ordained that I should stay here and watch over my home for all eternity. But I could not ignore the truth for long.

There was a way out. I could feel a call to another place. A call that smells like summer rain and sounds like the cracking of frost. It holds all the promise of a spring morning and the magic of an autumn wind. But although now I had no heart to beat, no lungs to fail, no blood to bleed, I was still afraid.

These walls had kept me safe most of my life until my death, but in death I found a new safety in them. I was afraid to take the first steps into the unknown land. A land where I might find a fate worse than death. Yet maybe I would find a second life. I have begun to see this castle for what it is and what it always was. I’m still afraid, but I want to see what is beyond…

***

The residents of a quiet little village in the countryside awoke to find a new clear morning after several days of torrential rains. Neighbors greeted one another joyfully in the warm sunlight. Children ran through the town, carried away with the excitement that follows great change. They were shouting, “The castle! It fell in the night! Look! The castle is gone!” The old castle had collapsed in the storm leaving only a pile of rubble half sunken into the sea.