That Unfettered Desire

My evening started when an axe swung down on me.

The axe had almost taken my face, half my skull, and certainly my brain with it. It had been wielded by no hands that were human. A learned man might say it was perhaps gravity that beset that axe upon me. To which I would ask: how has gravity moved the hatchet that I used to chop firewood this morning above the door outside my parlor? My explanation is backed up by months of observation. You see, when I moved into this mansion three months ago, many a selcouth occurrence had befallen me.

I have been chased by black dogs, hissed at by black cats, shadows have watched me sleep, and roots picked themselves up from the ground to trip me and nearly drive me into an iron fence post. Originally, I was not one to believe in ghosts, or spirits of any sort until I had seen one myself, kicking smoldering embers from my fireplace. When the would-be arsonist noticed me, he vanished into a cloud of smoke, leaving me to stomp the embers out.

I grabbed the hatchet embedded into my floor and held it close. With hatchet in hand, I moved through my mansion, eyeing every shadow with care, and regarding every door as having a secret knife or sword resting behind it. My exploration was interrupted when suddenly the doorbell chimed.

I had nearly leapt out of my skin when I remembered I had invited a guest. After rushing to the door, I swung it open to see a woman in her fifties.

“Greetings Vincent,” the fifty-year old woman, a medium said.

“Come in,” I said, ushering her in. I led her to the drawing room. There, she set up the materials she needed to conduct a seance. I watched her curiously from a bookshelf, stepping away from it when I considered my ghastly intruder might use it to strike at me. Finally, the medium beckoned me forth. I cautiously took a seat across the candlelit table from her.

“Oh spirits of this house, I implore you to reveal yourselves to me,” the medium called.

The candle lights began to flicker before dying out. The drawing room became smothered in darkness. Horror filled my heart as the room, once warm, turned as cold as frost. A single candle’s flame flickered back to life and the medium looked off to one of the corners behind me. I stole a glance and there was nobody there.

“Spirit!” the medium said, “I command you to tell me who haunts Vincent.”

The medium’s eyes shifted to me. “The spirit says he is the lone spirit that haunts this house. That he stays in the attic and does not haunt you.”

“That is clearly a lie,” I told her, “For I have been haunted since I moved into this house.”

“No,” she said, “There is another. The spirit hesitates to speak of it. Tell me! I must hear the truth.”

I looked to where the medium was staring as if I could hear what messages my ghastly guide was delivering.

“He says that he is the only spirit who haunts this house,” she continued, “But one haunts you. One this spirit speaks of with abject fear.”

I looked at her, craving any information; anything that might bring me closer to removing this spirit. Her eyes widened and her skin turned pale as bone.

“No!” she screamed.

“What is it?” I lunged toward her.

“No!” she screamed again, “Stay away from me!”

She ran from her seat and sprinted toward the door. I sprinted after her, surpassed her, and blocked the doorway.

“You will not leave until you tell me what that ghost said!” I shouted.

“Fine,” she said, “This spirit does not haunt this house. It haunts you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Three months ago, the fire happened at the Amberly Mine you own. Thirty-and-one employees died. It was your fault.”

“How was it my fault?” I asked.

“He comes,” she said.

“Who's coming?” I asked.

“I must leave!”

Before I could give any other protest, she pushed past me, rushed down the hallway, and out of my door. I looked back into the drawing room. The final candle went out.

In the corner, I saw a suited man with a mustache, and a gaunt build. He was a ghost. A ghost who was cowering from some greater selcouth than himself. I ran to him.

“Sir!” I said, “You must tell me how the Amberly Mine Fire was my fault.”

“He comes,” the spirit said.

“Who comes!” I demanded.

The ghost ran through me, sending a chill through my core and out the door. In the hallway, I heard the sound of metal being dragged against wood. That slow, quiet screech became louder and louder as it got closer. I began to hear footsteps as well. Thud. Thud. Thud. Now, I was the one cowering in the corner.

First, I saw the leather boots as they appeared in the doorway. My eyes scanned the entirety of the body. All the way up to the soot-covered face. It was a miner, alright.

“Irwin?” I asked, “Is that you?”

“So you can finally see me, Vincent,” Irwin said, spinning the hatchet in his hands. It was such an odd sight, the physical twirling in those spectral hands still covered in the dirt from the mine.

“Let's not be hasty with that,” I said, holding my hand out.

Irwin cocked his head, unnaturally. “No, you're right. There's no need for haste.”

“I implore why you haunt me.”

“In your narcissism you forget your sins,” he chuckled, “The Amberly Mine Fire.”

“But it wasn't my fault,” I said, “It was corporate espionage that caused the fire.”

“But it was your fault,” Irwin said, venom on his tongue, “We pleaded with you to put a second entrance to the mine, but you said such an endeavor would generate no profit. That you needed to buy your mansion. This mansion. By the time we noticed the fire, the supports had already fallen. The sole entrance was blocked. Yet, there was enough oxygen for the fire to spread into the mine. The coal gave it fuel to burn. Every single one of us was burned alive. Did you know that?”

“You must forgive me!” I cried.

Irwin let out a wicked cackle. “Do not waste your time asking me for forgiveness. That is for Christ.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

Irwin smiled. The doors to the drawing room slammed shut. “I will give you naught but understanding. Understanding how it is to not enjoy the breeze combing through your hair, your children growing old, and the warmth of a woman's touch. You shall watch yourself be locked in your family crypt and become fodder for the worms.”

He disappeared and the candles blazed alight. The flames roared a good two inches in height. With a sudden force, they tipped over. The tablecloth quickly caught aflame. Soon, the whole room was enveloped in flame and smoke, and all an outside observer would have heard were my screams.

It was only the drawing room that burned. The rest of the mansion remained intact and was quickly sold to another coal baron by my sister. However, I doubt Irwin anticipated that I still roam those halls. I still enjoy the mansion my fortune bought me. However, I learned a lesson I will never forget on that day: “The dead only know one thing–revenge.”

-------------

Written for the Spooktacular Dollar Challenge: