The Victorian Spirit

There’s no rebellion in my heart; my creativity is fucked.

Ruby Flores here, nice to meet you. I’m a 54-year-old short story writer. Well, you know that, you’re the one holding a copy of my latest collection. I’ve written many books, so the likelihood is, you’ve already heard of me. I’m somewhat of a heavyweight in this writing game; I’m the writing equivalent of Muhammad Ali. So, you know what that means – like all other greats, I get a free pass. I can write terrible stories and still get published.

So, let’s go handsome. I hope you are handsome and not some ugly bugger – I’m not God, I’m under no obligation to love my readers unconditionally. Oh, I’m haughty, wild, and brisk today. Here’s the story, and Harris, don’t go believing this one is real.

Harris Stuart – one of my unattractive readers living on the Isle of Harris in the Outer Hebrides – thought my Kasa-Koo creatures were real. You’re a steaming idiot Harris – why I ever went on a date with you, I do not know. Then again, his photos on eHarmony weren’t so crisp. I can be forgiven. Anyway, let’s start.

...

One hundred years ago, in 1924, there was an old Victorian house with dark Gothic architecture. It was a recluse of a building, miles from the nearest town. It stood silently in the heart of the Cheshire countryside.

The owner, Mrs Miriam Meridian, had turned the building into a guesthouse after the First World War. Since it was a Victorian country house, it was sizeable; it had eight bedrooms, as well as spacious living and dining areas.

The rooms were full of Victoriana – the furniture hadn’t been updated to reflect modern tastes. The smells of the 19th century lingered on the armchairs; the fires of the Victorian spirit stood unextinguished in the presence of candle snuffers. In the living room, books on Biblical criticism and burgeoning sciences lined the walls; it was once the house of a well-to-do scholar.

But this guesthouse kept secrets. You’re about to discover one.

On the 6th of April 1926, a young man of 22, Mr Edward Turnbuckle, arrived at the house.

Mrs. Meridian greeted him at reception, “Strange place this. I like to sleep with a haddock, or at least 30 anchovies.”

Luckily young Edward, being a salesman of Antiques and Collectables, had a streak of eccentricity in his heart, so he took her words with a smile. But being amiable to eccentricity would soon provide him no solace. Mr Turnbuckle was pregnant with what we in the writing business call, ‘rising action’.

...

Edward was led to his room by Alexander, an older man of 70 years who had fought in the First Boer War, amongst other conflicts.

Since Edward was well-dressed, and clearly didn’t appear old enough to have fought in a real conflict, Alexander, hunchback and all, mumbled to himself, “These young ones, they’re nothing but milk and honey.”

“Pardon?” Edward said, having heard only half of Alexander's words.

Alexander replied, “And here we have your room, sir!”

He mumbled again as he walked away, “Salesman. Pfft. He couldn’t sell jellied eels to a cockney.”

Edward sauntered into his room and plonked himself down on the large pink armchair that sat in the corner. He surveyed his room, thinking it was very suitable for his short stay. This was the most Victorian room in the house – ornate mahogany furniture, heavy gilt frames housing oil paintings, and a chandelier on the ceiling. It was the epitome of Victorian elegance in a room that almost couldn’t contain it.

Edward had arrived reasonably late; the sun had nearly set. So, after unpacking his clothes, and doing a little light reading, he decided to change for bed and go to sleep.

The house was quiet. He had noticed earlier that there was no one in the dining room, or the living room for that matter. Unusual for that time of day, but he didn’t think much of it. After all, there were only a few rooms, there couldn’t be that many guests staying.

...

At approximately 2 am, Edward awoke to a thud in his room.

He had to light a candle on a chamber stick, as the house had no electricity. Once the candle was lit, he saw a human body on the floor. He jumped back toward his headboard in shock.

After several minutes spent paralysed in fear, he slowly moved off the bed and ran his chamber stick down the body to properly illuminate it. After getting about halfway down, he realised something horrifying – it was his own body, decapitated. But before he could enter a madness like no other, the body stirred.

It slowly stood up and walked over to the armchair, where it promptly sat down.

A deep voice spoke to him from the ceiling, “This is the autonomy of the spirit; the body can do things without the mind.”

Despite having been bathed in fear, when the voice spoke, Edward felt an implicit sense of calm.

Moments later, the body gently stood up and gestured its peaceful intent by placing its palms outward.

Edward was still afraid. Although, he was less afraid now than he had been just minutes earlier.

As the body moved slowly toward the bed, Edward remained where he was, intrigued as to what may happen next.

The body lay down beside him. After mere seconds, it spoke, “Who am I speaking with?”

Edward was nervous, it felt as if a dead spirit was communicating with him. He thought to himself, ‘You’ve got to be honest when addressing a spirit, or it might turn evil.’ So, he replied, “You are speaking with Edward Turnbuckle.”

As soon as he had uttered those words, the body transformed. It now had a head. The head was of a middle-aged Victorian gentleman with lovely locks of brown hair.

“Don’t be afraid. I have come to tell you something concerning the future – your grandson, Jonathan Turnbuckle, is to become a wizard.“

His fear depleting by the second, Edward replied, “My god! There are far kinder ways to send a message like that. You know, I have just been scared stiff.”

“But would you have believed those words if my Lord God had sent a telegram instead of me?”

“I can be quite certain that I wouldn’t. Am I to take it that you’re an angel then?”

“Haven’t you seen my hair? These locks are easily luscious enough to be worthy of an audience with God.”

“The locks might be, but your pride isn’t.”

“Oh my dear Edward, I see why God has favoured your family – you’re all law and no lust. But you have yet to learn that a touch of sin makes an angel.

Now, I must continue my message. To ensure Jonathan’s fate, my Lord wishes you to learn about the esoteric teachings – the Bible read between the lines, the holy fools for Christ’s sake, the powers of divination, and the holy spirit. He will direct your learning by his good grace.”

Before Edward could form his reply, the angel vanished.

Then, just as normality was reasserting itself, there was a knock at his door.

He slowly rose from his bed and tentatively walked towards the door. He turned the handle and inched the door open. It was Mrs Meridian.

She said, “I heard some noise, I just wanted to check if you were okay.”

“Oh sorry, yes. I had woken up, and as I was unable to sleep, I decided to retrieve a book from my case. Those were the footsteps you heard.” Edward was more than pleased with the elegance of his response.

Mrs Meridian smiled, “Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, it’s all the pixies. I find that a circle of rainbow trout around my bed works a treat. Anyway, goodnight.”

Despite now thinking that Mrs Meridian wasn’t just an ordinary eccentric, he didn’t keep her any longer; he was exhausted from the night’s events.

...

The following morning, Edward awoke early. He sat up and surveyed his room; to his content, there was no sign of any further happenings. But one thing continued to bug him: the words from the ceiling.

“This is the autonomy of the spirit; the body can do things without the mind,” Edward muttered to himself.

He thought about these words for some time but found he was unable to decipher what they meant. Eventually, he decided to abandon the idea. He washed, dressed and wandered down the stairs to breakfast.

The door to the dining room was propped open by a heavy fireside companion set, and as he entered, he was greeted with several tables perfectly prepared for the breaking of a fast. He chose a table opposite the only other guest in the room.

Soon enough, Alexander came over to ask about his breakfast order, “What can I get you this morning?”

Edward opted for a full-cooked breakfast, assured that he had a long day of business ahead.

Just as Alexander was leaving his table, Edward inquired, “Where’s Mrs. Meridian this morning?”

Alexander replied bluntly, “Mrs. Meridian has some research to attend to.”

Despite his lingering curiosity, Edward asked no further.

Before long, his breakfast had arrived.

As he sat eating, he became increasingly engrossed in the morning paper, which he had obtained from a table in the corner. Without looking back to his plate, he went to plunge his fork into a final sausage, but all he felt was the hardness of ceramic. He turned from his paper and toward the plate – the last sausage was gone. ‘Where did that go?’ Edward thought, before realising that completely unaware of his actions, he had already eaten it.

“This is the autonomy of the spirit; the body can do things without the mind,” Edward muttered to himself. “Yes, that’s it!” he remarked a little louder.

The guest opposite gave him an odd look.

Edward didn’t mind this, he continued to think. He soon realised that the words must have represented an introduction to experiencing esoteric ideas. He thought to himself, ‘This experience might have been what the angel meant when he said that God will direct my learning.’

As Edward walked back to his room, he felt a beautiful sense of excitement – new experiences were blossoming within him, and he knew it. When he left for the day to complete his business in the local town, he did so with vitality.

...

After completing his business, he returned in the evening to collect his suitcase from behind reception and be on his way.

The reception area was dimly lit; his suitcase was positioned neatly on the desk. Next to it was a pile of about ten books, including both the Old & New Testament, The Imitation of Christ, several works by Augustine and Aquinas, and two controversial books on esoteric Christianity. There was a note on the counter; as Edward walked over, the words started to come into focus:

Mr Turnbuckle,

I have placed your suitcase on the desk. I must apologise for not delivering this message in person, tonight is ballroom dancing night at the town hall in Knutsford. You’ll find next to your suitcase a pile of books from my library, I thought you’d be needing them.

Splendiferously yours,

Miriam Meridian

...

Thus ends our tale.

Well, not so bad for a woman who struggled to write her eHarmony bio –

‘Author and adventurer, 52, seeks outdoorsy man. Must be able to tie his own shoes.’

Harris thought living in the Outer Hebrides automatically qualified him as ‘outdoorsy’. I was fooled by that one, but I soon realised that the closest he came to being outdoorsy was his morning stroll to the bakery. I’ll have to try again. I might have to get myself a younger model – I need a man with enthusiasm and drive. Men like Harris have no concept of such things.

Anyway, my friends, this is just the beginning of my new book. Prepare to feast your eyes on the greatest collection of magical realism available, I call it, ‘Through Sorcery & Solids’. I can see the reviews coming in...

‘In her new collection, Flores offers us the most magnificent unification of magic and the mundane. She delivers on her sorcery, and even drops a few solids.’

Well, what are you waiting for? Go, watch me drop a few solids.