Val Muller

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt: autumn/Halloween. Write a story where a literal or metaphorical ghost plays a prominent role.

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is currently in Berlin, Germany, doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects. Her YA novel “Mi chiamo Elisa” (My name is Elisa) was published in Italy by “Le Mezzelane Casa Editrice” in September 2020 and recently in Turkey with the title “Benim adım Elisa”. Her children’s book “Şebnem ve Schrödinger’in Kedisi” (Chiara and Schrödinger’s cat) was published this year in Turkey by Sia Kitap and in Italy with the title: “Chiara e il Gatto di Schrödinger”.

Return to Canterville

by Chiara De Giorgi

Time, in the Other World, does not flow as it does in the world of the living, as Sir Simon De Canterville was about to discover.

It took him about three hundred years to finally manage to set foot beyond the threshold of the Hereafter, and when he finally did, he was genuinely convinced that it was exactly what he wanted: to finally walk into the light, to rest in peace, to enjoy the company of other spirits. Enough with those human antics! His last experience had been especially frustrating. He needed a vacation, no: he needed to retire. For eternity.

However, when he found himself on the Other Side, it took him no more than a couple of hours to realize that he had never been so bored.

I’m bored to death, he thought. Then he considered what he had just thought and chuckled. Ha, ha! Bored to death… I am already dead, so I can’t die again, no matter how bored I am.

That second thought made him want to cry. “I can’t even die any more”, he said out loud, “so what am I supposed to do?”

His fellow spirits were of no use at all: either lost in contemplation, or singing, or polishing their halos… “Yes, yes, all noble activities for sure”, agreed Sir Simon when one of them proudly explained the workings in the Ever After. “But don’t you also find it a bit… unfunny?”

His companion looked at him with a surprised expression on his translucent face.

“Why would anyone want to have fun? You made it to the Other Side, that’s as huge an accomplishment as anyone may wish. What else does one need?”

Not wanting to look like a newbie, Sir Simon nodded gravely.

“Sure, sure. I understand, I understand. How true, how true”, he muttered, pensively smoothing his beard.

As soon as he was alone again, he took a decision: he would go back. He just couldn’t stay there.

He stood near the threshold, and as soon as a soul appeared from the world of the living, he rushed to the other side.

He was greeted by a cacophony of noises he was not used to: the honking of cars, the roar of airplanes, the sirens of ambulances…

Oh, dear me! he said to himself, alarmed. Could it be that I went in the wrong direction? Maybe I ended up in the world below! This place seems really… infernal!

Looking around frantically for a way out, he noticed a sign: “Canterville Manor, B&B – Opening Soon.”

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried out loud.

No sooner did he think of his castle than he found himself standing in front of it – one of the perks of his ghostly status. It looked like his castle, but at the same time it did not. Puzzled, Sir Simon entered, going through the front door.

Sitting at a table in what used to be the drawing room, a dark-haired lady was shifting some papers on the table in front of her while talking aloud – clearly by herself, since there was no one else in the room.

“Yes, that could work, but we need to check all the old pipes to make sure they carry the voice”, she said. After a pause, she laughed and added: “We can keep the bats as a last resource, if all the other tricks fail.”

Sir Simon was confused and yet intrigued. At least, this wasn’t boring!

He peeked over the lady’s shoulder to look at the scattered papers on the table and recognized the layout of his castle. There were also drawings of the various rooms, vertical cutaways showing the interiors of the chimneys, the walls, and so on.

The lady laughed again, then said, “See you soon”, and placed a small, rectangular, black object on the table.

More and more mysterious, thought Sir Simon.

At that moment, someone else entered the house and joined the lady in the drawing room. It was a man with his hair cut very short and a thick dark beard.

Hm, he has a nice face, thought the ghost. I wouldn’t mind pulling some tricks on him.

For that night, he decided to keep an eye on the new tenants of his castle to try and get to know them a little so he could learn how best to scare them. Oh, how he had missed this!

He was surprised when, at dinnertime, another woman joined the company. Seated at the table, the three chatted for a long time, and the ghost began to get an idea of what was going on.

The bearded man was married to the dark-haired lady, and the newcomer was his sister. The three of them had bought his castle with the intention of making something called a “bed and breakfast” out of it. From the way they talked about it, Sir Simon got the idea that it was some kind of inn.

Those people came into his most ardent sympathies when he better understood what they were planning to do: they intended to advertise their inn as a haunted manor, where guests would pay to be spooked by fake apparitions, fake voices coming up the pipes, bats in the bedroom, and other such amenities.

I really like these guys, he said to himself. In no time at all he had made up his mind: he was going to help them! He knew from experience how hard it was to think up believable tricks, and he had a feeling that if a real ghost spooked the inn’s guests, business would be booming!

The next morning, Sir Simon prepared breakfast for the three tenants of the castle, who came down to the kitchen lured by the smell of coffee, toast, and fried bacon. In the middle of the table, he had placed a letter in which he explained, in black and white, his ideas for a truly spooky inn. Thrilled, full of anticipation… Sir Simon was beyond excited!

The three humans looked at each other suspiciously, wondering who had come up with the little prank. It did not take them long, however, to realize the truth: Sir Simon, impatient and tired of waiting for the numbed intellect of the living to put two and two together, took matters into his own ghostly hands. With solemn gestures, he opened the refrigerator (what a phenomenal invention!) and took out the fresh milk jug.

“Guys, I think the ghost of the manor is home”, said the bearded man, gazing at the milk jar floating mid-air.

“Can it really be?” asked his wife, in disbelief.

“I think this is great news”, cried the bearded man’s sister. “We all know the story: Sir Simon De Canterville is a professional! Working with him will be the most fun and we’re sure to make a lot of money!”

“Did you hear that, Ghost?” called the man. “We are so glad you want to help us!”

Sir Simon was beside himself with happiness. He darted up to the attic where he retrieved his old bagpipe, then returned to the kitchen where he started playing cheerful music – at least, he tried. The instrument was battered, but the three humans did not mind. They sprang to their feet and danced in the middle of the kitchen, thus sealing their alliance with the ghost of the manor. 

To make it short: the inn was a great success, Sir Simon finally found his calling, and he never had a boring moment as long as the three humans lived at Canterville.

What happened next, well… That’s another story.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story that features someone dancing in the rain. This tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers mystery series. Since Halloween is Val’s favorite holiday, she decided to be a month early and go in that direction. 

Career Aspiration

By Val Muller

“There’s no such thing as a witch,” Mrs. Patrick said. “It’s all just fictional. That means pretend,” she added.

Millie frowned. She knew that was a lie. Olivia’s older sister was Wiccan, and that meant “witch.” And magic was real, too. How else to explain Santa? Or the Tooth Fairy? And if witches weren’t real, why did they have so many of them in stores for Halloween? 

Millie wrinkled up her paper. So she wouldn’t research “witch” for her career day presentation. “I guess I’ll just choose something boring like firefighter.” Her eyes flashed. “Or teacher.” 

Mrs. Patrick handed her a new sheet. “I think that would be for the best.” 

That night, she walked to Olivia’s house to make her poster for the presentation. She had gone with firefighter, and so far her poster had angry red, orange, and yellow flames. 

All over it. 

“I think you have to do more than that,” Olivia said, frowning at the poster. 

Millie shrugged. 

“Like you’re supposed to research the job requirements, salary, training, job duties…” Olivia put down the assignment sheet. “You’re still mad you can’t research witches, huh?”

Millie shrugged again. “This is a stupid assignment. I’ll just copy some stuff off the internet.” 

“I’m gonna see if I can find some ice cream. That’ll help your mood.” Olivia hurried up the stairs, and almost immediately, her older sister appeared. 

“I thought I heard company,” Wendy said. “Weird for Olivia to have friends over on a school night.” 

“It’s not for fun,” Millie said. “I have this stupid project to work on.” 

“What’s stupid about it?” Wendy asked. 

“My teacher says witches aren’t real. And that means she thinks magic isn’t real. And if magic isn’t real, then…” 

Wendy’s eyes softened. She grasped a pendant hanging from her necklace. “Magic is real,” she whispered.

Millie gasped. “Are you a witch?”

“Witchcraft isn’t what they show in movies. It’s not pixie dust or cackling spells. Magic is–feeling connected. There’s magic in the croak of a frog. There’s magic in…” 

“The flap of a butterfly’s wing?” Millie asked. 

Wendy smiled. “Exactly. There’s magic in looking at the moon and finding yourself invigorated. And there’s magic in what we create.” Wendy took off her necklace. It was a crystal pendant, wound at the top with wire bent to look like a leaf. 

From upstairs, Olivia called, “Do you want chocolate or vanilla?” 

Millie smiled. “Both, please.” She winked at Wendy. 

Wendy glanced at Millie’s poster. “There’s magic in drawing, too. Creating something out of blankness. Don’t let your teacher get you down. You just follow you. That’s witchcraft.” 

Wendy patted Millie’s shoulder, leaving just as Olivia descended the stairs with ice cream. The pendant hung heavily around Millie’s neck. 

Later, Millie walked home slowly. She was looking for the moon, but the clouds were too dense. She took the long way home, looking at the way the porch lights lit up the falling autumn leaves. She felt the rain in her mind before she felt it on her skin, and she didn’t hurry. The crystal felt warm on her chest now, getting lighter with the rain. As the rain fell, she held her poster above her like a makeshift umbrella, delighting as the large droplets turned into a deluge, ruining the doomed project. She wove the limp poster through the air like a scarf as she danced in the rain, humming a song that only she understood, a song about red and yellow markers and a firefighter and a teacher and a girl who went to bed with wet braids and went to school the next morning with a smile instead of a project. 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “Back to School.”

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is currently in Berlin, Germany, doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects. Her YA novel “Mi chiamo Elisa” was published in Italy by “Le Mezzelane Casa Editrice” in September 2020 and recently in Turkey with the title “Benim adım Elisa”. Her children’s book “Şebnem ve Schrödinger’in Kedisi” was just published in Turkey by Sia Kitap and in Italy with the title: “Chiara e il Gatto di Schrödinger”.

***

The Inn at the End of Dreams 

by Chiara De Giorgi

When my grandparents opened the inn, they thought they would leave it to their children once they retired. Neither my mom, though, nor her brother or her sister ever wanted to work there. 

“It’s too secluded, too busy, too noisy, too weird…” 

That’s what they used to say, whenever grandpa addressed the issue. Growing up, I witnessed more than one discussion about this: my grandparents were getting older, the inn was their life, but it really was a lot of work, and it didn’t make sense to hire more help, as the earnings would drop significantly. 

“Why don’t you sell?” my uncle would ask from time to time. “It’s in a good position, the new owner could even build an additional story and add a couple of rooms or three.”

I always followed these exchanges with a bit of apprehension, as I loved the inn and hated the idea of my grandparents selling it. Luckily, they were having none of it. 

“And where would we go?” my grandma would reply. “We like it here, that’s why we built the inn here in the first place.”

Conversations like this always ended with my mom and her siblings scrolling their heads and muttering under their breaths. I eavesdropped, once, and I was horrified to learn that they meant to sell the inn as soon as their parents were dead, if they would not manage to convince them to sell before then. The thought made me sad, and I promised my grandparents that I would come live with them and work at the inn as soon as I finished school. I was like them, I loved it there. And I really could not understand why my mom and her siblings didn’t. 

The inn was built at a crossroads. There wasn’t much around, but the significant detail was the roads that met at that specific intersection. To the west was the World of Dreams, from which came the creatures on their way to our world; going north were the Lands of the Gods, who liked to travel to all the other places; to the east was the Realm of Fairy Tales, and to the south were the World of Humans and the Province of Talking Turtles (we often met some on our way to visit my grandparents).

There was a big variety of guests staying at the inn, and, growing up, I sometimes befriended some kid from one world or another when we both stayed long enough. I got a taste for ice skating one winter when I spent a few days playing with a fairy of the Cold from the Lands of the Gods, whose family stopped there for a short vacation. One summer, as a teenager, I had a crush on a young werewolf. I was convinced that he reciprocated, as we kept writing letters to each other throughout the following year: we sent them to the inn, and my grandparents forwarded his to me, and mine to him. Unfortunately, one day the letter I received was meant for someone else, so I learned that the scoundrel had a girl in each of the worlds.

Anyway.

When my grandparents decided to retire, I was studying to become a teacher. I had always believed that, when the time would come for me to take over the inn, I’d be ready, but it turned out I was not. My grandparents were saddened, but very understanding: they’d never put themselves in the way of another’s dream, especially if that someone was their only niece. 

They passed away a few months from each other a couple of years ago, and they left the inn to me. My parents, and my aunt and uncle, tried to convince me to sell it.

“A teacher’s salary is not enough to live a comfortable life”, they’d argue. “Think of all the things you could do with the money!”

But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. And, slowly, a plan was born. I’d turn the “Inn at the End of Dreams” into the “Boarding School at the End of Dreams”, and it would be open to all creatures, coming from any world. 

I found a partner from the World of Dreams, who was willing to invest money to build an annexe for rooms and a canteen. Classrooms, a large common room, and the library are in the main building, where we also have or quarters. (Gathering books to fill the shelves in the library has been one of the most exciting and fun undertakings of my life, by the way. I swear, the whole operation almost failed because I was too busy reading the books of fairy tales and legends from the Dream World, or the history of the Lands of the Gods, to take care of the necessary administrative stuff!) 

And, finally, the time has come: tomorrow is the first school day at the Boarding School at the End of Dreams. We have thirty-five students from all the worlds, there have been so many requests and we had to decline quite a few, but we are working on extra projects, so that other kids can take part in our exclusive programme. 

Needless to say, my family and friends were – and still are – very concerned about my decision, but I am sure my grandparents would be proud of me. My partner and I are determined to prove our detractors wrong, so wish us luck!

* * *

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/ 

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/ 

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

Welcome to The Spot Writers. Catherine A. MacKenzie’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon. The prompt for the months is “New School Year.” This week, Cathy continues with Melvin and his tales…

***

“What? Sending William Away?” by Cathy MacKenzie

 “Melvin, I think we need to consider sending William to King’s.”

I looked up from my tablet to see Marie staring at me.

“Huh? King’s?” I asked.

“King’s-Edgehill.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s depressed. Didn’t do well in school last year as you know, but you don’t seem to care.”

“Of course I care, Marie. He’s my son. Of course. I care. I do!”

“You have a weird way of showing it. I told you ages ago about his depression, not to mention his horrible grades.”

“He’s lost his siblings, Marie. What the hell do you expect?”

“I think he’s in denial.”

“Denial?”

“Yes, I hear him sometimes. He prays for them to return. Kneels at his bed. Clasps his hands together. Like a steeple. Bows his head. Seconds later, he’ll plop to his bed and just stare at the ceiling.”

I couldn’t resist. “Maybe he thinks he can see Heaven if he stares long enough.”

Marie jumped up from the couch and flailed her arms. “Melvin, you’re so exasperating.”

I felt like shit. Knew I was wrong. “Sorry.”

“I really think King’s would help. Give him a fresh start.”

“He’s only ten, Marie. Is he old enough to go there?”

“I think so. I’ll have to check.”

“But do they deal with problem children? Don’t you just have to be smart to get in?”

“Melvin! William is not a problem child. About the grades: I think that’s the purpose of the school. To give children a better education with one-on-one learning. Fewer children for teachers to deal with. I think they have a day program, so he wouldn’t have to board there.”

“Marie, it’s in Windsor. Over an hour away. Too far for us to drive every day.”

“He’ll have to be a boarding student, then.”

“A boarding student?” I groaned. “How much is that gonna cost?”

She threw me one of her Marie-looks. “Melvin, the world doesn’t revolve around money. Well, maybe it does, but we can’t let it affect us. As to the cost, I haven’t a clue. But it’d be worth it to get William back on track.”

I pondered. Yeah, sure, I wanted my remaining child—my only son—to have a good start in life, but boarding school? And the cost? Man, not like I’m raking in the big bucks.”

“It’s still August, Marie. Lots of time to think about this.”

“No, there isn’t. Kings is booked years in advance. It’s THAT prestigious a school.”

“Then he won’t get in this year, will he?” I heaved a sigh of relief. Then, I stared her down. “Why don’t you see about next year?” Give me some breathing room, I thought. Time to make more money—maybe. With two less kids, you’d think our savings account would be higher, but crappy climate change and Russians invading Ukraine… And now talk of a recession? No wonder I can’t get ahead. Does anyone realize how hard it is to be Man of the House? Unless… Was Marie dipping into our accounts? Buying herself fancy clothes and jewels? I made a mental note to check her closet and jewellery box.

She gave me another “look” and emitted a long, drawn-out sigh. “I’m going to call tomorrow. See what the admittance policy is.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mumbled.

“Our son deserves the best we can give him considering all he’s been through over the past year. We haven’t done much for him. Not really…”

She rambled. On and on. I blocked my ears (mentally, of course, so as not to piss her off more than necessary) and concentrated on the positives over the past year. Wracked my brain but couldn’t come up with one except for Kailani. And where the hell’s she been all this time?

***

The next day, Marie informed me that King’s started with Grade Six. William was going into Grade Five. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

But then—

“I’m going to enroll him for next year, Melvin. That way, he’ll be on the list, and we can change our minds if he improves. We’d just have to pay a deposit.”

Change our minds? My mind hadn’t been changed. Would never be. I didn’t want him to go to King’s. The cost. The distance. Marie hadn’t figured out those major details yet. Hmm, I thought. Boarding school. Marie had been talking about the day program. But if we sent William away for the entire school year, what a pleasure that would be. Of course, he’d return home for holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Couldn’t let our sweet son be without family on special occasions.

I decided to let the idea fester. We had a year, after all. I could grab some extra shifts at Centrix—that is, if Alexander J. Tupper would cooperate. I could talk to him, explain the situation. He’d understand. He’s always asking how William is. Has sons of his own. Hmm… Might work.

If not, well, a lot can change in a year, right?

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/