Under The Lantern's Glow
Only in their light do I exist.
Do you know how boring it is to be tied to one place? It’s mind-numbing. Utterly tedious. Dreadfully dull.
My whole world has been reduced to one path running from one end of the park to the other, and I promise you that I have memorized every bend, every turn, every single cobblestone along that path. One time I actually started counting them as I walked, lost my place somewhere around ten thousand and never bothered picking it up again.
I’d probably make an excellent tour guide. I could point out the best places to see robins, bluebirds, turtle doves, nuthatches, larks and finches of all kinds. The gazebo where Cordelia Hogwood sat while she wrote her first book. Several cozy, out-of-the-way places that would be perfect for a romantic tryst.
And for the macabre, the spot where I was murdered.
Yes, you heard me correctly. I’m quite dead, and have been so for the past hundred and sixty years. I am a specter, a phantom, an apparition.
A ghost.
One of the peculiarities of death is that ghosts cannot leave the place where they died. Something anchors us there. This is why you have mysterious figures that haunt highways, train tracks, lakes, houses, and nearly anywhere else. We don’t necessarily want to be there. We simply have no other choice.
The exceptions of course are the clever bastards who managed to hitch themselves to an object like a purse, a necklace, a mirror, or what-have-you. They get to travel from place to place.
Maybe if I was wearing my favorite necklace the night I died I’d be comfortably haunting someone’s house right now, being a small child’s ‘imaginary’ friend and confusing the daylights out of whatever pets they had. At least I’d have someone to talk to. But no, I left it at home and so here I am, confined to this strip of pavement for the foreseeable future.
I’m visible every night, only after the lanterns turn on. That’s still odd to say, by the way. When I lived a lantern was something to be lit, not turned on automatically after dark, but here we are.
In those lonely hours the living can see me, a young woman in a blue dress walking back and forth along the path. I’ve heard all sorts of stories about why I’m there, spoken with the utmost confidence by so-called ghost hunters and historians. Most of them say that I’m searching for my long-lost love who never showed up on the night that we were to be wed. They always end with me freezing to death if the story’s set in the winter, being killed by a robber, or throwing myself off the bridge into the lake out of despair.
None of these are true.
I had been meeting a man there, an artist by the name of Dorian Page. He would do sketches and paintings in that very same park for people, and in fact that’s how we met. He had been furiously drawing as I approached on the path, glancing up ever so often and going back to work.
With a flourish he handed me a sketch in which I looked to be half woman, half lamb, with big round eyes, a bell around my neck and a sheeplike nose and mouth. I knew that some of these artists would exaggerate people’s features for comedic effect, but I’d never seen one draw animal folk before. Frowning a little, I looked up at him.
“Why a lamb, good sir?”
“Because that’s what you strike me as, my lady,” he said. “A sweet, gentle little lamb.”
I suppose there are worse animals to be compared to.
Following up on that, he bowed to me with a smile. “Dorian Page, at your service. And what might I call you? Unless you don’t mind being called ‘little lamb’, that is.”
I lifted my chin. “…Violet Elmstone. ‘Little lamb’ is a touch overly-familiar for someone you just met, don’t you think?”
“Ah, but once I get to know you better it won’t be.”
He was good-looking, I’ll give him that. Finely-featured with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and sapphire eyes. He was also infuriating, bold and irreverent with an off-kilter sense of humor and a complete disregard for things like status or personal space.
I thought he was perfect.
My family wouldn’t have approved of me associating with a lowly street artist, so I snuck out after dark to meet Dorian. We’d wait until after the lanterns were lit and then we’d have the run of the park to ourselves. It truly was a beautiful space, even late at night. The two of us had our own special spot by the lake where we watched the play of the lantern-light on the water and talked about our plans for the future.
He spoke of going to Paris and Rome with me, or perhaps eastward to cities like Prague or Bucharest. I thought it would be best if my family came to know him before we went on any such trips together.
“Come now, where’s your sense of adventure?” he laughed. “Imagine their faces if you disappear for a month or two, only to walk back in the door unannounced with a new paramour in tow!”
“I would rather not, thank you,” I muttered. “It would be bad for me, but worse for you.”
All of his ideas involved going somewhere far away, since apparently that’s how he lived his life. Migrating from place to place, just like a bird. When the money dried up in one location he went to another, and another, and another still. As much as I had grown to like Dorian I wasn’t willing to live the life of a nomadic artist with him.
I was planning on introducing him to my father and seeing if he could find Dorian a job, perhaps illustrating books. His whimsical caricatures would be perfect for faerie tales and children’s books.
Before I could do that, he promised to show me something special that was a bit closer to home. Angelica Park is a huge place, and there were plenty of less-traveled areas that, had I been with anyone else, I would be wary of entering.
He took me down to a dilapidated old boathouse on the far side of the lake, the part where nobody really bothered to go. I wrinkled my nose at the sight; this was what was so special? This was what he wanted me to see?
“This is it? Is this one of your strange jokes, Dorian?”
He laughed and gave me a nudge towards the building. “Trust me, it’s much different inside. You’ll see.”
I frowned at him —that had become a habit— and entered the shack. The first thing that hit me was the smell; a terrible stink like rotting meat and clotting blood. The second was the sight of several other girls, all of whom had their throats slit. They lay there putrefying, eyes wide, covered in flies.
I tried to back away but Dorian was in the doorway behind me. He leaned in close, and I could feel the tickle of his hot breath on my neck.
“This is where I’ve been bringing all my little lambs,” he purred in my ear. “To treat them as lambs are supposed to be treated.”
Thinking quickly, I ducked under his arm and did the only thing I could: I ran. Ran back to the cobblestone path, hoping it would lead me to safety. I ran as fast as I could, screaming for help and getting no answer. Of course I didn’t; nobody was around at this hour. We’d made sure of it. There was nobody here but me.
Me and Dorian.
I wish I could tell you that I escaped. That I outran him and managed to get to safety. That Dorian never hurt anyone else ever again.
But if any of that happened, I would not be here.
He caught up to me after only a few minutes, looking none the worse for wear when I was already tired from running and screaming as loud as I could. Maybe if I had hidden somewhere in the foliage instead of running I could have lived, but it’s easy to say what I should have done long after the fact.
I struggled and fought to no avail, most of my strength already spent. I was going to end up like all the other girls he’d preyed upon, the rest of his ‘little lambs’.
Grinning a wolfish grin he brought the knife down into my chest, and I knew nothing more.
And so here I remain, confined to the cobblestone path I died on. I can roam anywhere along it, but I cannot leave it. If I try, it’s as if there are invisible walls in the way.
No one ever held Dorian accountable for the murder. He took off again, as he was wont to do. Off to find a new hunting ground I suppose, and more ‘little lambs’ to slaughter. All I ever wanted was for him to pay, but of course I have no ability to make him do so.
So I wait, and I watch, and I bide my time. Under the lantern lights I walk, hoping that someone will become interested enough in my story to uncover the truth. Uncover Dorian Page’s horrible crimes. Show the world what a monster he was.
Perhaps then I might go free.
Aarrhgghh... ;>)