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Of all the things Lucille had done in her short life, answering a Craigslist ad wouldn’t rank in the top ten.
Her landlord slid another reminder underneath her door. Rent was due on the first, no exceptions. Her bank account was overdrawn, again. To top it off, the restaurant where she waited tables hit its slow season, and she’d been the first server cut every night this week.
The ad offered $1000 to anyone who recorded evidence of spiritual activity at the Ashdown House on the edge of town and managed to spend the entire night in the supposedly-haunted building. They wanted camera footage, and would not accept “spooky noises” from someone’s iPhone.
The question is not “Is this house haunted?,” but “How haunted is this place?” The ad read. Payment will only be received when we confirm your evidence is real.
What else did Lucille have to lose? She had Friday night free. She had to pay her rent. Surely she could bullshit something on camera, and thus convince someone she’d seen a ghost.
Cheerfully, she sent an email, and an hour later, set up her sleepover at Ashdown House.
A black SUV waited outside Ashdown House when Lucille’s Uber dropped her off. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she frowned at the sad state of the property.
The photographs of the building online didn’t show this much damage. The front porch sagged with broken boards and peeling paint. A giant hole gaped where a welcome mat would have been. Every window was smashed open. She could deal with some broken glass, but the last thing she wanted was to have to get a tetanus shot tomorrow morning.
To prep for her stay, Lucille researched ghost hunting. She didn’t have money for fancy gadgets, but a coworker, Greg, had a camcorder and tripod she could borrow for the weekend. She saved ideas on her phone for how she could fake her “ghost sighting,” including extra flashlights, a blanket, and an illegal copy of Photoshop on her laptop.
And she studied Ashdown House. It first belonged to Jonathan Ashdown, a wealthy businessman who built the house for his young wife, Maria. Maria died overseas before construction was completed, and Jonathan became a recluse. Legend said he haunted the building, constantly waiting for his wife to join him in the afterlife. A touching story and now, a local legend.
Honestly, she worried more about someone else deciding to crash inside the empty house than seeing a real ghost. No one cared about Ashdown House in years, nor did the police pay attention if someone broke into the old building. But what was life without a hint of danger?
A tall man stepped out of the SUV. A black cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes, and his beard hid most of his face. Like his car, his clothing was straight black. “Lucille Myers?”
“That’s me!” Lucille waved. “Nice to meet you!”
He didn’t return the sentiment. Instead he jerked a thumb towards the derelict house. “This is Ashdown House. You’ve agreed to spend the next 24 hours inside this building. If you complete your stay, we will gladly provide compensation.”
“Once I prove the ghost is there, you mean,” she corrected.
“Of course there’s a ghost,” he shot back. “Good luck getting evidence of it.”
His brash demeanor didn’t scare her. Everyone underestimated a 4’11” girl in Converse sneakers. “Thank you for your faith in me,” she said, “and I have all my stuff right here.” She wiggled the duffel bag in her opposite hand. “The person I talked to on the phone - Steve, was it? - mentioned something about a contract before I went in.”
He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. “Of course.” He held it out to her. “If anything happens in that house tonight, if you are injured or terrified, we claim no responsibility.”
Lucille took the envelope and read over the contract. It was a simple typed statement, already signed by Charles Witherby, owner of Ashdown House. Was she speaking with Charles now? Did she even care? As long as she got the thousand bucks tomorrow, Lucille would sign anything.
“Do you have a pen?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
The mysterious man passed her a black ballpoint. She signed her name with an elaborate flourish. This was the easiest money she’d ever made.
“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” he said, folding the contract and slipping it back into his pocket.
“Sure do!” God, she’d slipped into her customer service voice without realizing it. “Ghosts and I go way back. I’ve always been able to speak to the dead.” Another lie. Until she saw that ad, she hadn’t thought twice about the undead, but there was a first time for everything.
He tipped his hat to her. “Good luck.” He opened the driver’s door, then paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re going to need it.”
With that, he climbed in, revved the engine, and sped out of the driveway. Lucille was alone with Ashdown House.
Once the sound of the engine disappeared, the only thing left was the whisper of the wind through the barren trees. Leaves scattered across the dry, dead grass of the front lawn. Her chest tightened, but Lucille forced it down.
She wasn’t going to spend the night outside, after all. Might as well get this over with.
The interior of Ashdown House faired as well as the outside. Dirt and leaves covered the foyer floor, a result of years of broken windows and disuse. Out of habit, Lucille wiped her shoes on the carpet by the door. It might have once been a shade of red, but was now a dirty, dusty pink mixed with shit brown. The mud on her Converse wouldn’t matter.
Wallpaper peeled from the walls. Picture frames dangled from their hooks, askew at different angles. In the kitchen, the cabinet doors had been ripped off their hinges, exposing blank shelves coated in years of dirt and slime. The refrigerator was older than her parents. She refused to open the door, convinced it would be full of mold and rotten food.
“Hello?” Lucille called. “Anybody in here?”
The only answer was the echo of her own voice.
“Don’t worry, I’m not with the police or anything,” she continued, moving from room to room. “I don’t care if you’re staying here. It’s still a roof over your head, right? Better than being out in the cold.” Winter would be here before they knew it. She didn’t blame the homeless for making the best of a bad situation.
If she didn’t get this paycheck, and therefore pay her rent, she risked joining their ranks.
While she found evidence that others had been inside in the past, including broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, and used condoms, no one but Lucille was here now. She considered locking the front door, but what good would that do? All of the windows were open and the place didn’t have power.
She’d prepared for this, though. Upstairs, she found what must have been the master bedroom. The four poster bed remained, the mattress stained in shades of black, grey, and rust brown. Lucille wondered what kind of bodily fluids might be trapped in the fabric, and decided she’d rather not know. The paycheck wasn’t worth sleeping on that piece of shit.
But still, this was the room that resonated with her. Someone had once lived here. Their clothes filled the armoire in the corner, the one now spray painted with “FUCK THE POLICE” in neon orange. They slept in that bed. Maybe they drank tea and read books beside the abandoned fireplace. The wingback chair even had a worn cushion, as if its occupant sat there moments before Lucille arrived.
It was the only place in the building that felt “right” to her. She dropped her duffel in the one semi-clean corner of the room. “I’m going to stay here tonight, if no one minds,” she said. “If there is someone here, I bet you’ll give me some sort of sign.”
Again, silence. Maybe squatters didn’t return to Ashdown House until the sun went down.
Lucille didn’t mind. She took out all of her borrowed equipment, set up her camcorder on the tripod, and spread out her sleeping bag. All she had to do was get through one night.
How hard could it be?
Nightfall came quickly at Ashdown House. Without power, moonlight cast shadows throughout the dilapidated home. With her trusty flashlights and a small, battery-operated lantern, Lucille dutifully checked out every random noise she heard.
The creepy scratching from down the hall? Branches scraping against one of the back windows. A weird whistling sound? Just the wind through a crack in the wall. Everything had a logical explanation.
As the hours drew on, and no one arrived - to party, to crash, or to haunt her - Lucille started to think this whole ghost business was bullshit. Which was fine, despite whatever What’s-His-Face with the contract said about the house. Lucille was prepared to fake it if need be.
She tugged her phone out of her pocket and plopped down on the sleeping bag, folding her legs underneath her. Thanks to her portable charger, it was still at full battery - she’d figured it would be a long night.
The floor squeaked, like someone stepped on a loose floorboard. Lucille looked up, but the only movement was the wind rustling the sheets.
“Nice try,” she said, to no one in particular. “I know no one’s there.”
Still, the wind brought goosebumps up her arm. She slipped her hoodie over her shoulders and went back to her search on her phone: how to fake a ghost photo in photoshop came up first.
It didn’t look hard, mostly adding layers and layer masks and blending one photograph into another. Lucille took an Intro to Photoshop class back in college, so those terms seemed familiar. She didn’t have a backup charger for her laptop, however, so she didn’t want to turn it on until she knew she couldn’t get a picture of the real deal.
She checked the camcorder; she had plenty of footage from the tour she took throughout Ashdown House earlier. It might be easier to fake an orb sighting on video. It wasn’t like she could sleep tonight.
Cracking open another Redbull, she scrolled through different tutorials. The creaking sound came again. The wind picked up, loose strands of dark hair blowing into her eyes. Lucille tied her hair back with the scrunchie on her wrist, but the wind remained.
She’d have to board up the window somehow if she wanted to stay in this room tonight. Perhaps she could use something from downstairs? The kitchen lacked doors on the cabinets, and they might be the right size. With one last slug of her energy drink, Lucille got to her feet—
And jumped at the sight before her.
Perched in the armchair, a ghostly form studied her.
His chin propped in one hand, cool blue eyes roamed over her body. Tight leather pants clung to his spread legs. A white dress shirt with soft, billowing sleeves was held in check with a black vest. Curly blonde hair flopped into his eyes, like some sort of Victorian hottie who had been waiting here for her the whole time.
Only he didn’t seem entirely real. His image wavered, like an old TV signal going in and out. A blue haze lined the edges of his form. But Lucille’s breath caught in her throat, noticing those sharp cheekbones, the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“So,” he murmured, a voice like silk sliding over her body, “they’ve sent another one for me.”
Her phone was still in her hand. With trembling fingers, she pressed the camera button. No way Lucille was going to miss out on recording this.
“Are you… Jonathan Ashdown?” The first owner of Ashdown House, the one who supposedly died a horrible, lonely death here.
He stroked a finger over his lips. Her eyes were drawn to the movement. Even in spectral form, his lips looked lush, full. Completely kissable, were he alive. “I might be. Who are you?”
Was it bad form to give your name to a ghost? Still, it wasn’t in her to lie. “Lucille.”
“Why are you here, Lucille?” He smirked like he already knew the answer.
She lifted her chin, steadying herself. “To take footage of a ghost.”
He chuckled. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” He flicked his free hand. The crash of the tripod followed. The camcorder smashed into the floor, the fold-out screen snapping off.
“Shit!” Forgetting about the recording on her phone, she dashed to the fallen equipment. “I need that stuff! I have to give it back to my coworker on Monday!”
“Oops.” He didn’t sound sorry.
Lucille cradled the broken camcorder. Fortunately, it looked like the screen could be fixed with superglue and a prayer. “Do you know how much one of these costs?” she muttered under her breath. “I can’t buy him a new one.”
“Is that why you’re here? Money?” He snorted. “Money isn’t everything.”
Oh, this had to be Jonathan Ashdown. The man had once been a successful businessman who could hire anyone he wanted to build a place like this. Born into money, never had to worry about money. Lucille didn’t have that luck. “Maybe not to you,” she snapped, “but to me it’s currently the difference between having a place to live or being out on the street. So.” She flicked the camcorder back on.
Nothing happened.
She hit the button again. Still nothing. “Fuck!”
The ghost gave her another smile. “I can’t have evidence of me getting out. Surely you understand.”
“No, I don’t.” Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Lucille grimaced through them. She’d have to buy Greg a new camcorder. But without the footage, she couldn’t pay her rent, much less replace the broken equipment. “If you don’t want anyone to see you then why appear at all?” And why was she talking to a ghost like he even gave a shit?
He cocked his head, studying her. “Because,” he said, “you’re not the only one who’s looking for… companionship.”
Rising from his chair, he glided across the room. His feet didn’t quite touch the floor. A pale hand stretched towards her. “There is a reason why you are here.”
“Of course there is.” She rolled her eyes. “I need the paycheck or else I’m going to camp out in this busted-ass building and bother you forever.” An empty threat, but in her nervousness, she couldn’t keep the words from bubbling out of her mouth.
He frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“I mean, I’m going to get kicked out of my apartment if I can’t pay my rent.” Why was she telling him all this? He was a ghost, it didn’t matter. Lucille wiped at her face with the back of her hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Could she sell an organ before she had to face her landlord again? Would said landlord accept one of her organs in place of payment? “Whatever. I’m leaving.”
Turning away, Lucille stuffed the broken camcorder into her duffel bag. A quick glance at her phone showed it never started recording, the screen dark. Nothing in her life went the way it should. Why should tonight be any different?
A chill ran up her arm. Phantom fingers circled her wrist, a gentle hold, but she still registered the pressure of his grasp. “You haven’t allowed me to explain.”
“You explained enough. You haunt this shithole and you don’t mind if people know, but you don’t want anyone to prove it.”
He shook his head. “You are here,” he corrected, lowering his head so his words whispered into her ear, “because I asked you to be.”
Her breath hitched. An automatic reaction, as if he were actually standing close to her. But he didn’t give off any body heat. Lucille had to be imagining the feel of someone pressing into her space. “What?”
“I’ll admit, I do not know the particulars of the… what is it called? The Internet.” The word dripped from his mouth like a curse. “Witherby handles those details for me. I have never asked him how he brings people here, but I do know he offers a great deal of money in his advertisement.”
“You are… luring people here?” Her voice rose in pitch. Maybe she should have read that contract she signed in full. Had she unwillingly signed her life away to some psychopath ghost?
“Luring implies that I plan to harm you.” The ghostly pressure returned, his fingers stroking the inside of her wrist. In spite of herself, Lucille shuddered. “I require a woman. One who chooses to set foot in the house, to spend the night with me, to sustain my presence in this realm.”
“Then why don’t you ask one of the homeless people who camp out here?”
He stepped into her. Instead of warmth, it was as if a block of ice pressed into Lucille’s back. His other hand slid up her opposite arm. “They don’t believe,” he whispered. “But you do.”
She swayed. His arm looped around her waist, loosely, keeping her upright. “You’re the first ghost I’ve ever actually seen,” she whispered. “I lied to the guy I met here. I said I knew how to talk to ghosts. I don’t. Not until you.”
“I am unconcerned.”
“Then why can I see you?” Maybe she’d fallen asleep and she was dreaming. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Of course you do,” he assured her. “I am Jonathan Ashdown. My spirit is tied to this building–” He glanced around the room and frowned, “—in spite of its current dilapidated condition. I cannot be free of this place. But sometimes, I can still enjoy the fruits of my labor in life.”
A whispered breath danced over her neck. On instinct, Lucille tilted her head, hair spilling over the opposite shoulder, exposing her skin. She swore she felt lips press against the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. “I choose the ones I want to see me,” Jonathan murmured. “You, Lucille, are worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
“Me.”
She snorted. “Aren’t you full of yourself?”
“I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Lucille wanted to step away. Finish packing her bag, run down the ramshackle stairs two by two, and be done with this place. But she didn’t. Jonathan’s spirit held her here, as if he actually wanted her. “Then I need proof that you’re real,” she countered. “So I can get the money I was promised.”
“Allow me to make a counteroffer? I am–” He paused, then corrected, “I was a businessman. We can make an alternate arrangement.”
“You’re a ghost,” she reminded him. “What else could you offer me than proof?”
The hand on her waist slid lower, brushing over the seam of her jeans. Lucille jumped, and she swore his arms held her tighter. “Pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. If you stay with me tonight.”
Men were the same no matter what century they came from - or whether they were dead or alive. “I’ve heard that before,” she said. “In my experience, guys promise you the world, but they always underdeliver.” Hence why she was still single.
An unseen force whipped her body around, so she faced Jonathan. He took two steps forward and pressed her into the wall. “I am not a guy,” he muttered. Fire sparkled inside ghostly ice-blue eyes. “Allow me to prove it to you.”
“One night of good sex isn’t worth losing my apartment,” she protested. Were they even talking about sex, or had she jumped to conclusions? “Also, aren’t you supposed to be mourning your long lost wife or whatever?”
Caging her against the wall, Jonathan never flinched. “In life, yes. I missed my Maria dearly. But now…” Leaning into her, he trailed his nose over the skin of her neck as if breathing her in. “Maria does not, cannot, compete with your living, breathing soul. Give me the night, my dear Lucille. And I would give you the world.”
Logically, Lucille knew no one could do that. The world was harsh and cruel, and the threat of eviction was just the current blemish on her long list of mistakes. So was answering a Craigslist ad looking for a ghost hunter or medium to retrieve evidence of spectral behavior at the Ashdown House.
But Jonathan’s eyes bore into hers, as if she was the only thing that existed in his world. She knew better than to trust a stranger, but then again, she’d done it before. Take a guy home from the bar, share her bed for the night, and still wake up alone the next morning. At least this time, she would be assured Jonathan wouldn’t be there come daylight.
Fuck it. If she was going to get kicked out of her apartment, she could camp out here with Jonathan the freaky ghost. The least she could do was get something out of the arrangement while she could.
“Sounds too good to be true,” she finally said, biting her bottom lip. “But you could try to prove me wrong.”
His grin lit up his whole face. “I knew you’d see things my way.” Jonathan ducked his head down for a kiss. Lucille wasn’t sure what to expect - surely she wouldn’t be able to feel his mouth on hers, on account of him being dead and all.
All thoughts of “I’m kissing a ghost” were immediately chased away by the intensity of the kiss. Ice cold but insistent, his mouth slanting over hers and pressing, begging for access. On instinct, her hands reached for him, sliding over the silk of his vest. His hand dropped to her hip, cold but very, very real.
“That’s it,” Jonathan breathed against her. “Touch me. Make me real again.”
She had no choice but to do as he asked.
To say Lucille lost herself in the moment was an understatement. Jonathan Ashdown was a very attentive lover. The longer she held onto him, the more solid he felt beneath her hands. Everything felt as though it happened through a haze of lust and magic. More than once, Lucille wondered if she’d even remember all of it come morning, only to decide she didn’t care.
He refused to let her tend to his own needs until she’d come at least half a dozen times. On his fingers, on his mouth, as he toyed with her breasts; Jonathan wasn’t satisfied until she lost her mind, again and again.
“I get the feeling you’ve not had a man properly attend to all of your needs,” Jonathan whispered between Lucille’s thighs, lapping the remains of her last orgasm.
She dragged her hands over her face, gulping down air. “Certainly not the way you have.”
“Mmm. Perhaps, when the time is right, you’ll return to me.” He squeezed her ass with a chilly palm. Would he leave bruises? Fuck, she hoped so.
“A repeat hookup?” Lucille chuckled. “You spoil me.”
His arms slid up her back. Jonathan rose to standing, picking her up with him. Her legs wrapped around his waist. He was a ghost. He shouldn’t be able to carry her. Yet he lifted her as if she weighed less than a feather.
He carried her towards to the four poster bed, intent on laying her down on the soiled sheets. She clung to his neck, pressing her face into cold skin. “My intent is to ruin you for all other men,” Jonathan reminded her.
“Cocky bastard, aren’t you?” She licked a line along his throat. He tasted sharp and minty, like a peppermint candy still dissolving on her tongue. Already, Lucille wanted more.
“You’ve no idea.” Jonathan went to lay her down on the disgusting bed, but Lucille clung to him and shook her head. “Love? What is it?”
“You’re not going to fuck me on that.” She nodded towards the bed. “It’s gross. It kills the mood.”
Jonathan scowled at the wrecked state of the bedding. “The living can be so… uncouth at times. Pity we lack the staff to take care of such things.”
Lucille giggled. “Pretty sure the staff died around the same time you did.”
“Still, we can find a solution.” Jonathan eyed her sleeping bag, rolled out in the one clean corner of the room. “You came prepared.”
In a flash, he spread her out over the neon orange bedding. Her head bumped the floor, but Lucille ignored it in favor of the man - of the ghost - leaning over her. His vest lay crumpled on the floor beside her, the white linen dress shirt gaping open to reveal the lean muscle of his bare chest. As he pressed down on her, she ripped open the last of his buttons so she could trail her fingers down his abs.
Jonathan growled into her kiss. “Frisky woman,” he chided. “Impatient.”
“I want to feel you,” Lucille whimpered back. “All of you.”
Taking her hand, he guided it to the front of his pants. She flicked the buttons open and stroked his cock. Like the rest of him, it was cool to the touch, but throbbed under her ministrations. “That’s it,” he encouraged, kissing down her neck to her collarbone. “Just a little more, and I’ll be ready for you.”
She gasped as he bit down on her shoulder. “Would’ve thought the foreplay would be enough.”
“Lucille.” Her name rolled off his tongue. “That was for you.” His hand cupped hers and increased the pressure of her strokes. Jonathan’s eyes rolled back into his head. “This? Is for us.”
His other hand tilted her hips up. It was the only warning she had before he pulled her hand away and slammed into her, filling her to the hilt. Lucille arched her back, biting her bottom lip to keep from screaming.
“Oh no, darling,” Jonathan crooned. “Let me hear every delicious sound you make. Touch me. Touch yourself. Show me what you like.”
The pace he set was slow but deliberate. Every stroke set off stars behind her eyes. She hung onto his biceps as he hovered above her, legs wrapping around his waist. Lucille never believed that someone was meant for you, at least not in the way romance novels wanted you to believe. Sex was good or it wasn’t. You were physically compatible with someone, or you weren’t.
But fuck, why did a dead guy have to give her the best fuck of her life?
Jonathan didn’t stop his kisses, either. He pressed his lips against every patch of skin he found: along her jaw, under her chin, down her sternum. His teeth grazed spots she didn’t know could be so sensitive. One hand slid behind her knee and hiked her leg up, so he could hit her deeper.
“Fuck, Jonathan!” The words came out a strangled, garbled mess. Lucille could hardly catch her breath as he pounded into her. “Please, please don’t stop.”
“I won’t, darling.” He found her mouth again, all teeth and tongue. His hips stuttered, losing his pace, before slapping into her again. “Come for me.”
He didn’t need to tell her twice. One more stroke and fireworks flooded her body. Her hips jerked against him, his name a sob. Jonathan held her down and continued working himself into her until his face twisted, grunting, spilling himself into her.
Panting, Lucille stared up at him. Gone was the ghostly blue glow from when he first appeared to her. His cheeks were flushed, and a glimmer of sweat appeared on his brow. She brushed it away, but her fingers remained dry.
Jonathan caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Thank you.”
She cupped his cheek. “Aren’t I supposed to say that to you?”
“You can if you’d like.” He smirked down at her, holding himself up on one arm. His other hand laid atop of hers against his face. “You remind me what it’s like to be alive.”
Lucille licked her lips. “Is it lonely?” she asked. “Being a ghost? Being stuck here?”
A shadow crossed his eyes. “Sometimes,” Jonathan admitted, “but that is the deal I’ve made. Without it, I would not be here with you.” He kissed her forehead like she was someone he cared about. Someone he wanted to treasure. “I cannot think of a worse fate than not crossing your path.”
She knew it wasn’t real, but she closed her eyes and pretended. He must tell that to every woman Witherby convinced to spend the night here. In the moment, she didn’t want to know how many others came before her. “Come here.” She tugged on his shoulder. “Let me hold you.”
“That should be my line.” Still, Jonathan didn’t resist. He stretched his body along hers, his leg thrown over her hip, his face tucked into her shoulder. Lucille peeled his shirt off him, throwing it across the room with her scattered clothing.
“If we only get tonight,” Lucille murmured, “I want to make sure we make the most of it.”
He laced their fingers together and kissed the back of her hand. A romantic gesture from someone she knew for a fact would never be there for her again. “I’ve made quite the impression on you,” he teased.
“Wasn’t that your goal?” She squeezed his hand.
“Indeed.”
She ran her free hand through his blonde curls. First, she didn’t feel anything, as if she were petting air, but sensation slowly returned as she continued the motion. Even his hair was soft. “Even if I struggle after this, I… I’m glad for it. Right now, anyway.”
“I am happy for you, Lucille. Others should be as well.”
“The world isn’t the same as it was when you were alive,” she reminded him. “Still, I got this. I’ll make it through.” She’d worry about the logistics of rent and replacing Greg’s camcorder later.
Jonathan lifted his head enough to kiss her again. This one was slow, painfully so, but tender. As if he cared about her. As if he wanted it to last as much as she did. “I wouldn’t want you to leave here unsatisfied.” His hand trailed between her breasts, over her stomach, and settled between her legs.
Lucille groaned, but still, her traitorous body opened to him again. “I don’t think anyone could say that after a night with you,” she breathed.
Two long fingers stroked her clit in slow, rhythmic movements. Her breath hitched. Jonathan chuckled into her mouth. “We’ve still time before daylight. Allow me to worship you until then.”
Maybe it was the insanity of the situation. Maybe Jonathan was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. And maybe she was riding the high of bliss unlike she’d ever known.
She made her choice. She kissed him back and surrendered her body to him again.
The cold woke her from a dead sleep.
Tattered, dusty curtains fluttered in the early morning breeze. Lucille cracked one eye open, then the other. In daylight, the room appeared far worse than the night before. From her sleeping bag, she could now spot the broken bottles and cigarette butts underneath the four poster bed. The floor-length mirror reflected her own haggard expression.
Had it all been a dream?
But no, her broken camcorder poked out of her duffel bag, where she’d stashed it mid-argument. She didn’t recall crawling into her sleeping bag, but she was tucked inside warmly, with another blanket laid on top. A handmade quilt, the kind her mother would have paid hundreds of dollars for, the kind passed down family lines.
Unlike the rest of the house, the quilt was pristine. The blue and red patches remained vibrant, without the sunbleached vibe of the Ashdown House. Lucille licked her lips—
— And realized she was still nude.
She sat up, spotting her clothing, neatly folded beside her. Jonathan’s chair, where he’d had her ride him until they both came screaming, sat empty in the corner. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, remembering the tug of Jonathan’s hands, his whispers in her ear, how patient and tender he’d been with her.
It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real, all of it. The ache between her legs confirmed it.
Unless she had been hallucinating, stripped naked in this disgusting house, and masturbated all night. Lucille doubted that was the case.
“Jonathan?” she called softly. “Are you there?”
No answer. Of course. What did she expect?
Jonathan never promised her anything beyond the night. It would be foolish to think otherwise. All she wanted was to see him again, hold him one last time. Had she even gotten a chance to tell him goodbye?
Pulling her knees up to her chest, she hung her head and cried. Men like Jonathan didn’t exist in her world. How was she supposed to go back to her shitty job, her shitty apartment, her shitty non-existent love life?
Correction: the shitty apartment she wouldn’t have for much longer if she didn’t pay her rent.
She fumbled for her phone. No messages, no calls. Jonathan wouldn’t contact her via her phone. It wasn’t part of his world, so what would it matter to him? The night was nothing more than a pleasant memory. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner she could put it all behind her.
Still, she gave herself this moment to feel it. To remember his arms and how gentle he’d been with her - and how rough, too, when she’d asked him to be. His Maria had been a lucky woman.
Lucille was just out of luck.
Eventually Lucille dressed, gathered her things, and wandered one last time through Ashdown House. It remained the same as her initial walkthrough, and it didn’t look like anyone else joined them during the night. Perhaps Jonathan’s spirit kept them away. He wasn’t here for her to ask.
She still paused in front of one of the paintings, in what might have been a parlor. The stone fireplace hadn’t seen a fire in ages and the couch beside it was torn to shreds. Jonathan’s blue eyes stared back at her, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk, blonde curls covering his forehead. “Thank you,” Lucille whispered, “for last night. For everything. I won’t forget it.”
Kissing her fingers, she pressed them to his painted mouth, and then went outside.
The man dressed in black, with the black SUV and black cowboy hat, waited for her in the driveway. “You’re still here,” he commented.
Any other time, Lucille would have a sharp comeback or a witty retort. Now, she didn’t have the energy. “Of course. I do believe my contract stated I was to spend the night.”
“It did.” He looked her up and down. “And the evidence?”
Lucille sighed. She held up the broken camcorder. “He decided otherwise.”
The smirk on his face told her enough. He’d set her up - both he and Jonathan had. At least Jonathan had been honest with his intentions. “That’s a shame.”
“You knew I wouldn’t get any evidence, Mr. Witherby.” Watching him flinch behind his cowboy hat was all the satisfaction Lucille needed. “You are lucky Mr. Ashdown’s company endeared him to me, so therefore I will not be reporting your ‘little scheme’ to the authorities.”
Witherby chuckled. It didn’t have the same reassurance that Jonathan did. Whereas Jonathan was cocky, Witherby was just an asshole. He knew it, too. “I’m sure he made it worth your time.” He glanced her over, taking in her messy ponytail and her uneven steps. “Under the terms of our contract, I will not be paying you anything without evidence.”
“I’m aware.” Lucille shouldered her bag and marched past him. “My Uber driver is here. Goodbye, Mr. Witherby.”
Without another word, she climbed into the Honda Civic waiting by the road and prayed her driver wasn’t the chatty type.
Her worries caught up with her as soon as they were away from Ashdown House. Lucille fretted with her phone, checking her bank account even though she knew what funds she had. Not enough for rent, not enough for the camcorder, not enough to survive.
Before she started contemplating everything she could pawn for extra cash, she searched the Internet instead. She had initially meant to look for side gigs - pity she didn’t have a car of her own, driving for Uber or Lyft might have helped - but she found herself typing Jonathan’s name into the search bar instead.
Though she’d looked him up before spending the night, his story meant more to her now. She knew those hands, that mouth, those eyes. She knew he missed his young wife, but he’d moved on, at least to Lucille’s eyes. How could he make her feel so good in so little time?
He’d promised her so many things. It felt like he believed in her, when no one else ever did. Silly little Lucille, so stubborn, making a go of it on her own. She’d always been one step away from living in a cardboard box on the street, only now it might become a reality.
Could she stay at Ashdown House? Witherby knew what she looked like. She could never go back, because it wouldn’t be the same, even if she could get Jonathan’s ghost to appear to her once again.
Still, the article she found had the same portrait of Jonathan from his living room. Lucille saved the image to her phone, so she’d always have something to remember him by.
“Miss? We’re here.”
The driver’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Oh! Thank you.” She tipped what she could, grabbed her bag, and headed into her building.
Halfway up the stairs to her apartment, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t look at the caller ID before answering. “Hello?”
“Lucille! I was hoping you’d be available.”
Lucille flinched, her other hand curling around her house keys. Calls from her landlord, Betty, were never a good thing. “Hi, Betty.” It wasn’t the first yet. She still had a couple days to come up with rent. She’d figure something out.
“Do you have a minute? I wanted to chat with you.”
This is it. This is the ‘I don’t care if you come up with the rent, I want you out’ conversation. “I’m just getting into my apartment, hold on a sec.” If they were going to have this talk, she wasn’t going to do so in the middle of the hallway where her neighbors could hear her cry.
“Of course! Take your time.”
Betty sounded too cheerful for someone about to evict a tenant. Lucille let herself into her apartment, glancing over the mismatched furniture, the dented kitchen table, the worn throw pillows. It might not be filled with garbage, but in retrospect, her living space wasn’t much better than Jonathan’s abused home. She set the duffel bag down by the door and flopped onto the couch, holding a pillow to her middle as if it could protect her. “Okay, I’m good. What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to thank you for paying your rent ahead of time. I know it’s been a rough few months for you, but I’m glad you’ve got your priorities in line.”
Lucille blinked. Money didn’t leave her account. She knew she didn’t have enough to cover what she owed. “What?”
“The check cleared this morning.”
“Oh, um. That’s great, thank you for letting me know you got it.” Lucille gripped the pillow so hard, her knuckles turned white.
“Just to confirm, you are paid for the remainder of your lease. If you need anything, anything at all, you just give me a call, okay?”
She choked. She didn’t have to come up with rent. A mysterious benefactor saw to it all. Who knew she’d been in trouble? The only person she told about her money woes was long dead - literally. “I will, yeah. Of course.”
A knock came on the apartment door. Lucille tilted the phone away from her mouth. It was probably Greg, wondering where his camcorder and tripod were. “Hold on! I’ll be there in a sec!”
“It seems you have company, so I’ll let you go. Have a good day!” If Betty was any indication, maybe money did buy happiness. At any rate, it was one more worry off Lucille’s shoulders.
Ending the call, Lucille went to the door and peered through the peephole. A delivery guy stood outside. She cracked the door open.
“Delivery for Lucille Myers?” He held a device out to her. “Sign here, please.”
“I didn’t order anything,” she protested, but still scrawled her name on the screen.
“Must be your lucky day, then.” He passed her the long thin box. “Congrats.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Bringing the box inside, Lucille set it down on her kitchen table. The box was void of markings - no company name, no return address. No one held a grudge against her that she knew of, so she wasn’t expecting anything untoward in the mail. Maybe someone got the wrong name or address?
Whatever, it was hers now. Cutting the box open, she revealed a bouquet of tulips with a crystal vase. It wasn’t just red tulips, but purple, white, and yellow ones mixed in, with baby’s breath to separate them.
She lifted the flowers up, bringing them to her nose and inhaling their scent. No one ever bought her flowers before. No one cared enough to.
Only then did she notice the card that fluttered to the ground.
My dearest Lucille,
I promised I would give you the world. Allow me to begin to fulfill that promise.
- J.
Jonathan.
Lucille clutched the card to her chest and fought back tears. He was real. He had to be. He was the kind of man to send flowers, to look after his woman when he couldn’t be there for her. Who else would have paid off the rest of her lease so she wouldn’t need to worry about finding another place to live on short notice?
No one else knew of her struggles. No one else bothered to listen when she spoke. No one treated her with the respect, dignity, and kindness that Jonathan had in the span of one night.
She didn’t care if he was a ghost. She didn’t care if she was alive and he wasn’t. Shit, she didn’t care if Charles Witherby still waited in the driveway and tried to stop her.
All that mattered was getting back to Ashdown House and seeing him again.