FLAPPER GIRL | ❝All those people, all those lives, where are they now?❞
In all her ninety-something years of death, all Effie Connolly wishes for is some excitement in Button House... from anyone other than the fellow ghosts she's stuck in purg...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER EIGHT the one with the moon ritual
⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰
"MARY, FOR THE last time, it was just a bee..." Effie tries to keep the exasperation out of her voice, or the sanity wrung clean out of her body at this point. How much time has she wasted on this? A few more years shaven off her eternal existence as a ghost? It feels like forever — it all started when a bee flew into the room, sending Mary into a fit of panic, practically clawing at the windows with her superstitions. Then Effie has spent however long since trying to bring her back down to earth, the bee still buzzing irritatingly around their heads.
"But don't ye know?" Mary frantically replies. "Bees be the vessels of mystery, intelligence an' 'oliness. And if one should fly into your home, it foretells the visit of a stranger... as well as good fortunes, I s'pose."
"Or, it means that Mike and Alison need to get new windows."
A beat passes. Mary hums in consideration at this, although still wrought with underlying paranoia at who could be around the corner. This is no way to spend your life as a ghost, Effie thinks. Panicking about every little thing. With a sigh, the flapper girl tries to steer her carefully away from getting sucked into what she considers superstitious nonsense.
"Look, Mary," Effie says, "you need to just relax. I'm pretty sure there isn't any stranger here for miles, who'd want to walk all the way over here and meet—"
"Bitches! Bitches! Bitches!"
The bizarre name-calling from outside stops both of the ghosts in their tracks. That tone seems far too familiar to Effie. Still, she rushes downstairs with Mary to get a better look. A flurry of dogs are loose in the house, their paws scuffling against the floorboards, and behind them in the doorway is their owner — a short man with silvery hair tucked under a tweed flat cap, stood confidently in his green wellington boots and puffy body warmer.
"Told you a stranger would come," Mary mumbles in quiet triumph, as they descend downstairs and watch Alison and Mike go to greet him.
"That's no stranger, alright," Effie grumbles. "I've seen that whiskbroom before..."
"Barclay," the man says, his accent refined and posh.
"Erm—" Alison says, but is cut off again.
"Beg-Chetwynde."
"Wh– what's that?" Mike stammers, looking a little lost.
"That's me," says the man. "Barclay Beg-Chetwynde."
