The Maestro

Chapter 8 -- The Library

By now, my opinion of the Maestro was slightly changing. He may have been a ghost, but he was trying his best to welcome me into his home. And I began to feel a little more comfortable inside the abandoned mansion as long as he was beside me. He seemed pleased that I had accepted his offer to talk in the library.

"Come right this way, Irene," he said, waving his pallid hand gracefully towards the hall that connected the dining room to the living room. He walked with me across the living room and crossed to the other side, taking me to another hallway: the one that he appeared in when we first met.

"This is the East Wing of the mansion," he stated before he turned to the left. The whole left wall of the hallway was lined with built-in bookshelves, but they held nothing other than cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. I supposed they were only for decoration. On the far end of the hall, two large, intricate doors stood shut. I wondered what lied behind those doors, but the Maestro had already pushed open a squeaky door in between the built-in bookshelves and was leading me to the library. I followed him inside the room, looking around in awe.

This room didn't look quite as ruinous as the rest; it was full of bookshelves on every wall, and a large number of dusty books were arranged on them. An old fireplace stood in the center of the right wall, with two armchairs situated in front of it. He led me to one and sat down opposite of me. Surprisingly, the chair was very comfortable, despite the soot that had collected on it. The entire library strangely gave off an air of elegance and comfort, even though it could have easily been a hundred years old.

I settled myself in the chair and looked at him. He was observing my reactions and half-smiling at me. I smiled back. "So...when did you...become a ghost?" I started awkwardly.

Oh my god, I basically just asked him when he died. I'm such an idiot.

But he didn't look upset; he merely looked to his penny loafers and thought a while before answering. "I died," he began, "in 1909."

I let out an involuntary gasp. "That was over a hundred years ago!" I said, somewhat astonished at the fact that he had been a ghost for so long. I mean, this year was 2018!

His lips formed a tight smile. "Yes...so it was." His hand came to rest gently on his chin as he lost himself in thought for a moment. "I was born in 1858, and I lived through the 1800s. I died when I was 50, after a successful career as a classical composer." His tone was melancholy, but not particularly heartbroken. I realized he probably hadn't talked about this to anyone in a very long time.

"Why did you--?" I asked quietly. "You...you don't have to answer if you don't want to," I followed up quickly. I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Even though he was a ghost, I still saw him as human. In all honesty, I was slowly becoming intrigued with the man. Most of the unease had drifted away and had become fresh curiosity.

"Why did I die?" He finished my question dryly. "I...don't really know why. I just died here in my sleep peacefully. The next time I woke up, I was a ghost." He said simply. I just sat there and listened as he began to tell more. "My staff remained here after I was gone, and they took care of the grounds until the 1960s. My staff are the most loyal people in the world, and they ended up dying here as well. Some from old age, some from illness, and some in their sleep like me." He paused for a moment to check my reaction, which was only a nod of my head, signaling him to keep going.

"You see..." He continued. "When a person dies in a house...their spirit remains trapped inside. And they can't get out. At least, until they're exorcised from the house or something--but...but I don't wanna even think about that. I like my mansion. I like Neverland. I wish to stay here for eternity."