Mr. Whitlock

6 - Conversation

After Marie wiped the one, irksome tear from her cheek she smiled shyly. Him speaking made him all the more real, and she felt not only embarrassed but also afraid. The ghost had been watching her, understanding her, and cared about her despite not knowing her. And she could hardly comprehend his existence, let alone carry on a conversation with him.

So instead she nodded in response, her heart still leaping with childish excitement at his tender words. But she began to forget all of those emotions as she thought of what to say to him. That she was surprised he was real? That she had so many questions, and didn't know where to start? That she was afraid why a ghost was in her house? All of those phrases were pestering in her mind, but she pushed them all away, saving them for later, and instead turned to a simple introduction.

"I'm afraid you know an awful lot more about me than I do you. What is your name?"

It took him some time to respond, and Marie considered for a moment that he had in fact not spoken at all. That she had imagined it, that her eyes, ears, and head were playing tricks on her. Or if perhaps he could not remember his own name. But he did reply, again in the oddly pleasant voice which made her skin crawl with fear. 

"Mr. Whitlock," he said. Marie waited for him to continue, to share his first name, but he did not. And he showed no sign of regret in withholding that information, which confused her even more. She opened her mouth to ask, but shut it. Perhaps that could be a topic for another day. When he trusted her more. And, when she trusted him more.

"How long have you been here, Mr. Whitlock?" Marie asked slowly, in a tone which sounded so innocent as she attempted to seem worthy of his trust.

He seemed to have not expected that question, closing his eyes and clearly deep in thought. He took a few minutes thinking over the answer in his head, and finally let out a sigh of exhaustion.

"I'm not sure." he paused, "I believe it was 1938." 

Marie let out an audible gasp as he said this, quickly realizing how long he had been there. And also realizing that was the same year Charlotte's family fled that house.

So he had been alone all those years.

"Oh dear, you've been dead all that time?" in her state of shock, she didn't notice how harsh her words could sound. But she felt a wave of guilt as she saw him flinch, although he tried to hide his discomfort. She had only meant to be considerate, but she then realized how insensitive she must have seemed. She began to apologize, but stopped when he started talking as well.

"I'm not dead, not technically at least. I am merely trapped between mortality and death. It's rather complicated, but... I try not to think of that word. For I spent far too long doing just that, and it got me nowhere." he had attempted to reassure her, but his eyes were so sad that this only made Marie feel more guilty. She hated those moments which reminded her that she was more similar to her mother than she liked to imagine.

Another part of her found it interesting how quick he was to answer, so sure of what he would say. She supposed he had had an awfully long to time to ponder over the dull subject of life and death.

"I'm sorry, truly. I... can't imagine being alone all these years." Marie spoke the words gently, now understanding why his eyes were so hopeless. She wondered how he lasted so long.

Some time passed, neither one uttering a word. But when Marie's eyes shifted to the wall beside her, she gasped at seeing the time. Then she jumped to her feet and hurried to the front door, her heart sinking when she looked out the window.

It was dark.

Marie hated the dark.

She turned around to say goodbye to Mr. Whitlock, but he was gone.

***

Marie opened Eve's front door slowly, and winced as it let out a long creak.

"You were gone quite a long time," said a voice from behind her. She turned around to see her sister, again sitting on the couch with a book and warm cup of hot chocolate, staring blankly.

"I know." Marie nodded, smiling so as not to worry her.

"But..." Eve's eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together, "You hate the dark."

"I know." Marie said again, raising her eyebrows. She remembered those nights as teenager when she would return home late at night after a day full of escaping home, only to find her mother asleep on the couch and her sister waiting expectantly with a suspicious glower. This night felt nearly the same.

"Have you thought more on mother's wish?" Eve's face softened as she said this, biting her lip regretfully. Marie sighed under her breath and then nodded slowly, avoiding her sister's gaze.

"Fine. I'll talk to grandmother tomorrow." she muttered, feeling no sense of relief at saying those words. Even though she knew she would never press her grandmother any more than a simple suggestion, she still felt as guilty as ever.

And she didn't bother to look up at the pleased smile she knew was plastered on Eve's face, and didn't even want to think of how her mother would react. She considered saying that she changed her mind, quickly jumping to explain that she couldn't do that to their grandmother. But the moment she agreed to, there was no turning back. 

Like Eve had said, she had hurt her mother too much already. And she had hurt her sister, too. They would all be alright if she asked her grandmother to change her mind. She knew Charlotte was too stubborn to do such a thing, but in trying she would at least make the rest of her family more content than if she refused entirely. They would all be fine, other than her. And other than Charlotte.

Then came the conflicting feeling again. Perhaps agreeing to that would only make it worse. Perhaps it would give Anne more power, believing that she could push Marie to continue pressing the old woman. Marie was sure she would not budge if that were to happen, but that is the same thing she thought about asking her grandmother in the first place.

All of those thoughts buzzing through her head in a matter of seconds gave her a splitting headache, as she walked down the hall to go to sleep. A part of her wished that when she woke up she would be back home, with her simple job and content life. Free of pressure, fear, and manipulation. Back in her own bed, where Tamsin would sleep at her feet. Where she could look out her bedroom window and see nothing which reminded her of home.

But the rest of her was impatiently waiting for the day when she would see that mysterious, charming Mr. Whitock again.