Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 67

My thoughts racing with possibilities, I
sputtered, “Maybe I should call a priest. Oh, lord, we
don’t need this scandal. It’s bad enough the estate is
in shambles, and I’m already teased in the papers for
being an atheist poet. This is all I needed!”

“I’m so sorry for last night, my lord. I—”
“Devon,” I corrected her as I took the tray to
my small, round oak table.

Rubbing my forehead, I let out a deep sigh
and looked at my quivering maid with tired eyes. “I’m
sorry, my dear.” I added, “None of this is your fault.
You poor thing. You’re probably just as tired as I.
You may go to your room, if you wish. I’ll somehow
handle this on my own.”

She nodded and bashfully repeated my name.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m sorry, and I hope you
won’t sack me.”

“No,” she replied with a forced, nervous smile.
“I’ll help you. Someone should have told you this
might happen. I feel bad. Let me make you some tea.
Maybe that’ll at least calm yer nerves.”
I was going to insist she retire for the night
when I realised the shrieking sounds had stopped.
“Blessings!” I exclaimed in a laugh. “Do you think the
mad ghost has stopped for the night?”
Melinda cocked her head and gave a hopeful
smile. “I think she may have, my lord… Devon.”
I laughed and patted her shoulder. “Well,
then,” I said with a smile, “why don’t we both have
some tea, then get some much needed rest. I will
investigate this raving ghost in the morning… or
afternoon, more likely.”
Melinda nodded and smiled. She then went off
to make some good old fashioned English tea.

“Don’t be absurd, Melinda,” I said as I sat
down on a chair, nibbling on an edge of toast. “This
isn’t your doing. If anything, it’s mine. I spent far too
long away from my own estate, and now it’s overrun
with weeds, bugs, and even ghosts.”
Unable to contain herself, Melinda gave a
small giggle. Finding her tempting and adorable, I
quickly sent her away by telling her to draw a bath. I
actually did need one badly, and I planned to visit the
local abbot to pry some information from him about
my paranormal problem. I hoped he’d be discreet, for
I really couldn’t stand the idea of my shrieking ghost
making the news.
I hadn’t been famous my entire life, but after I
came home from the war, I secluded myself in Italian
cities such as Venice and Florence, hiding my pain
and woe in wine, women, and poetry. I never really
thought I was any better than your average English
poet, but one day, I woke to my publisher telling me
that women were crying in book shops whilst reading
my words.

It was a strange phenomenon, as I suddenly
By the morning, I had slept in like a log. I
couldn’t roam the streets or even go to the opera
didn’t rise until three in the afternoon, and I found
without someone crying out, “Lord Bryant! Is that
Melinda waiting at my door with toast, jam, scrambled you?” They either loved me or hated me, it seemed,
eggs, and tea.
especially due to my infamous anti-church sentiment,
which I not-so-subtly interlaced within my poems.
“You are a godsend,” I said as I accepted the
tray of food.  In the light, I saw her features more
Recently, I had been looking forward to a
clearly. She was a sweet-faced, freckled thing with
secluded rest at my ancestral home, but with a mad
wavy, chestnut brown locks and green eyes. She was
ghost-woman haunting my halls, I had no such luck.
lovely, but just too young. She couldn’t have been
All I could hope was that the abbot would provide
more than seventeen, and being my maid only added
some answers, and perhaps recommend a good
to the precariousness situation.
exorcist.

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