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The Ghost in the Family

by pycrion


There were three things Senyora was truly certain of.

     One: She was a ghost. It was a strange sort of feeling and it was something she realized at first. It was the feeling of being free, sort of being tied to nothing. Neither air nor water nor earth. It was quite easy to tell as well. Although there were no mirrors in the house, she could tell it was easy because she floated. Hovering over furniture and tables. She could pass through walls and doors as easily as it was to swim.

     Two: Her name was Senyora. After having explored the house, inspecting every nook and cranny - she returned to her room. It was odd, for the door was locked with several clamps and chains where as the rest of the house was open. The house was open and tidy where as her room was scattered with papers. Some piled high on a wooden desk, some spread variously on the floor. On the paper was a name - always in the left hand corner and in blue pen. Senyora. She tried the name on her tongue and immediately felt warm. It was hers, she could tell by the way her heart beat rapidly and how smoothly, so naturally it came to her. Senyora.

     Three: She was a writer. After inspecting her name, floating over the floor-boards with curious, cursory glances at the stories - she came to realize she had written those stories. That mere epiphany was enough to sending her flying to the roof - as a new feeling entered her system. It was pride and eagerness, to read what she had written. She was a writer.

      However, despite these revelations - there was something amiss. Something wrong with her fate. For Senyora could not write. Try as hard as she could to hold a pen in her claws, and pick up her stories so she could read them, she could not. It frustrated her to no end, because she knew her purpose, her name but she could not pick up a single pencil. For awhile, Senyora wept in frustration but her tears were just as ghostly as she and soon she saw no point.

      To past the time, she drifted in and out of the house, trying to find ways to manipulate the world around her. She found she could control the electricity in odd ways, flickering lamps on and off and resetting the clocks. It was mundane work and Senyora soon grew tired of it. She probably would have died again out of boredom were it not for the for sale sign in the front yard and the odd stream of visitors that would come in.

     Senyora found it first uneasy for them to come and go so easily and worse of all, they judged her house! They picked at the colour of paint, and the furniture (which was bland and simple and she loved it). In the end though, they almost seemed to sense her presence - an angry Lutari ghost unseen to the average eye that made the rooms colder and eventually, the guests stopped coming. Although Senyora wanted company, she didn't want a bunch of rambling Kacheeks or screaming Usuls.

     One morning, after spending a particularly interesting evening watching spyders spin their webs in the basement, Senyora found the sign in front of her house gone. She had hoped that the sign was gone because they had decided to leave her and the house alone. No. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Rather than leave the story-teller's spirit alone, a family had decided to move in.

      - - -

      There were three things Senyora was certain she disliked.

      One: The inability to write. It was irritating and irking because her one true calling was with a quill and ink, with pencils and paper. Being a ghost made it difficult for her to express her feelings. She could make up stories in her head, but she couldn't put them on the page. It made her irritable.

      Two: The inability to leave the house. Try as she might Senyora was trapped inside the house. With it's basement, it's attic. The second floor and it's small living room. She loved this house, it was a part of her as much as she was a part of her stories. But it was like constantly eating pasta for the rest of your life. At first, it's not such a bad gig but soon you tire of it. Senyora found herself tiring of the same old scenery. She could see the back-yard through the windows and that was her only glimpse of the life beyond the house walls.

      Three: the fact she didn't hate the family in her house as much as she should. She should hate them, for intruding in her strange, yet comfortable lifestyle. It was eerie to float into the kitchen and see a family of five sitting down for breakfast, eating omelettes as though she weren't there.

      As the unofficial observer of the family, she tried hard to scare them away. Switching the lights on and off, and resetting the clocks. But rather than scare them, she was just a nuisance and soon quit. Besides, she liked them too much. She wouldn't admit it out loud but she did like them. She liked the eldest sibling, a red Kougra with a deep scar on her cheek. She carried a spear on her back and a dagger on her hip. She was arrogant and protective of her family, the battler of the family and proud of her stripes and scars.

      Senyora liked the other sister, a shaggy speckled Gelert with eyes hidden by hair. She was a Gelert with inventor's hands who enjoyed making traps and springs, and laughed at the face of danger. The newest brother, a citizen from Meridell who transferred to the family from another. The shadow Lupe who farmed in the garden, and turned the back-yard from dull and grey to lively and nourishing.

      The littlest brother with sabre-sharp teeth and long razor claws who could play a harp without snapping the strings. And most importantly, she liked the second eldest brother.

      He was a simple green Bori, with large ears, larger claws and a scarf woven around his neck. He was a reader and a writer like herself and she found herself hovering over his shoulder to read at the same pace as he did.

      Where as the others of the family did not notice her appearance, the green Bori was quite aware of her presence. Although he could not see her, he would snap out of his reading to look wildly around the room. On more than one instance, she found herself staring directly at the green Bori as though he knew where she stood, or rather he felt it. But he was dismissed as being paranoid - having read too many scary books. His name was Caverick, Senyora soon found out. The Kougra with the scars was called Patch, the gardener was Dautzen, the Gelert called Punk and the littlest brother was called Lyre.

      Soon, Senyora grew used to their habits and quirks. Patch would eat with the family at breakfast, not really eating but sharpening her swords for the fights she would face. Dautzen would be up first, up at dawn to take care of his garden with a hum in his step. Caverick would awaken and read for a moment before ultimately disappearing to his room to write. Punk would disappear out of the house and do something wily often resulting in a late trip home with a cast. Senyora wanted to dislike this family, but she found her heart opening to them all the same.

      Then it happened.

      Caverick never left the house, confined the space just like she was. So it would make sense the Bori would stumble unto her room. He knocked on the door and tried to shove it open. Curiosity seemed to consume him and soon, Patch was prying the door open with some sort of iron pole. Despite her training, she could budge it and Senyora felt relieved. Yet Patch, a fierce warrior, wasn't about to let up and soon, Senyora found her door hacked open with a obsidian dagger. She felt sick with fear, although she wasn't sure why as Patch shrugged her shoulders and left Caverick to explore the confinements of her room.

      She followed him in, floating over the floor-boards as Caverick picked up her scattered stories on the floor. He read them slowly and looking over his shoulder, she read her own work. It was amazing, but some were unfinished. For the first time since she woke up, she placed her feet on the floor and suddenly, the Bori turned around.

      He looked at her in shock and managed to stutter out three words. "Who- who are you?"

      It was the fact he saw her that just about made Senyora cry and she found herself unable to say anything for the longest time. "I am a writer. I am Senyora. I am a ghost." It was only the three things, the simple truths she knew. But he looked pale at the mention of ghost and Senyora found herself wanting to disappear.

      "You can see me?" she asked, surprised by her own voice. It was soft and slightly rusty, after spending so much time silent. The green Bori nodded his head and an awkward silence descended on them both.

      He looked down at the papers in his claws, and she followed his line of sight. "I want to write more. But I can't," she choked out, reaching out for the papers, her stories but her claws passed through them and she sighed. No use for sobbing. "That's so sad," he said softly and Senyora looked up.

      "I can't imagine what that's like, to not be able to write yet feel the urge so deep in your bones," Caverick said and with a soft smile, he padded over to her desk and pulled out a new blank piece of paper. She trailed after him, floating softly as Caverick carefully penned in her name. "If you can't write, then maybe I can write for you." With a smirk, he laughed. "You could even call my your ghost-writer."

      Senyora was shocked by this and felt like she should cry once more. But sobbing was useless, not in a moment as happy as this. Although she couldn't feel the pen herself, she could hear glide over the paper and the crinkles and folds.

      There were three things Senyora believed she was blessed with.

      One: She was blessed with a great power. She was ghost, able to glide through one room to the other. A power with words and literature, to make people feel and remember. To gasp and cry as her words move readers to new emotions.

      Two: She was blessed with a great family. For Patch and Dautzen, Punk and Lyre all accepted her as one of her own. She was included in Lyre's concerts and Punk's crazy schemes. She was open to this family who loved her just as she loved them.

      Three: She was blessed with a great ghost-writer. Someone who penned her name and his own, who took her stories out into the open for praise and approval who made her feel alive despite her ghostly form.

      Thus, Senyora was truly happy being the ghost in the family.

The End

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