Scattered Splashes by Wind River Like stones skipped across a pond, his prayers rippled through the spirit world with only a few scattered splashes before sinking. They lacked focus, and there was doubt in his words. He was angry at God for taking me away and for trying to take Charlotte, our daughter. Of course, as his wife, I was always listening and watching over him. Sometimes he would feel my presence in the form of cool drafts, but he would shrug it off and stoke the fire to take the chill from the room, not even realizing it was me. I don't know why I expected he would; he didn't believe in ghosts. The pain in Jonathan's prayers was wrenching as were his actions. He poured water from a pitcher into a basin and rinsed another cloth. Charlotte shifted little as he wiped droplets of perspiration from her face. He put the cloth across her forehead and went to the window. The street below was slick from overnight rains, with a few lingering fall leaves shining against the cobblestones as carriage lanterns spilled light across them. As darkness gave way to the weak light of morning, fog muted the colours of London. Distant buildings along the river disappeared as the mist thickened across the city. Jonathan began praying again to a god he was unsure existed, asking that our daughter's life be spared. Turning from him, I gazed at the gathering of spirits in the room. They were mostly friends and family. Katherine, it looks like your daughter may be joining us, Jonathan's brother, Clyde, said. No! Jonathan will never survive without her! She's already part way here. Don't you feel her soul slipping from the body? Oh, Clyde! We have to help. Jonathan doesn't always listen. You know that. We have to make him! Jonathan was still at the window, vacantly watching several birds huddled with fluffed feathers on a wrought iron fence, refusing to even leave their perch for the crumbs below. Mrs. Lawrence, the housekeeper, had thrown the old bread to them before the rains had started. She was a guardian angel to the feathered and to the family I had left behind. I put my hand on Jonathan's shoulder and led  him back to a chair by the bed. He walked without interest, not even realizing I was guiding him. He drew Charlotte's hand from beneath the blankets and clasped it between his own. She was so thin that she looked six instead of her nine years. Gaslight flickered across her pale face which seemed to float among the many pillows and blankets. Mrs. Lawrence stood in the doorway watching and holding a copy of _The Times_. Mr. Owens, let me sit with her. You should get some rest. I wouldn't be able, he said. He rubbed his face with his hands as if to remove his weariness, then he stood and walked to the fireplace where he leaned his head against the mantle and stared down at the glowing coals. After a moment, he spoke. I thought I was blessed when Katherine and I had a child at our age, but I am beginning to think God is playing a cruel game with me. Now, Mr. Owens. Don't be talking that way. She handed him the newspaper. It's true. I thought I led a charmed life. I had a lovely wife and daughter and more money than I ever dreamed possible, he said, but what good is money when the most prominent physicians can't do anything to help Charlotte? Mrs. Owens always said there was help in the spirit world, if we would only ask. And did her Theosophical theories save her from death? His voice broke, and he threw the paper on the floor where the sections scattered. Table tapping does little to help those in need! His anger saddened me, but I knew he felt helpless. I positioned the scattered pages so an article discussing Theosophy appeared on top. I hoped Jonathan would read it and try to communicate with me. The housekeeper noticed and picked it up. She handed it to him. It's a sign, Sir. This article is about Madame Blavatsky. She's a charlatan, Mrs. Lawrence. In fact, one of the suspects in the Whitechapel murders was _link_ed to her. _link_ed to one of her followers, Mabel Collins, who's no longer welcomed by Madame Blavatsky. So she's distancing herself from The Ripper? I don't think Madame Blavatsky even knows that Stephenson man. He's nothing like her. He's a black magician. And a possible murderer. If indeed it is him, and Mabel seems to think so, he only kills women of dubious reputations. Mrs. Lawrence! He stared at his housekeeper as if seeing her for the first time. Do you condone his actions? Do you think those women really wanted a life where they were used by men, shunned by women, and then died at the hands of a mad man? He watched his daughter swallow the water Mrs Lawrence dripped into her mouth, then spoke in a quiet voice. As irrational as it sounds, I'd have traded my life with any one of those women if it meant Charlotte could live. I am sorry, sir. It was wrong of me to speak ill of those whose lives ended so tragically. That's better. That's the Mrs. Lawrence I've known all these years. He walked to the doorway. Perhaps I will take a short break. Come get me if there are any changes. As he made his way to his chamber, I opened a window and allowed a pamphlet to blow across his room. When he entered, it landed at his feet. He picked it up and ran his fingers along the edge, then he turned and ran back down the hall to Charlotte's chamber. Mrs. Lawrence, did you put this in my room? He handed it to her. A paper outlining the mission of the Theosophical Society? She shook her head. No sir. I think Katherine's trying to reach you. I don't know what to think. Why don't you read it? She handed it back to him. It's just superstition. He shook his head. Actually it's worse; it's fraudulent. I don't know why Katherine became involved with them. Mrs. Lawrence glanced at the sick girl. Could it hurt to give it a try? I've never been a follower, and it seems pointless trying to communicate with someone or something that may not even exist. And if they do exist? He laughed for the first time in days. Katherine indoctrinated you well. Mr. Owens, she was like a sister to me. After my husband died, she made me come here to live. Indeed, my Albert left me plenty for living, but she thought I needed a family. You miss her as much as I do. She nodded and wiped her eyes. Before she died, she made me promise to stay and help you. And you didn't want to? I didn't say that! If you were to leave, I'd search all of London to find you. No wonder Katherine loved you so. She wiped her eyes again. You miss her, and I have done nothing to make it easier for you. He gathered her into his arms, allowing her to mourn her friend. As he was comforting her, he asked, I believe Katherine had some of Madame Blavatsky's essays? She pulled away and smiled at him. Yes, they are on the bookshelf in the hallway. He nodded. I'm willing to try anything to save my daughter, even if it does go against logic. He collected the papers, sat in a chair near Charlotte, and began reading. ... only by studying the various great religions and philosophies of humanity, by comparing them dispassionately and with an unbiased mind, that men can hope to arrive at the truth. For hours, he continued reading Madame Blavatsky's views on the occult and her thoughts on mankind being of one essence, whom some named God and some named Nature. He spoke to his sleeping daughter. I don't know how this will help, Charlotte. This woman contradicts herself at every turn. She says one should study other religions with an unbiased mind, then she tries to distance her organization from Spiritualism which is similar in many ways. She even wrote articles for a Spiritualist magazine while living in America. Charlotte's cheeks were flushed and hot to his touch. He wiped her face with cool water and talked to her some more. I wish Madame Blavatsky's god would spare you, but it doesn't look likely. Christmas is only a fortnight away. I fear you won't make it, so I'm giving you an early gift. He placed a porcelain doll next to her. It's small white face had more colour than his daughter's. He began to pray again, If my daughter cannot be spared, at least let her transition be easy. Then, he spoke to me. Katherine, if you still exist in some form, somewhere, please don't judge me too harshly. You were always the strong one. You would never give up hope, but I am weak and exhausted. Although he failed to realize it, there was strength in his words. This time the splash was large with far-reaching ripples which touched all of the spirit world. Jonathan dribbled some water onto Charlotte's dry, cracked lips, then laid upon the bed next her, holding her in his arms. He soon drifted into a light sleep. Since he had called upon me, an opening formed which enabled me to enter into his dream. I showed him a loaf of bread covered with black spots. I took a bite. Remember the bread, my dear, I said, before shaking him awake. He opened his eyes and lay still, remembering the dream. Then he jumped out of bed as he remembered an article in which doctors were growing mold spores, trying to isolate what they called a miracle medicine. He called for Mrs. Lawrence to sit with Charlotte, then ran to the kitchen, searching for old bread. There was none in the pantry, but when he looked outside, the fog had lifted, and birds were swooping at bread crumbs. He ran out and picked up a piece of crust. It was speckled with black spots. A smile broke across his face, and he scooped up a handful of the wet bread and rushed to Charlotte's room, dumping it on her bedside table. Mr. Owens, what in Heaven's ... Mrs. Lawrence said. He squatted in front of her and took her hands into his own. Bless you, Elizabeth! May I call you 'Elizabeth'? She nodded. Are you feeling well, Sir? I may seem crazy, but I assure that I am quite sane.
... wi?cej »

Note: Wordiness, adverbs, and the stilted (by modern standards) language were intentional. This will probably be rewritten in Jonathan's pov, but I don't have time to try that before the challenge deadline. HI Sue, I like it this way. Important to see J _object_ively, and changing pov to first would ruin this. Ghost as voice is hardly new, but this is a very original story. Enjoyable and amongst your best in terms of the craft. Didn't come across stilted at all, and the dialogue was smooth. Few times initially I was confused, but that's probably okay given you don't right out say it's a dead person. YOu have to warm to the idea. . I haven't looked at the challenge criteria post, but I m guessing it has to do with Saucy Jack and has to be a period piece. It has the sad raining grey Sue trademark, the gentleness, and the graceful lift at the end. Gooder.

craft. Didn't come across stilted at all, and the dialogue was smooth. Few times initially I was confused, but that's probably okay given you don't right out say it's a dead person. YOu have to warm to the idea. . I'm glad it worked for you. I spent a lot of time looking through Dickens and Austen to see which words were commonly used as contractions and which weren't. I was afraid it might be too stiff for today's readers. It's a fine line trying to keep it wordy, but not too wordy. I, also, had to read up on Theosophy

You miss her as much as I do. She nodded and wiped her eyes. Before she died, she made me promise to stay and help you. And you didn't want to? I didn't say that! If you were to leave, I'd search all of London to find you. No wonder Katherine loved you so. She wiped her eyes again. Those last two sentences

Scattered Splashes by Wind River Like stones skipped across a pond, his prayers rippled through the spirit world with only a few scattered splashes before sinking. They lacked focus, and there was doubt in his words. He was angry at God for taking me away and for trying to take Charlotte, our daughter. Of course, as his wife, I was always listening and watching over him. Sometimes he would feel my presence in the form of cool drafts, but he would shrug it off and stoke the fire to take the chill from the room, not even realizing it was me. I don't know why I expected he would; he didn't believe in ghosts. As his wife sounds like exposition, and is unnecessary after our daughter I noticed you said you might rewrite from Jonathan's POV. I'll keep that in mind as I write. For now, the bit about the cool drafts seems like a POV shift to me, albeit a very slight one. I wonder how the narrator knows this. I can think of ways, of course

water Mrs Lawrence dripped into her mouth, then spoke in a quiet voice. As irrational as it sounds, I'd have traded my life with any one of those women if it meant Charlotte could live. I am sorry, sir. It was wrong of me to speak ill of those whose lives ended so tragically. That's better. That's the Mrs. Lawrence I've known all these years. He
... wi?cej »