Forgotten History

There comes a time in every young boy’s life where everything he is searching for comes falling into his laps. There comes a time where the world could come crashing around his ears and he couldn't care less. There comes a time where his heart sings a song so loudly that his heart will come out of his chest. After reaching this moment, the young boy spends the rest of his life looking for the same feeling. Some turn to drugs or jumping out of planes, hoping that euphoria would measure up. Others wake up, only to forget the feeling. Others go through life, looking for the source.

What I am about to tell you is that moment in my life. My name is Carl Xavier Hunt. I used to call myself a ghost hunter – you know, those guys on TV that con you into believing that a building is haunted. We do an awesome job at it too. Most of the time, the tricks we employ trick us too. Those shadows, flickering lights, spooky voices that say they’re going to kill us? That’s just a bat flying we edit out, or a bulb deliberately going off, or a tape recording of our ex-significant other threatening to kill us for not taking out the trash on Saturday morning. When we don’t expect it, when a prank is kept secret, is when you get the freaked-out version you see on television. After all, the less acting we need to do, the better we can con the viewers.

As a little bit of the trade secret, we tell those following us what all we did so that it looks more like a serious haunting than a joke. For instance, if the ghost were a little boy and a soccer ball came from his room while he hummed Battle Hymn of the Republic for one group of hunters, the next team better follow that story or else someone dedicating their life watching us will catch wind of our acting.

It was with this mindset that I went into my last job. The decrepit castle of Glinstock, nestled in a quiet valley, was done several times by other ‘ghost hunters.' It wasn't the site of any significant battle or rebellion. It didn't have anything worth putting into the textbooks. The story that some other ghost hunter cooked up for Glinstock was, once upon a time, the baron who lived there got a little too high, poisoned his loyal subjects who didn’t know any better, then jumped out his bedroom window, laughing like a loon. The 'characters' of the story involved was the baron ghost, a chef ghost who couldn’t get over murdering all those people, and some random bastard child that romped around the throne room. It wouldn't be too difficult to pull any of the things off - we would just need some sheets, lights, and a kid-sized doll, of which we had many in my van, although the kid was just a bump in the road. I hate kid scenes. They bring in big cash for the heartstrings factor, but they are a pain to pull off perfectly twice and are the most noticeable when botched. If I ever found out which team added the youngster, I was gonna give the 'brat' a babysitter.

My team got the equipment set up, I went to put on my show makeup, and my partner went to get the celebratory beer. In a few hours, we would have something we could sell to the network, everyone would be rolling in a little more cash, and a few million people would continue to willingly be conned. What wasn’t there to celebrate?

Everything went without a hitch, every prank the camera crew planned got played (and a couple that they claimed weren't planned), and we even got done before we needed to be. We cracked open a case of local beer and waited for the final shot – a scene where the sun creeps over the battlements of the castle. The whole business was cheesy, so why not let the final scene be? One of the editors, Macy – she refused to be shot, although she definitely was camera-perfect – went back into the castle, to use the bathroom or to grab a purse or make her mark or something. I didn’t hear past her going through the door. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; I just didn’t see the point of listening to her. After all, she was a big girl, the building was void of life, and if she wanted "company," she’d let me know.

As we sat there, waiting for the sun to come up, I couldn't help but smile. If you went back in time and told me when I was looking at colleges that in a few years I would be a television star, I would have smacked you. Back then, my dream was to be an artist. My art teacher in high school had inflated my ego so much that I thought I had a chance. It wasn't until after my college girlfriend broke up with me that I realized how futile of a dream that was. Like she said, I might have been good, but I wouldn't be able to eat all the time. At least in this field of work, I have a steady flow of income. As long as I didn't think about all the people I was conning, as long as I got to hang out with my new friends, I was happy enough doing this.

Finally, it was time for the final shot. Once it was taken, we loaded up and headed out. No one realized where Macy was, due to the large amounts of alcohol in our system, before we got back to town to tell the landlord that we were done.

When we did realize that Macy wasn't there with us in the hotel lobby, we just laughed. It was her own fault for getting left up there; we didn’t exactly leave the place as quietly as we could have. It was more like a frat party dying – slow, drawn out, and loud. It was elected that I would go back to get her, since she was technically under my arm of the payroll. The part where Macy and I used each other on a casual basis wasn’t mentioned. Not in that many words, at least.

I was still a little drunk when I walked into the castle. My mind wasn’t quite all there while I began stripping off my clothes. After all, most times that Macy and I did it was right after the job; who knew, maybe she wanted a change of scenery besides another hotel room ceiling? I didn’t even notice the family van parked almost-but-not-quite behind a bush, or the family themselves standing at the front arch. I stumbled onto the drawbridge, the dumbest grin you ever saw and my shirt covering my eyes, when the father cleared his throat. A chill went through my spine as I looked at Daddy dearest. I thought back to when we first talked to the landlord, and he did tell me that a group was coming in after us to see history at its finest, though there wasn't much history to be had at Glinstock. When he first told me and the crew, I didn't think twice about it. The plan was to be long gone before they ever got in. On my way up here, my mind wasn't thinking of them, either; how was I supposed to, with all that alcohol and hoping to have Macy to myself preoccupying that mess of gray sludge? The father gave me one of those stares – the one where someone asks what the heck you are doing without actually saying it.

And like the dumbass I am when I’m drunk, I shrugged and said, “Is there something wrong, mister?” The wind blew just as I finished my statement, giving the young girl a sight through my boxers she wouldn’t forget anytime soon. Her mother, bless her heart, tried to cover the poor kid’s eyes, but I could tell the girl saw it.

He almost lost it then. If I was sober, I would have started running back to my car. Instead, I stood there and, thankfully, he put on the big man act and ushered his family back to the van. They probably went back to town to ask the owner if he had any idea who I was, or maybe to call the police. I didn’t care; bring on disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, trespassing, whatever you pigs want to! I had other things on my mind.

The inside of the castle was much colder than the previous night. Hopefully Macy wouldn’t take long – I wanted my clothes back before I got sick. I tried calling her name a few times, but she didn’t answer. After ten minutes, standing there in the cold, damp foyer, I was sober and in no mood to stay cold. I went back into the courtyard and put my clothes back on. Before I went back in the castle to actually start looking, I looked out into the landscape. Fog was beginning to rise, a wisp of the stuff circling around itself about halfway up the hillside. The trees off to the side where my car was parked waved gently in the breeze, almost like they were waving me back to the past. I might have finished my art degree once upon a time, the view was that astonishing. I yawned loudly, listening to my echo. If only the guys were here. This might have been a better final scene than the sun on the battlements.

After a while, though, I had to go back in. Macy was somewhere in the castle, and I was definitely going to find her. As I crossed the threshold again, it still seemed as if the grand foyer of the keep was twenty degrees colder than it was at night. Thankfully, I had sun-warmed clothes on, so I wasn’t shivering. Wherever Macy was, though, I was sure she’d appreciate my warmness. I started to walk down the hall towards the throne room, the only area that was accessible from the foyer in this particular keep.

I don’t know if you ever noticed, but scenery changes between night and day. Shadows become more menacing, things more decayed, at night. Not so here. When the guys were with me, the three chairs sitting on the dais, while looking old, looked and felt like they could support human weight. Now… now they looked like an army of mice flooded over them and picked up a snack. The tapestries last night looked weathered, but the colors were more or less discernible. That morning, they were a bland gray, and it looked like someone took a knife to them. A few of them were only held by one ring. The walls were covered in what looked like oil; I went over to touch the walls, and rather than merely moist my fingers returned blackened and sticky. It was creepy, how much it changed.

I continued to stare at the wall, wondering if my memory were going due to the drastic changes or maybe just weariness, when I heard, “What are you doing here?”

I spun around at the sudden noise. Looking at me was a girl – not the one that just left, nor the one I was looking for. She was my age, maybe a little younger. Her blond hair draped over her shoulder in waves, almost like a silken gold. Her eyes were a deep emerald color – not that I was looking. Her figure was carefully concealed behind her clothing – a little old fashioned ever since the castle was actually a home - but it suited her well. I wondered why she was at Glinstock, but if the landowner allowed one group of crazies in, maybe he let the anachronistic crazies who tried to bring the past into the future into the building.

She looked at me, not angry or anything, but curiously, as if she didn’t think anyone ever came here besides her. I walked over to her so that we wouldn’t be shouting across the room at each other, but her eyes widened in shock before she ran down a hall. I called to her, but she was already gone. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she was on the run. I shrugged. I didn't remember seeing her picture on any of the 'escaped criminal' posters online before I came to England, but that was a few days ago. Like this room, things change. Either way, I didn’t need to get involved with her. I kept looking for my dark-haired temptress.

Since my girl wasn’t in the throne room, I decided to try a different room. I went to the dining room, thinking that maybe Macy would be in the kitchen. She might have seen that we left her behind, then came to use the fireplace to keep warm until someone (ahem) came to rescue her from the cold with a little of his body heat. Macy always read books on surviving in less-than-desired situations, so if anyone would be able to start a fire it would be her. When I walked into the room, the difference was again staggering; the heavy oak tables were pushed to one side, the chairs to the other, and everything either broken or heavily rotten. Did me and the guys do that while we were drinking? Seemed like something we’d do, to keep up the ghost factor. A song, heavy yet rhythmical, came through the kitchen archway, so I went towards it. It didn't sound like Macy, but maybe the singer saw her recently.

The kitchen was the only room that didn’t look like it was falling apart - in fact, it looked like a clean squatter lived there. A nice, roaring fire was in the fireplace, and a stone counter ran besides it. I cleared my throat, waved to the guy, and walked over to him, intent on asking if he saw Macy.

He dressed pretty funny as well. Like the girl, it was like he came from medieval times or something. Unlike those books I read in high school, he wasn’t four hundred pounds, but maybe half that, and had enough muscle mass to make me, who weight trains daily, feel small. Maybe both he and that odd girl lived here and just slept outside, under the stars last night. He, too, tilted his head curiously, as if he just noticed me. He did seem pretty intent on his cooking, though, so I didn’t hold it against him.

“Hey,” I asked. “Have you seen a black-haired woman, in her thirties, walking around?”

He swallowed nervously, cleared his throat a few times, burped, and a few other disgusting body functions, before saying curtly, in a voice that sounded scratched, “No.”

I must have looked at him odd because he hurried with his bread kneading. I sneered - even if you live far from society, that doesn't mean that you can't be friendly. “Well… if you see her, tell her to give me a call. I’m Carl, by the way. Carl Xavier Hunt?” I put aside my feelings of contempt, held out my hand and put on my snobbish smirk, hoping that he heard of me. After all, I am pretty much a household name in the States.

He ignored it, nodded his head, then went to the fireplace to put the bread on. I stared, dumbfounded. Never, in all my years, has someone completely ignored me. I kept my hand extended for a while, but when it became apparent that he had no inclination to be courteous I walked out, more than a little mad. I became a star so that I wouldn’t get ignored like that. The least that he could have done was shake my hand. It’s not like I was hiding why I was there.

I went back to the throne room. Maybe it was because the sun was shining more in now than it was before, but it looked different yet again. It seemed even gloomier, as if it got more depressed as the day grew older. I remembered what I told the chef, took out my phone, and called Macy. After a few rings she picked up. It sounded like I woke her up, and she said as much when I asked; she told me that instead of talking to the property owner, she just walked back to the hotel and went right to bed. She was tired, and decided that she’d work on editing the footage in the morning (which, to my gang, is about two in the afternoon), and since she did that on a regular basis, didn’t think about asking for permission. No one noticed her in the room because no one bothered to check my room before I left. I laughed and told her I was on my way back; I was tired too, dang it all.

“What are you doing here?”

I closed my phone and looked over to the throne/chair/thing on the left. Sitting there was the girl from earlier. She sat in it, trying her best to look bored and failing utterly at it. When I looked at her, the air cheered up; when I looked away, it went back to gloom. Odd, but maybe that was just my body protesting against being kept awake. I'd been awake for close to twenty hours already, ever since I got off the plane, so I couldn't help but be a little delusional.

Learning my lesson from her last disappearing act, I stayed where I was. “I was just looking for my friend. I found her, so I’ll let you and your friend in the kitchen alone to play your little game.”

Her eyes widened even more, and I could tell that it was an effort to stay in her chair. “No!” She sat back in her chair, looking ashamed for her outburst. She stared at the wall and muttered something. It sounded like “I was hoping you’d stay.”

I smiled somewhat heart-crushingly. While she was with a social outcast like that guy in the kitchen, she must have been a fan before coming here to make a request like that. I always liked coming across a fan with a crush; they would do just about anything for attention. And with one as beautiful as her? “I can stay, if it pleases you.” I bowed. After all, isn’t that what those guys in the movies do when they come across someone pretending to be royalty?

She looked at me, those bright eyes darkening my peripheral vision. Her smile was almost as bright as the midnight moon. If she didn’t take her acting so seriously, she might have come over to me and jumped into a hug. “Thank you, sir. What may I call you?”

I blinked dumbly at her. Then it hit me – she knew who I was in the world outside these walls, but in this dark, damp world inside the castle, she was someone else, and was hoping that I would do the same. I chuckled as I came up with something. “You may call me ‘His Royal Highness, Sir Christian Hunk’.”

She scowled, suddenly disinterested in me, like she wanted something a little more banal than another royal person. “And what land do you rule, Sir Christian Hunk?”

My mouth floundered as it sought an answer. So I said what came to mind first – where my mother's dad lived before coming to America. “I own a few acres in Elbe, a little ways south of Berlin.”

It was as if I openly slapped her on the face. I could feel the anger radiating from her, and at the moment, I swear I could feel the walls reaching out at me with their oily hands. The more that I looked into her gorgeous direction, the darker the room and her demeanor seemed. I swore that I felt the earth quake a little, as if it knew better than me to get out of her way. When I glanced at her eyes, I could tell that she wasn’t seeing me as myself, but as someone else – my persona, perhaps? I never took any physchology courses when I was at school so I don't know all the intimacies of the mind, but something screamed inside me, telling me that something was not right with her, and all I had to go off on was that I said I was German. “How dare you, you scum! You think that, merely because my father is dead by your hands, that I would still marry you?!”

I took a step back. “M…marry? Hold on there…”

She cut me off, waving her hand in front of me like a princess would dismiss a desert that didn't please her. “Forget that I ever invited you to stay. Begone from my sight, swine.”

I stood there dumbfounded. Then I turned and walked away, towards the door and my car. She didn’t want me to hang out with her anymore? She wanted the company of that muscle-brained reject more than a real person? Fine, then I’d leave. While I liked hanging out with fans with crushes, groveling was beneath me.

The door slammed shut in front of me. The boyfriend somehow got behind me and was now barring my exit. I demanded to be let out, to which he shook his head, refusing to move. While he was no longer a valuable member of society who would need more than a few sessions of therapy to get over himself, he was also one of those guys who wouldn’t hold back in a fight. Would he even be able to hold back that bicep, which was the size of both my legs put together? I couldn’t let myself get hurt. I needed to be in top performance for ghost hunting. I turned around towards the thrones. “Hey, tell your flunky to…”

I blinked. She was gone. Sure, she could have left towards what would have been her room, but then why was the center throne suddenly missing too? I turned to the chef again – only to find empty air where he was. Now, I know I would have heard something from him if he left. The throne moving? I could blame it on tunnel vision, but someone not two feet away from me? Something was up, and I didn’t like what it suggested.

As a professional ghost hunter, I know there isn’t such a thing as a real ghost. I already told you that. But things didn’t add up. People don’t just disappear under your nose like that. I walked to the dais – maybe she just tripped over the big chair and she was hiding in a corner, crying. After all, she did seem pretty upset at my choice of persona. And if she was, I had to get her out of that castle. If he was a ghost, a real specter, something I was supposed to hunt, then she would be the safest with me. While I wouldn't be much of a challenge to the big guy either in life or in death, I could at least die honorably. And what good is a career to a dead guy?

As I walked to the dais, I noticed what looked like a hole. My stomach churned. What if she had fallen in and I didn't notice her because of my anger? I jumped to clear the few steps elevating the dais – and ran into what fell like a concrete wall.

“What are you called, stranger?”

I turned my chest, still sitting on the floor, to look at the guy speaking. What he wore, he wore it good. The best I could compare it to is a king’s costume – but that would be like calling an ocean a puddle. His gray hair only accentuated the ring of bronze around his forehead, and with his cold eyes made him feel like he stood twenty feet above me. His smooth gait made it feel like he was gliding, though I could see his feet making contact with the ground. If I was going to grovel to anyone, it would be this guy.

“Huh? Oh… um… I’m Carl. Carl Xavier Hunt.” My typical arrogance didn’t follow the words out of my mouth.

A small breeze swept the room, followed by another. He raised his head and closed his eyes, as if listening to a whisper. He opened his eyes, making me feel even smaller. “Why are you here?”

I swallowed. Whatever was going on, I hoped it was just the guys pulling one over me. If it wasn’t… then I was in some serious trouble. “I… I was looking for a friend.”

“And in search of one, you ruined the chance of one. Why did you lie?”

I had to blink a few times. My mind just didn’t comprehend what was going on. “What? What are you talking about?”

He walked over to me, backing me to the invisible wall I swore wasn’t there before I tried to leave. “You lied to my Alexandria. I am asking you, why did you see it fit to deceive her?”

I watched him coming. My heart never pounded so fast. I swore it would shatter a rib. “I thought she was acting… I didn’t know she was…”

He interrupted me. “Be gone. Leave my demesnes now and live, or stay and perish.” The wall disappeared from behind me, causing me to smack my head against the edge of a step. I stayed there, watching the king-guy walk next to me and down the hole. His descent was staggered, as if he were walking down stairs. When I stood up, I saw that they were stairs, leading down below.

I turned and sprinted towards the door, intent on doing as he said. When I got there, though, about to open the doors, I stopped. There was at least one ghost in this castle – the chef – and the reason why so many people pay me to tell them that ghosts are not malevolent is because they think that there are some out there who would kill them in their sleep. What if ghosts were real? What if the chef was going to kill her while she was helpless at the bottom of the stairs? And that other guy… he claimed possession over her. He could be waiting to steal her final breath or rape her potentially virgin skin. He probably wanted me out of the way so he wouldn’t have any competition, other than the chef guy.

I couldn’t leave her there, alone, with those two creeps. I wasn’t much better than them, but I was, at least, a sane non-possessive human. That had to give me a couple points in her book, didn't it? I took my hands from the doors, took in a deep breath, then went to the dais once more.

This time, I wasn’t kept from entering. I went right to the stairwell and looked down. Not that it did me any good; it disappeared right behind a central column holding the spiral steps together. All I could do is go down and see what laid beyond the bend.

The thing about being human is that you need light in pitch dark. If you’re falling, you won’t notice it; if you’re dead, you don’t need it. At least, that’s what I’ve read in science fiction novels. But being among the alive and walking, where the light of the sun refused to trickle down, I wanted some light. Yeah, I was able to see enough to know where the next step was. I was hoping, though, to keep my mind from seeing ghastly skulls built into the wall, so I took out my phone. Not the best source of light, but it served its purpose for the most part.

After a while, after I got comfortable with the proximity of the walls and the steepness of the stairs, I realized that a smile had crept onto my face. Here I was, a ghost hunter who was actually looking for a ghost. The guys back at the hotel would never believe me; they probably thought that I got lost on my way back to the hotel, or maybe even fell asleep at Glinstock. But even if they didn't believe it, I would. When I was eighty and had some grandchildren or maybe even a great-grandkid, I could tell them of my time here, looking for a ghost that never existed. I was having an adventure like you only see in movies. If this was a dream, then don't let me wake up.

I finally came down to the end of the stairs to look into a cavern – I could tell it was a cavern because the walls parted ways. When I tried to follow one, I almost fell off what must have been a bridge. My little light barely pierced the curtain of gloom, so I shut it, getting ready to lie down and crawl my way to the end. When the light died, though, the room light up on its own. A dark, beautiful blue light spread across the ceiling. Like the fog, this was another picture that would have found its way to… whatever the artist Hall of Fame was. But it was bright enough now that I could see to the end of the walkway. There she was, leaning against the far wall, head bent. I could hear her sobbing.

I started to cross the walkway when I ran into another one of those invisible walls. This time, it felt more gelatinous – it gave way, but it would require a lot of effort to get through. I saw her stand up straight and continue down the hall in what looked like a limp. I tried calling out to her, but if she heard me, I would never know. Instead, the chef came through the floor between me and her – not through as in he dug, but through as in through. In my mind, that proved it; he was a ghost. And now he was between me and her.

Except his clothing was different. Before, he wore a white-ish robe. Now, he wore a full suit of armor, minus the helm. His hair (hidden before by a bandana of sorts) draped to his shoulders. On one arm, he carried a shield; the other rested on something I hoped wouldn’t get too far out of its scabbard.

“Who are you?” He took a step forward. He really did fit into his armor quite nicely. And his voice didn’t sound so scratchy anymore.

“I told you. I’m Carl Xavier Hunt.” I felt naked, despite wearing long clothes. My voice also seemed pretty pathetic. I really should have taken some self-defense classes when I had the chance.

“What are you doing here?” His sword peeked out of its blanket, as if it were hoping to get the chance to run amok.

“I’m here to save Alexandria,” I said as I took a step back, preparing to run.

He stopped his advance, as if stunned. “From what?”

I smiled, a little of my confidence back. “From you, ghost. And maybe that creepy guy in the king costume. I’m a ghost hunter; that’s what I do for a living.”

He smiled, and I could feel his hunger looking over me, as well as my confidence fading once again. “And what, pray tell, will you use to protect her? You have no arms.” He walked to the wall, but not through it.

“Your sword will do nicely,” I said, although I knew I would probably only hurt myself with it.

“But, if I am a ghost, then would you be able to wield it?” He drew it and threw it at me.

Startled, I reached for it – only to grab empty air. My mouth floundered and my eyes widened. While I was convinced that he was a ghost, knowing for a fact that ghosts didn't really exist for thirteen years kept me from truly believing all the signs - like being incorporeal. His smile broadened as he walked through the wall unhindered. As he walked through the wall he smiled diabolically, reveling in my expression as my world crumbled at his feet. He slowly walked towards me, sword back in his hand and drawn. I retreated, matching him step for step, until I tripped over a stone. I tried crawling away, but he soon stood over me. His blade, seeming rather corporeal now that it was in his hands, rested right above my Adam’s apple.

“Why do you lie to yourself?”

I looked at the sword, followed it to the arm that held it, then up to his eyes. I stared dumbly at him. I honestly didn’t know what he meant, lying to myself.

He saw this and pressed his blade to barely pierce my skin. I could feel a small bead of blood roll along my skin. Another tried to follow it, but rather than sliding down my skin it... floated along the groove in the middle, defying all physics. When my blood reached the hilt, he closed his eyes, almost like he was taking a drug or seeing a vision. After a while he frowned, realizing that he would need to clarify or back off. He chose to clarify.

“You tell yourself that it is fine to cheat the people, as long as it is in fair trade: closure for money and fame. You tell yourself that you love this Macy, while you care not when she slips into a different man’s room. You tell yourself that you are protecting Alexandria from ‘ghosts’, but you do not believe in ghosts. Thus… why do you lie to yourself?”

I took in his words. At first, I was outraged that he thought I was lying to myself on these things when I most definitely wasn’t. Yes, I did make money from conning people - but isn't that what all actors do? Don't they pretend to be something that doesn't really exist? Don't politicians cheat people everyday for money and fame? I had given up trying to vote for someone that would make a difference. All politicians are the same, and I'm much more likable than those blood-sucking parasites. At least I was easing people's concerns about the dead. Politicians just took people's money and squandered it.

And what the hell did Macy have to do with anything? Yeah, she's a cheating whore, but the sex is good. Isn't that all relationships are anymore? The last time I gave a damn about a girl was while I was in college. We really did have something going on. She gave me support whenever something went wrong with my classes. She spurred me to go for my dream to be an artist. She'd go to sleep on the couch at our apartment, smiling as she watched me paint her. What I didn't know was that she was banging our neighbor on a regular basis; apparently going to bed alone wasn't on her itinerary. So if a relationship was only about sex, and if Macy and I used each other in that way, then what else could I call it but 'love'? The scandal that pursued also gave the public something else to talk about than how they couldn't really afford to go on that vacation they had been planning for three years. Why should they be obsessed with the bad things in life when something meaningless like celebrities sleeping around on each other was going on? With my romantic life being observed, they could forget all the shitty things that went on during their daily life. Isn't that enough of a good reason to stay with Macy? As for protecting Alexandria from ghosts that don't exist... well, knowing the answers to two of the questions he brought up wasn't bad.

The more I thought about everything he said, the less angry I got. A part of me felt less bruised, like it needed to be thought about. The only reason why I refused to talk to myself about the hurt was because Carl Xavier Hunt didn't want to. And as time wore on, the less I thought about those things; the less I thought, the less it hurt; the less it hurt, the more I believed the lies that I wanted to believe. I blinked at this realization and whispered softly, so that I could barely hear it, “I don’t know.”

He smiled and took my hand, pulled me off the ground. His hand was solid, not at all ghostly. I was about to ask if he was alive or really a ghost when he just vanished into the darkness. I could still hear the jingle of his chainmail, leading me towards the end of the elevated walkway. I followed him, the wall no longer there. On the other side, there were more stairs, but this time there were some torches lit.

At the bottom of the stairs was another clearing. This one was different, more artificial than natural; it looked like someone dug a giant hole and planted a grove of trees at the bottom. I looked up and saw a series of ancient chandeliers, suspended a few dozen feet above me, giving the appearance of sun with candles that seemed never to burn out. In the middle of the grove, one of the chandeliers had fallen. Beneath it laid a body. The tattered remains of clothing resembled that of the king figure.

I was about to walk over and examine the body when a sound from behind me caused me to turn around. There knelt the girl, completely oblivious to me, holding one side, and crying. I went to her to see what was wrong.

I went right through her.

Still sobbing, she went to the chandelier. I stood dumbfounded, watching what was going on like it was a movie. She grabbed the edge of the robes and cried harder. I crept over to where she was kneeling to see the body as it was back then, the king-guy I saw upstairs. I looked over her, trying to think of a way I could help. Here was a girl, crying, and I was a guy. What was I doing to?

I saw, in this look-over, that she was hurt where she was holding herself. Hurt pretty badly; if this wasn’t a memory (or whatever it was), I would bet my fortune that a river of blood followed her wherever she went. Slowly, she staggered to her feet, walked under one of the trees, and laid down. From there – compared to at the entry – I could see the pile of bones that remained of her.

From behind me, the chef/knight walked to stand next to me. I felt him, but still had to look. A part of me thought for a moment that he was going to kill me, but he stood there, looking upon the scene passively. He bowed his head, said a short prayer – I could tell because he did that Catholic thingy with his hands – and then looked up. His eyes were cold, full of hate, as he began to speak. “When the house of Glinstock fell, my knighthood had just begun. I had grown from lad to man under the rule of Baron Enswick, and had no qualms about his laws. Yet the Baron was once a commoner and, as such, was the subject of much dissent amongst the king's subjects. The people - myself included - saw the baron as a fair man, for he treated us as human, not a mere source of income. He was not the most prosperous of men, but his people were fed and healthy, sometimes with his own coin, before he ate." He walked over to the baron, reached out a hand.

The baron took it, stood up, dusted his ghostly robes off, and sighed. “One noble felt that my presence was degrading to his court, so the noble declared war on me. The king forbade it, but that meant little to one that has his mind set on something. So, to firm my position in court, I asked a noble from Germania to marry my daughter. I dreaded the thought of it, but it was necessary. And Alexandria agreed to it, before I mentioned any possible effects.”

“I did it,” she chimed in as she rose, unharmed once more, “because I loved you, Father.” She stood next to the others, and then looked at me. “The noble from Germania was an ally of the noble against Father. We thought it would mean peace to our people. However, my fiancée took advantage of our lax security, assassinated Father, and then claimed the land as his own. When I found out, only a day later…”

The knight took her in his arms, letting her start her weeping once more. “She rallied her people in a rebellion. He found out and killed her. He then cursed her and anyone close to her, to remain in death in this world until…”

The baron interrupted him with a raise of his hand. He looked at me with those dark gray eyes and asked, “Why did you deceive my Alexandria?”

My head spun from what I had been told. The guy in town that owned the castle told me specifically that Glinstock had no history. Yet, here are three ghosts that told me that something did happen here. They didn't give me any time to wrap my head around what was happening. The way that they just stood up gave me the feeling that it was rehearsed and the actors just wanted to be done with the skit. I realized what I had to do to help them get through this: explain myself to this girl whom I chased for no reason. I walked over to her, turned her to look at me, and I knelt. The knight let me take her from him, though I could see it took effort for him to do so. I looked at her feet. “Earlier, I lied as to who I was because… I thought you were just a person pretending to be royalty. In my time, there are many people who pretend to be one thing, and yet are another.”

The knight cut me off there, placing his sword (I didn’t even hear it come out of its blanket of leather) on my shoulder. “Why do you lie to yourself?”

I took a breath in, then out. “I am one of those pretenders. My passion lies in creating art, not in affirming lies. I work where I do because without money you are nothing. Without fame, you are just a blob on the map. And I couldn’t do that to myself. So I gave up my dreams and became Carl Xavier Hunt, Ghost Hunter Extraordinaire.”

She lowered herself to balance on the ball of her feet, looking me in the eyes while her gown pooled around her knees. “Why did you come down here? Don’t you love another?”

I bent my head further. “I thought I needed to protect you from these two, who I thought were ghosts. As a ghost hunter, I saw it in my duties to do so. And no… I don’t love Macy. We got together because it was expected. Fame politics is all about scandals these days.”

I could see out of the corner of my eyes when I said I came to protect her that she smiled. I fought back a yawn as I took in that smile. Between the scenery this morning, before all of this chaos, and the cavern I had seen enough that I wanted to return to painting. If I could wake up to that smile, watching me like my past... Her father spoke up before she could, though. “You sought to protect her from something you believe didn’t exist? What caused you to do that?” He walked over to where I was standing, staring me down, his eyes judging me.

I thought long and hard on that, turning my back on them and that stare as I thought. After what seemed like hours of them looking at the back of my head, I said the only thing that came to mind. “I honestly don’t know.”

The room flared, and I was knocked onto my rear. I cried out, blind, not sure what was going on. Eventually, I felt a hand on my shoulder – a warm hand, the hand of someone living. As I opened my eyes, I heard the heavy metal scraping coming from where the chandelier was. When my eyes focused, there was Alexandria, smiling. No longer were her tears of sadness, but of joy.

She and her father helped me up. Somehow in my daze, I noticed that their clothes changed to fit in better with today. I smirked when I saw that Alexandria's was an imitation of what Macy wore, and it looked much better on this girl. I was still confused as to what exactly happened, but whatever it was, I was glad that it did. My sleep-deprived eyes began to flutter, but I convinced my body that it could get some rest in just a moment. For that moment, I needed to finish the adventure I would one day tell my children.

He saw my confusion and, as he led me and her to the far side of the grove where I saw a metal ladder, preserved through the ages, he finished their tale. “The curse would be lifted when one who could see us, but not believe us, would do an act he had no coherent reason behind. Not love, not the promise of wealth, not merely for goodness sake – for there is no unselfish deed. A deed of unknown reasons when they embark – unknown to the doer, at the least – was impossible, we thought.”

I was still confused, but it didn’t matter. The baron went up the ladder first, followed by his daughter. They were excited to see the sun again, I suppose, or maybe feel it upon their flesh. I’m sure that her father assumed I was behind him (he didn’t look back to make sure), which I would have, but I was still in my daze. We were near the top of the ladder – the knight guy opened the latch that would lead us to the land above – when she slipped and fell.

Then the world fell dark.



There comes a time in every young boy’s life where everything he is searching for comes falling into his laps. There comes a time where the world could come crashing around his ears and he couldn't care less. There comes a time where his heart sings a song so loudly that his heart will come out of his chest. After reaching this moment, the young boy spends the rest of his life looking for the same feeling. Some turn to drugs or jumping out of planes, hoping that euphoria would measure up. Others wake up, only to forget the feeling. Others go through life, looking for the source.

What I am about to tell you is that moment in my life. My name is Carl Xavier Hunt. I used to call myself a ghost hunter – you know, those guys on TV that con you into believing that a building is haunted. Now, I call myself an artist, and proud owner of a castle that, until a few years ago, was deemed haunted. I remember the falling feeling where everything fell into place with my life. And I remember the source of that feeling. I still have that feeling, every time I wake up in the morning.

Do you remember yours?