I woke up to the sound of creaking wood. Now, there could be a lot of reasons why wood might creak in an old, stuffy gothic castle, but I’m sure none of them would be that the door to the room that you were sleeping in was suddenly opened by a translucent woman carrying in a bunch of clothes.

She looked at me, as I sat up straight on the bed with my arms thrown forward for balance like a vampire rising from the closet of Bram Stoker, or some crude remake of ancient Egyptian burial methods coming back to life with all the dramatism for an Oscar nomination, and I looked at her realizing that the towel I had slept in the previous night seemed to have slipped off my body to pile up beside my legs, and also realizing that her body didn’t have any substance and that the clothes might as well have been carried on by the West Winds that Shelley loved to write about.

In short, she was a ghost and I was naked.

I screamed.

She screamed.

All I could think of was ‘Oh no, not this again!’. I needed clothes. And she was either very afraid of me or very afraid of my nakedness, which is not a pleasant thought if you think about it. Here you were expected to have sexy times with your madame, and she starts screaming as you take off your clothes, and you start screaming because you want her to stop screaming and explain why the heck she was screaming in the first place, and you scream further cursing the shuffling of the cards that held the thread of your fate in their folded corners on that accursed morning. Not that I was expecting any pleasant times the first thing in the morning, besides she was clearly a ghost, and could ghosts even have sex? Not that I was thinking of sex, or about having sex with a ghost, that very moment. I was simply screaming till I felt fabric hit my face, and heard the large thud of wood upon wood.

In short, she screamed and threw the clothes at me and ran off, closing the door with a slam.

That was strange, but not so strange if you think about the events of the night.

I took a look at what she had dropped off for me. Robes. Even worse, wizard’s robes. Subdued black overalls with a blue coat, some strange socks and slippers, and I don’t even want to remember the grotesque man briefs. It seemed to have belonged to some old wizard, and had seemed to lie inside a mothball stuffed closet somewhere in the musty corners of an old castle. Which is probably true, and why I was given it in the first place.

Getting up, I moved to the bathroom, and then realized I had no need of it. I stared at myself in the mirror. Faint black specks of a beard poked through the skin on my face, and my matted hair looked back at me from the gauntly handsome face that kept all of them together.

For a moment, I tried to remember what face I had adorned before. That led to a cascading avalanche of memories – laughter, an old pillar under gothic arches, and the sweet face of a girl. I collapsed. No, I still couldn’t think about those memories.

I wore the robes, and walked into the sliding doorway elevator.

“The Kitchens!” I spoke.

Nothing happened.  How had she said that the previous night?

“TO the kitchens,” I said. It required a keyword.

The elevator started humming beneath my feet. Perhaps it could tell my hurry because it wasn’t even five seconds before the doors slid opened and I peeked into the place it had taken me.

Large central chimneys hung down in the middle of a rather large hall with grand vaulted ceilings. All around there were clear worktops and interspersed among them were burners of all kind. It looked more like a laboratory than a kitchen to be honest. It was covered with cobwebs on all sides, looking like an unused relic of history.

I walked back into the elevator. “Not this one! TO the other Kitchen!”

The humming started and ended as soon as the elevator doors slid back. I love it. I wish all elevators were like this. The doors slid open, and I was in the hallway that I remembered from last night. Sounds of something frying appeared behind the turn into the farthest end of the Kitchen.

It was no surprise to see both ‘Alice’ and Fangira up before me, sitting around a small circular table with a silver tray on which a porcelain teapot sat with saucers and cups of tea before them. I didn’t see Finora around there at all.

“I thought you’d sleep for a couple of days,” Fangira said. “Come, there is much to discuss. Especially, some of your actions yesterday night. And the forenoon.”

“Where is Finora?” I asked. “You seem hale and hearty, and yet the last thing I saw was that there were some cuts and spears sticking into your thigh. And now, you look — oh the baths.”

“Yes,” Fangira replied. “The baths help a lot. Finora is sunning herself. She is excellent in her health.” She pointed out through the windows which looked out into the green lawn outside.

There, Finora was sprawled out on a picnic blanket at the farther end, curled up in sleep.

“Well, at least that one isn’t a vampire. Sunning herself? Is she a cat?”

“She is not a vampire,” Fangira said, a little astonished. “Whatever gave you that idea!”

“Bat wings. Blood,” I thought out loud. “Things.”

“No. Such a foolish thing to say. How could you even — she’s not a vampire,” Fangira added, with a nod towards ‘Alice’.

“That reminds me,” I said to ‘Alice’. “What is your name? Is it Letitia? I remember the goon saying something like it. But, when I came back yesterday night with you, Fangira here gave your name as Alice.”

She took a quick sip and as quickly put down the cup back on the saucer. She glanced askance to Fangira before looking at me and answering.

“My name is Letitia Alice Wymarc. I’m sure you’ve heard this name, Mrs. Earnshaw. If not, I do thank the passage of time in helping my cause. I just go with Alice Marcus in the villages and towns down the Llon. Honest, Mrs. Earnshaw. It sometimes helps when people don’t immediately take my last name before my own face. Why, I should —”

“Wait,” I said. “Who is Mrs. Earnshaw?”

Fangira impatiently rubbed her nose. “I am. Alice – well, Letitia then. Or do you prefer Alice? Alice. We all keep secrets. It is no business of mine whether you choose to call yourself Alice or Letitia. Or keep or not keep a last name. As far as being ‘Mrs. Earnshaw’ goes – I hope you will keep this secret as I keep yours.”

“Yes, Mrs. Earnshaw.”

“Before I forget, Crow,” Fangira sipped her cup for a moment, lifting it along with the saucer. “You scared Berenice really bad. The pan in her hand is positively shaking.”

Berenice? “You mean, the ghost?”

“The Ghost housekeeper.”

“A Ghost maid?”

Fangira emphasized with narrow eyes. “Housekeeper.”

“Ghost maids,” I soliloquised. “Is this the new trend among Anime enthusiasts?”

“What—”

“Yet,” said I. “I cannot see the possibilities.”

“She’s the HOUSEKEEPER, Crow!”

It was at this moment that I realized a searing pain shooting through the veins in my thighs. It shot down towards the feet, destabilizing my balance, and I gave a sort of a flop, like a very awkward flounder on the parking tarmac right outside a 7Eleven, and fell down. Ache gripped the insides of my belly, and I was left to wonder if insulting ghost housekeeper merited such a punishment.

Of course, when I blinked next, I saw the very plainly decorated ceiling – not one as you would expect in a castle such as this. Nothing extraordinary – plain plaster, perhaps stucco? That is all I could call it. Would do very well in an expensive New York loft.

“Crow? Crow? Are you all alright?” Fangira’s face appeared before my faintly groaning face.

“Did he just say something about… Aenima?” Alice’s face appeared as well.

They looked down at me with concern on their faces.

“I highly doubt he knows anything about Aenima, Alice,” Fangira said. Then, she slapped me. “Crow! Say something, you villain!”

“Missus! Are you sure it is wise to slap a … spirit?”

“He’s no spirit.”

“I thought — well, if you say so, Mrs. Earnshaw. B-But yesterday N-Night he – he was — I don’t know. But I heard him say something about Aenima, right now. Or, bless me, my ears are ringing with falsehoods!”

“He’s no spirit! I’ve seen many spirits, Alice,” Fangira sniffed me. “He smells of mothballs, cobwebs, pine needle oil, and a faint aftersmell of gunpowder.” Then she paused. “But that may just be these clothes.”

My stomach grumbled at this reminder of poor taste in fashion. Wizard’s robes! Really? It started a deep stuttering rumble that echoed throughout the kitchen, suppressing all noise except the steady sizzle of a pan on medium high heat cooking the remains of an egg that was very clearly not one from a chicken. The rumble continued for a good fraction of a minute, and was composed of various egresses of … bodily gases.

After my last burp, I looked on as a deer caught in the many spotlights of West End or Broadway. “My tummy hurts. What is this pain?” I asked, faintly.

“Ugh,” Fangira replied. “Berenice! Get some of that omelette for Mr. Crow. And perhaps some honey, and — bread, if there is any.”

She pulled me up from my shoulders, stuffing me against a high-backed chair, on the wooden headrest of which I banged my head against.

“Disgusting,” she said. “Absolutely disgusting. To think you’d do that in front of two ladies.”

“It wasn’t me! It was the dog!” Okay, I lied.

“I think you’ve gone far enough without food. When was the last time you ate anything?”

I couldn’t remember. “I can’t remember,” I said.

Alice pressed a handkerchief to her nose, her tea forgotten on the table with about a fifth of the cup left.

A moment passed after which a new porcelain teapot and a plate with a reddish omelette floated towards the table. The teapot was placed delicately, but the plate rattled with shakes before falling to a rest in front of me, as if the one carrying had a cramp in their arm. A saucer of honeycomb dripping with golden viscous liquid that glistened with sugary sweetness also dropped down before me, with what can only be called trepidation. I had probably scarred Berenice’s mind in the morning.

A fork lodged a piece of the honeycomb straight in my mouth even as it was pressed open by two rigid fingers. Oh, the sweetness. The sweetness! Honey melted the sweet tastebuds in my mouth, caressing my tongue with tenderness, as it slithered down my throat, touching, gripping my larynx with a warm embrace.

Okay, this is getting weird.

To summarize, the piece of honeycomb I gulped down, and it enlivened me. All that sugar brought back my energy at a rush.

“Mmm, lovely,” I remarked.

“Alright then,” Fangira sat back down, lifting her saucer with the cup in a swift swish of her hands. Then, she took a sip. “What is this I hear about you fighting the Bloody Knight?”

I spent no time in answering stupid questions. I immediately took up the silver butter knife and spread the delicious honey over the spongy bread, and took an awesome bite. Wait. It tasted weird. Very annoying. It was a waste putting on that delicious honey. Mouldy? No. Stale? No. Just bad.

“What is this awful bread?”

“Will you answer my question?”

“Why don’t you ask Miss Alice over there? She was there when it happened.”

“She has already. I want your word, on what exactly happened. Will you say something?”

“What sort of awful baker bakes such an awful bread?”

“Crow. Answer me. This is important. Alice tells me you agitated the Bloody Knight. A strange darkness enveloped the both of you, and then she doesn’t remember. Isn’t that right, Alice?”

The girl, who I had thought to have displayed unnatural courage yesterday night, seemed to cower behind her teacup. “Yes, Mrs. Earnshaw.”

“Why the fricking heck are you named Mrs. Earnshaw?” I asked Fangira.

“Don’t you take that tone with me!” She almost rose up from her chair. “A woman can’t be a Mrs. without a husband?”

“That’s not— I mean, why did you choose that as an alias?”

“That’s not important—”

“Why the heck does she know you as Mrs. Earnshaw?” I looked at the girl who had suddenly found that the act of balancing a saucer in her grip to be difficult, for it had started to quiver and clink in rapid little vibrations. “You know her real name is Fangira? Right, Alice?”

“She doesn’t—!”

“And rounding back at your point,” I interrupted Fangira. “I’m not going to be Mr. Earnshaw. I don’t think anyone will ever be. You must already have one. So, pray who is Mr. Earnshaw?”

I found the silence the best time to break into the delicious red-coloured spicy omelette in front of me. I pushed my fork through one folded end, and cut it off with the knife. All cutlery seemed to be made with good quality silver.

And Fangira found it a very good moment to break in.

“YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW!” she screamed. “You don’t know a lot of things, Crow! You just happen to pop up out of nowhere yesterday night. Are you a burglar? I don’t know. Are you a trespasser? An encroacher? A vagabond, or a simple fool who happened to step inside the fucking castle as an excuse for a joke? I don’t know. We clothe you, give you a place to stay, feed you, and I ask a fucking question and you don’t even give me a straight fucking answer. I should fucking kill you! You don’t know who I am, or where I’m from, or what Finora is, and you STILL KEEP ASKING QUESTIONS! Do you even know what the Castle is called? Do you, Crow? DO YOU?!”

She paused for a breath. I gulped down my spicy omelette.

“Well,” I answered. “I was beginning to call it Castle Super Gothic House Manor Thing.”

One dishevelled strand of hair fell down the front of Fangira’s face, while her chest rose and fell like she had lost the Olympic Gold Medal to a really fast sloth.

“It’s called,” she said with a voice colder than when I froze the Bloody Knight’s boiling blood. “Castle Agathwx.”

“Castle Agatha Christie?” With all the vowels being eaten by a Welsh Dragon, I suppose. “Oui, madame. Je m’appelle Hercule Poirot.”

“CASTLE AGATHWX, YOU DUMB BABOON! What language is that? What is this Boy-row you say? I don’t understand. I DON’T UNDERSTAND!”

“Okay. Jeez, Fangira. I was only joking. Can we all just be calm for a moment?”

Alice was contemplating the tea in her cup, and the Ghost maid Berenice stood about three feet behind Alice contemplating the floor.

“NO!” growled Fangira. “Fuck no! We shall not be calm for a moment, you vagabond! You dishonourable interloper! I need answers. I need them NOW!”

A few strands of hair now cascaded down her sweaty forehead, unlatched from their natural composure. Oh dear, I may have bit more than I could chew.

I meant the omelette, not Fangira. I could chew her all day, if you pardon the pun.

A hasty ring of a bell rang through the quietened corridors of the Castle Agathwx. And then rang again, with the bringg bringg consistency of an old telephone.

Fangira turned towards the direction the ring came from, then looked towards Alice for a brief moment, and said, “Here.”

An old candlestick telephone dropped from the ceiling right down beside her, as if floating on air, with the long wire vanishing into the stucco ceiling, greying out as if it was made of mist.

“Hmm,” I said. “Who could that be?”