by M. E. Eadie
***
A little after midnight, when Spike was snoring and snorting, his mouth showing its cavernous interior to the ceiling, Colin woke up to the distant smell of burning…peat…or was it cow dung? His comic book was also glowing. He tentatively moved his hand close to it, and the glowing luminescence burgeoned, illuminating the entire room. Withdrawing his hand, the light lessened to a dull, pulsating throb. The book, then, levitated and floated over to the doorway. Transfixed, Colin moved to the door, opened it, and followed the hovering comic book out of the room.
Traversing the hallway, he was careful to remain silent as he approached Grizzelda’s room, where he thought she should by now be sleeping. Of course, nothing with his aunt was ever sure. She could be anywhere. With some relief, he noticed that there was a pool of light escaping from beneath her closed door. At least she was in her room. The comic book stopped in front of her door and its light turned from pulsing amber to a pale blue. From within the room Colin heard his aunt’s excited voice in conversation, speaking so fast that he couldn’t make out any details. There was no telephone hooked up in the house, so she must have been using her weird finger-to-the-temple phone. As he listened, the hairs on the back of his arms stood up when he realized she was being answered by a second voice, a voice that seemed far away.
Colin was wondering about the sanity of his aunt when the comic began to float away. He followed it down the stairs and, as he did so, he stepped on a squeaky board. In the daytime he wouldn’t have even noticed the sound, but at night it seemed to echo, magnified by the immensity of the house. He froze. The muffled tones of the conversation in Grizzelda’s room stopped abruptly, replaced by the bated silence of someone listening. If the door opened, he would be toast. The muffled voice of his aunt resumed, accented with sniffles. Was his aunt actually crying? That would be a first. He lifted his weight slowly from the board and moved swiftly for the bottom of the stairs where the comic book, glowing amber again, was waiting.
He soon found out that there was just as much below the first floor of the mansion (he could no longer call it a house) as there was above it. In the subterranean warren, rough limestone walls danced with the shadows thrown by the light from his comic. Shadows seemed to hover just outside the glow, prancing maliciously in front of him, and then closing in behind him when he passed.
The acrid stench of smoke was getting stronger, more than that of burning peat, more like some foul weed. Colin jolted to a stop. He heard a voice, but now it was singing - if you could call it that. It sounded more like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. It rasped, off-key, grating harshly on the ears, jangling the nervous system.
“...a long, long way to Tip—per--arrry, but my heart’s right therrrrre.”
Colin winced from the dissonance in the singer’s voice. No, you definitely couldn’t call it singing, but it seemed friendly enough.
“I’ll be home for Chrisss-masss…”
The comic’s glow had dissipated along with its ability to float and now it lay on the floor where he scooped it up. He didn’t need the light from the comic anymore because the chamber in front of him was glowing. Drawn forward by something between curiosity and need, he stepped into the wine cellar. Row upon row of dusty wine bottles crowded the large room, nestled comfortably in a honeycomb of racks, hiding the roughly hewn walls. A light was coming from around the corner. His foot caught on an empty bottle sending it noisily skittering across the floor. The singing stopped, and the light went out. The wine cellar went black. A moment later, the space flared with light. Colin gaped at whom he saw.
Sergeant Peary took the stub of his smoldering cigar out from between his teeth and judiciously regarded one of the wine bottles. His square chin dimpled with contemplation as he tapped the bottle with his index finger. Colin couldn’t believe that Sergeant Peary was standing in front of him . . . almost. Almost, because Colin could see through the Sergeant to the wine bottles behind him. Colin wrinkled his nose at the source of the noxious, burning smell.
Sergeant Peary casually glanced at Colin, as though he was consulting a good friend.
“You know, if I remember correctly, 1944 was a good year for wine. However, there was one catch to that year…” said the Sergeant, slipping the bottle back into the rack. “That was the year Jerry shot me.” His cigar- hand wavered over his heart indicating the dark, blood- stained bullet wound. “You have to admit, it was an excellent shot. Didn’t feel an ounce of pain,” he said in admiration.
“SSSSergeant PPPPeary?” stuttered Colin.
“In the flesh!” he grinned and then looked at his semi-transparent hand. “Well, not really flesh, is it? But you have to accept life or the type of life you’re offered, eh? You didn’t waste much time getting around to coming down here, did you? That’s good, shows initiative. I’ve always admired initiative.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here? I thought you were a comic book character -- and a voice in my head.”
“Nothing personal, but it gets a bit crowded in there.” His brow furrowed. “A comic book character?” he asked, noticing the comic in Colin’s hands, then reached over and snatched it away. He thumbed through it rapidly. Every now and then the ashes from his perpetually burning cigar fell through the book and disappeared into the floor. Emotions flickered across the ghost’s face -- mild interest, irritation, joy, humor -- as he examined the comic. When he was finished, he closed the book and handed it back to Colin.
“Not a bad read,” he said, and gestured clearly at the blond woman on the cover, “except most of it never happened, especially that. There was that time in France, or was it England? Being dead has made my memory rather poor . . . you know, no solid gray matter to hold onto things. What I do remember is that war is a dirty, nasty affair, and the only romance that happened was between me and my rations!” With this he tilted his head back and gave a great hacking laugh.
Colin looked up at the ceiling and wondered if the noise was going to alert Grizzelda. He didn’t cherish the idea of her discovering Sergeant Peary. The oddity of the moment made Colin feel as though he was dreaming, but this was real.
“Could I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead, shoot!” said Sergeant Peary, bursting into another paroxysm of laughter. Only when he was finished and wiping the tears from his eyes, was Colin able to continue.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the Netherworld or something?”
Sergeant Peary looked pensive for a moment and tapped more ashes from his cigar. “Yes, ‘nether,’-- Middle English for ‘Down Below’. Well…” his arms swept the room, displaying the area about him. “This is ‘down below’. But, I see, you’re serious,” he said suppressing another laughing fit. “Well, I was happy whispering my sage advice to you via your imagination, but Jim paid me a visit.”
“Grandfather Thunder?”
“Old fellow with a wicked-looking walking stick that keeps changing heads? Yeah, that’s him. Smart old-timer. He told me I should keep my eye on you, said I should be your guardian spirit…whatever that is.”