Written to celebrate Hallie Jules birthday, a non-canonical addition to the Ghost Hunters Series.
I was writing away, immersed in the latest story I was retelling from my stack of legal pads, when a large THUMP occurred outdoors. Then everything went quiet.
Outside the south window of my writing cabin, it was much darker now - where there should have been sun streaming in. Of course, always a sucker for a good mystery, I left off my typing and rose to turn toward that view. I had to lean over the narrow couch below it, in order to push that window’s sun-block curtain aside.
All I saw through the window panes was now a dark forest. Of course this was shocking, since there’s an open pasture out that window for a quarter-mile. Or, used to be. So I stood up fully and figured that I’d better go check this out. Pausing only to close my laptop, I took the two steps toward the front door, where my boots, cap, bandanna and chore coat were hanging nearby. And these went on it about that order.
I was in no hurry. Everything was too quiet now. Opening the heavier front door, I pushed away the outer screen and stepped out to find two worlds greeting me. To my left was my normal pastoral setting, and to my right, there were thick oaks, a large grove of them, some hundreds of years old. And wouldn’t you know it — there was a path going into them, not far from my porch steps. As if a story was already in there, waiting to be discovered.
Pulling to the inner door to shut it with its secure click, then easing the screen door back into place without slamming, it took only a few steps after I left my small porch to be on that new woodland path. Probably something I shouldn’t have done without my side-kick spirit-guides, but it was still hours before lunch according to my stomach. There was time to investigate a mystery between now and then. Well, at least give it a look-over, anyway. I fingered the green-stone pendant around my neck. Any help I’d need to resolve what laid behind that path was just a thought away.
A handful of steps and I was committed, going in under the overhead branches of those massive oaks. The cabin soon lay well behind me, gone from any glance backward.
The path wound and twisted. But the soft, clipped grasses left my boots making no sound in the forest. There was a clearing ahead, as the scene lightened that direction. At last, I got to the edge of it and stopped. This was somehow too familiar.
The trees parted to a long distance, respectively parallel to it, like soldiers guarding the cleared edges of someone’s back yard. Into this space was a long, very long table. A solid English design, with upright dinner chairs themselves spaced evenly along both sides. On top of a seamless tablecloth of some off-white linen, dinnerware was present. The settings were mostly cups and saucers, with spoons for stirring. A tea party, or at least that seemed their original intent. For the cups were in disarray. All had been used. Crumbs and fragments of biscuits were scattered among the spots and stains of spilled tea.
As my eyes followed this disaster, they went down the length to my left, pulled by such a tragic and extended catastrophe. All while my ears picked up the quiet hum of an old English tune I couldn’t make out, interrupted by muttering between the verses and chorus. Down at that end, a light-haired girl seemed to be sitting, fidgeting with something. A quick glance showed no one else was present. She was muttering and humming to herself, it seemed.
My legs carried me forward, around the occasional pushed-back chair and occasional discarded cup or saucer underfoot. That pasture-trained gait of mine pulled me along with its long paces right to the head of that table where the young girl sat. And I stopped.
She seemed to be unaware of my presence. Her dress was a light blue, covered in a white apron, which itself was spotted with various small splashes of tea and occasional biscuit crumbs. Her hair itself was somewhere between a light brunette and blond, cascading down with rings of curls in an old style more common to antique photographs. A blue bow in her hair held it away from her face, and that ribbon itself was slightly askew. Her hands were twisting an over-sized pocket watch in them as she looked down at the table while she kept humming that tune and muttering.
I cleared my throat to get her attention. When this didn’t work, I spoke: “Hello.”
At this she looked up at me, with blue eyes as pale as her dress. Her look was now bright, the muttering and humming stopped. “Oh, Hello. Welcome to my party.”
She glanced down the long length of the table-top’s disarray and sighed. “Or, what’s left of it.”
I dropped into the nearest seat. “My name is John. And yours?”
“Alice.”
“Well, thank you for inviting me.”
She just shrugged. “I’m afraid we’re out of tea and biscuits. My guests didn’t leave much.”
“That’s OK,” I replied. “I think I’m here to ask you about your story - how you came to be here and all this happened.”
Her eyes were clear, looking deep into mine, and her hands put the large pocket watch away from her on the table. This, so she could fold those small hands into themselves in front of her. “Where should I start?”
I pulled out a notebook and pen from an inside pocket. “Anywhere you want.”
She gave a slight smile. “Well, it would do no good to start at its end - you can see that here. But that would be a boring story. Would you like the short version or the long epic?”
I shrugged. “Whichever you like - I can edit it later. Just tell me your details, what interested you about this happening.”
She smiled wider. “Oh, you’re a writer. Yelena told me to expect someone like you — if I would just wait.”
“What was she doing in your party?”
Alice frowned at this question, glanced down at the watch near her hands, and then up at me with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I’ll give you the short version. Yelena wanted to see all the men in my life. So she concocted this infamous setting most people know me for. So everyone who was supposed to be here could have their own seat.”
It hit me. “Wonderland - the tea party.”
Alice kept looking at that watch, while her hand went to its winding stem and nimbly clicked the watch cover open. A sigh left her mouth. “Well, she set this up. Everyone came and had a riotous time. At last, they left me here to wait. The end.”
I gave this a smile. “A nice story. Very short. What about Yelena and the men?”
Alice was looking at the face of the watch, while her own face went serious. “Oh, she wanted to see who I was going to have an affair with next.”
I just waited. For her to fill in her own prompt.
She started humming that tune again, then stopped and looked up at me once more. “Sorry. Mother says that’s not polite.”
I gave her an understanding look and nodded.
Alice continued. “It seems Yelena looked up all these stories people have written about me. All those pervs. They had me going around with that Mad Hatter, and the Knight, and doing all sorts of perverse things with all sorts of characters from the original stories.” A tear formed and threatened to drip down her cheek.
I made quiet notes. “You didn’t like how they wrote about you?”
“All lies. Even that original story. And after that very first story, my parents wouldn’t let me see that author any more.”
She looked at the pocket watch again and sighed. “Well, I suppose I have a little more time before I have to go. That’s what the White Rabbit said - about running out of time and being late. Of course his watch only tells the right time twice a day.”
I smiled at this dark humor.
Alice brightened. “But you’re not like other writers. So you won’t write me up as a good-girl-gone-bad?”
I shook my head no. “What I do is solve mysteries and help people move on.”
She gave a bright smile. “Oh - it’s like playing a game!”
“Yes, that’s one way to look at it.”
Alice gave a quiet laugh. “I like games. So, what’s my mystery, then?”
I raised an eyebrow, “Well, I guess it’s something to do with why you’ve shown up here.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Here? I’m almost always here - or through the other side of that looking glass...” She nodded behind her. I made out a large mirror above a fireplace mantel in the distance there.
Looking serious at her, I answered, “Well, I am usually in my writer’s cabin, but today, your trees arrived next to it and so I came over to solve its mystery. That led me here, talking to you.”
Alice gave another laugh of surprise. “Oh, how interesting! Does that happen often?”
I shrugged. “This was the first time a forest with a tea party sat down next to my cabin.”
She smiled and leaned toward me. “That does sound like a mystery.”
At that, her face became thoughtful and she moved back to her original space — to fold her hands on the table top there, looking down. “Well, thanks for coming. I don’t know if you could do anything about all of this.”
This time, her teardrop did make its way down.
I put my pad and pen away into my jacket pocket. “Look — Alice, I’m sorry to come late to your party. If you don’t want to be here, I don’t want to write a story you wouldn’t like to read. So I’ll just sit here and help you solve your mystery so you can move along.”
Alice continued glumly, “Well, I’m stuck here, no matter where this big table goes.”
“Stuck?”
One of her hands went to that big pocket watch and closed it’s cover.
She sighed. “Ever since the Internet came out, all these other authors put me either here or in that Looking-glass Room with the Red Queen and so on. All I wanted to do was to live like a normal girl and grow up to get married and have a normal life. But all these writers share what they wrote all over the place — and have stuck me here doing weird things instead.”
Her face wend dark at this.
I sat back, quiet for a short time. Then, quietly, “Well you know how to change this for yourself.”
“I do?” She looked at me, her face brightened slightly.
“Sure. Let them live their own lives and you live yours. What’s in their mind isn’t what you have to live out.”
She raised an eyebrow in question. “I just have to make up my own mind?”
I smiled. “Just that.”
Suddenly, a dark frown crossed her face. “But their stories keep being there, haunting me.”
I shrugged. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to tell you the secret.”
She leaned forward, expectant, while I paused for effect.
I leaned in, and spoke in a low voice, “You can forgive them, let them and their writings go, and they will leave you alone after that.”
She sat back up, a shocked look on her face. “It’s that simple?”
I nodded yes.
Alice gave a sudden melodious laugh.
At that, she picked up the large pocket watch, stood quickly, and threw it away, between and beyond the nearest trees. Like she played varsity softball.
She laughed even louder when she heard it land in the bushes there. Her eyes were twinkling now above her mischievous grin. “Well, John, this has been a particularly wonderful time. I’d shake your hand, but that’s not what young ladies do, especially when we’re not chaperoned.” So, she curtsied instead.
“Thank you so very much, John. I can just let them all ‘mind’ their own business now. All while I’ll ‘mind’ my own. I also now think Yelena can ‘mind’ her own as well.”
At that, I stood. And bowed in return. “It’s been a pleasure.”
I heard a quiet rattling to my right and behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the tea cups and saucers return to their proper places, as well as the chairs. I looked down the long table and saw that even the tea stains on the tablecloth had vanished. Everything was in order once more.
When I turned back to look at Alice, there now stood a 20-something mature young lady, her dress become a tight-fitting formal wedding gown, white with a narrow light blue sash just below her bust. Her blue hair ribbon now edged her veil, which covered her long hair cascading in spiral curls down her back. Alice’s mature beauty caught my breath. She now wore a serene presence.
Off to the side and behind her stood a young athletic-looking man in his own dark blue wedding suit, waiting at a respectful distance.
Alice glanced at his direction, with a wide and knowing smile. “Thank you once again, John. I owe you a lot. Of course, our real timelines may never cross, but we’ve had a nice visit here today, haven’t we?”
I nodded, suddenly at a loss for words, a lump in my throat and something moistening my eyes.
At that, her husband-to-be came to take her hand and kiss it gently — as she looked up into his eyes, every bit the glowing bride.
As they walked away, the couple with their woods and table and settings all faded into my memory.
I was now standing, once again, in the bright sunshine of my pasture. All was as usual, my writing cabin only a few paces away, with my laptop inside.
And I had a new story to write up. One that Alice would approve.
For more stories in the Ghost Hunters Series, visit my storefront, or almost any online book distributor.
PS. As a side present, I wrote about another party for Maryellen Brady 💗📚 and Bradley Ramsey with this theme:
Rushed this out. Stay tuned for minor polishing...