Tea With Eleanor

Father Thomas Duvall considered himself a serious man. Above all, he did not believe in ghosts.

He adjusted the collar of his black cassock and looked up at the high gables and tall, shuttered windows. It was the kind of mansion that stood at the end of long gravel driveways, surrounded by rustling trees and ivy-covered walls. Wyndgrace House, faded but proud, rose up in the twilight like the tombstone of someone who had never passed away.

It was the subject of chatter in the village pub and gossip behind closed curtains in the cottages. People spoke of lights flickering behind the windows, of distant music that seemed to play without a source, of soft, feminine laughter that floated across the unkempt lawn when no one was there. He couldn't let that go.

Bishop Caldwell had been **** to give him permission. The old clergyman didn't want any trouble in his diocese and relied on the assessment of Thomas' predecessor, who had dismissed the gossip as harmless. But Thomas was cut from a different cloth. He wanted to eradicate the cause of the irrational rumors once and for all.

“Only observation, Thomas; do not perform any rites,” the bishop had warned. ”You are not an exorcist.”

“With all due respect, Your Excellency,” Thomas had replied, ”I do not expect to discover a single ghost, let alone exorcize one. I cannot tolerate this kind of superstition in my parish. If I spend a night in the alleged haunted house unmolested and unharmed and preach about it, my flock will quickly find their way back to the rightful path.”

And now he stood here, on the creaking threshold of a house that was the subject of whispers and whose proximity the villagers fearfully avoided.

He knocked. Once. The sound echoed in empty halls. But no one answered.

He raised his hand again, but before he could knock on the weathered wood, the door swung open by itself. It didn't creak or squeak, as would have been typical in a classic ghost movie. It was a simple, silent movement, a wordless invitation.

Candleholders were mounted in the entrance hall, flickering to life and hesitantly illuminating the room. Despite the ensuing draft, they burned perfectly still.

A good priest would say a prayer. Cross himself. Reach for the consecrated cross hanging on a silver chain on his chest.

But Thomas was not a good priest. Not lately.

Instead, he stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of rose water and old polished wood.

The door closed quietly behind him. He didn't flinch.

“Hello, is anyone there?” he called, his voice echoing in the silence. His own footsteps seemed too loud on the marble floor as he walked forward.

He stopped in front of a mirror in the hall and looked at his reflection: he was thirty-five, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, and had dark eyes that hardly missed a thing. The sharp features of his face would have made him look stern if they hadn't been softened by fatigue and if his gaze hadn't betrayed a quiet humanity. He looked like the typical young priest—slender, serious, upright.

Paintings on the walls watched him—oil portraits of people who had probably never smiled in their lives. The chandelier above him sparkled in a soft amber light, casting small halos on the floor.

He stopped at the foot of the grand staircase.

A voice came from above. “You're late.” It sounded light. Playful. Unmistakably female.

Thomas looked up. “I... I didn't know I had an appointment.”

“Then why are you here?” The voice was closer now. He looked up.

She stood at the top of the stairs. A woman in a flowing gown, pale as moonlight, one hand trailing lightly on the banister. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. Her lips curved in a knowing smile.

He cleared his throat and straightened his collar again. “I’m Father Thomas Duvall, the local pastor,” he managed to say, his voice raspy.

She tilted her head. “Of course you are.”

“And you are…?”

“Eleanor.” Her smile widened.

She stopped just two steps above him, eyes meeting his.

He couldn’t decide if they were gray or silver or completely colorless.

“Welcome to Wyndgrace,” she said, voice a whisper that curled around his mind like mist. “It’s been so very dull without company. It would delight me greatly if you would join me in the drawing room, Father. I’ve prepared tea, just as I always do at this hour, though it’s been some time since I’ve had a guest who would actually drink it. Won’t you come sit with me? I promise the company will be… most engaging.”