Father had always told Uri that if he didn’t get a good trade behind him, he would die alone in a pauper’s grave. But today was his long-awaited chance to start the family trade and he could barely eat breakfast as his stomach twisted and turned in anticipation.
The door leading into the Ghost Merchant’s shop was on the other side of the dinted breakfast table. A door that Uri had not been allowed to access under threat of death, dishonour, and going to bed without supper.
Morning after morning for eighteen years he had sat at this table, in a room with little decoration aside from worn shop castoffs, and stared at the forbidden door. It was almost like his father had placed the door to taunt him.
His sister, Ana, noticed his excited stare. “You probably would have been allowed in there a long time ago if you weren’t so messy.”
“I’m not messy,” said Uri calmly, although his hands clenched the table so hard his knuckles turned white.
“Father let you look at his telescope once and I had to clean it up.” Ana sighed for dramatic effect. “It took me hours.”
“I was five! I’ve not had toffee since.”
Ana chuckled at her brother’s discomfort, then placed a kind hand over his. “It’s not as amazing as you dream of. Dimi down the road gets to drive a cart all over the country to deliver wine. That sounds far more interesting.”
“You think driving a smelly cart down country roads is more interesting than selling actual ghosts?”
“You’ll see.” Ana shrugged. Then she stood up, leaving half her breakfast, to grab her bag. “I have to go to class.”
Uri watched his sister’s exit and shook his head. Walking away from the only ghost merchant in York to go to some crumby university full of books felt like such a boring decision. But it wasn’t without benefits. It meant Uri could steal the rest of her cup of tea before work. The food was still beyond his nervous belly.
And as the clock chimed, Uri walked across to the door that had haunted his dreams since he could remember. He grasped the door handle and entered with a shiver.
Uri had hoped for illumination. Instead, he flinched at the brightness of the lights.
Once Uri stopped blinking, he saw luxurious red velvet carpets running from wall to wall between black walnut cabinets with dimly lit candles behind them and lush red silk to showcase the fine figurines of the ghosts. Beautiful swirling-coloured figurines wrought by magic his father guarded closely.
A magic that would soon be his.
There were no customers in the shop, just Uri’s father. He stood behind a green leather countertop with an expression that made it hard to know if he hated customers, or was annoyed at the lack of them. He had gaunt cheekbones with large hollow eye sockets that made him look one missed meal away from his stock.
Father’s thin lips barely parted as he growled, “What are you doing here, boy?”
“It’s my first day, Father,” said Uri, shuffling nervously under a chandelier dangled from the distant ceiling, festooned with candles. In the polished little mirrors around the room, they looked like the lights of a shoal of deep-sea fish.
“That came about quickly ,” said Father. Eighteen years hadn’t been quick for Uri, especially the years delivering milk, but at least Father accepted it was time. “Can I see your hands?”
Uri stifled a groan, but offered out a pair of hands red raw from repeated washing.
“Acceptable, but you should cut your nails. We need to set a good impression.”
“Yes, Father.” Uri nodded, despite having cut them this morning. “I need to set a good impression to sell ghosts.”
“We do not sell ghosts,” said Father, glowering darkly. “We are purveyors of the finest spirits to the distinguished and discerning customer. The only paranormal instigators in Northern England!”
“Yes, Father.”
“We have the finest stock and we will only sell to proper customers. As is our right as members of The Sorrowful Guild of Master Ghost Makers,” said Father. He peered at Uri and frowned. “You can see ghosts, can you not?”
“Yes, sir.” Uri bowed his head. “There was a ghost teacher at Rev. Shackley’s school I used to talk to at lunch. It made him happy. Although the other children thought I was just pretending.”
“Hmm,” said Father, stroking his chin. “I will have to investigate that. We can always do with additional stock. Selection is good for business, as is diversity.”
“Do you struggle to find ghosts?”
“We find an adequate supply,” said Father, slightly too quickly.
“Why are there so few ghosts? Why aren’t they everywhere?”
Father shrugged. “Not everyone leaves a ghost behind. Some ghosts stay longer than others. That’s why we do not see caveman ghosts running around. If they do not receive attention, they just slowly fade away. We ensure that ghosts are remembered forever.”
Remembered forever, Uri knew, as long as people paid an almost reasonable fee. “How do you find them?”
“Ghosts can be anywhere. But the best spot is currently the graveyard. The last person buried in a graveyard stays behind to keep watch over it. We take those cemetery guardian ghosts every time, so there is a steady supply.”
“Like the grave robbers?” asked Uri, his voice brimming with excitement about the men who were all over the papers with their exploits. Making off with jewels, running from the police.
“Those are ruffians and charlatans who steal from their betters for a living.” Father’s eyes flashed with anger before he took a deep breath. “We are preserving the noble heritage of our ghosts.”
“Yes.”
“Just delinquents who are probably covered in tattoos,” said Father with a sneer. In his ever loud opinion, just another kind of scar from needless violence. “But anyway, to business.”
Father walked to the shelves and Uri followed, gazing at the figurines resting upon them, their colours swirling in mesmerising patterns as they wrapped around the non-corporeal remains. They glowed a strange silvery-blue light, like reflections from liquid mirrors.
Some of the memories escaped as they walked by, forming brief pictures in front of Uri before the page turned, and then went flying and fading into the distant, dark corners of the room. There were snatches of sound, too, of laughter, tears, screams, and, for some reason, a brief burst of xylophone music that caused him to pause for a moment.
Eventually, Father stopped in front of a ghost and pointed. The little figure was a wash of orange blurs and green swirls. When Uri stared at it deeply, there was a vague outline of a man, lying down on the floor next to a chisel.
Uri shuddered as he saw his father staring at him from inches away. “You see it, but can you hear it?”
“No.”
“You must be quiet. They are not noisy by nature.”
At first, Uri didn’t hear anything. Then the dim sounds of someone talking in another room came through. He caught his breath, not daring to exhale, and then he heard it. A pitiful mewling like a wounded cat. “I can’t see. I can’t hear. Where am I?”
Uri was horrified, not that he could let it show. He was far from an expert on ghosts, but they had projected sheer, abject misery. The idea of being trapped forever in these little containers with nothing to look forward to sounded monstrous.
“You’re handling it better than your sister. That is why we sent her to the academy.”
Uri could only nod. Ana was the smart one, she’d have understood the horror straight away and realised she wanted no part of it.
“But you don’t need to worry about any of that. Your first job is very important.”
Uri puffed out his chest as best as he could given he could hide behind a stick with a toast rack attached partway up.
“Polish the brass.”
“What?”
“Polish the brass.”
“I thought I was here to sell… to purvey the finest spirits?”
“You are. And we cater for a high-class clientele who enjoy, amongst other things, highly cleansed surfaces. So you will polish the brass, wipe the counters, and await further instructions.”
“Yes, Father.”