\nFather had always told Uri that if he didn\u2019t get a good trade behind him, he would die alone in a pauper\u2019s 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nMorning 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nHis sister, Ana, noticed his excited stare. \u201cYou probably would have been allowed in there a long time ago if you weren\u2019t so messy.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m not messy,\u201d said Uri calmly, although his hands clenched the table so hard his knuckles turned white.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cFather let you look at his telescope once and I had to clean it up.\u201d Ana sighed for dramatic effect. \u201cIt took me hours.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI was five! I\u2019ve not had toffee since.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAna chuckled at her brother\u2019s discomfort, then placed a kind hand over his. \u201cIt\u2019s 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.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou think driving a smelly cart down country roads is more interesting than selling actual ghosts?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll see.\u201d Ana shrugged. Then she stood up, leaving half her breakfast, to grab her bag. \u201cI have to go to class.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri watched his sister\u2019s 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\u2019t without benefits. It meant Uri could steal the rest of her cup of tea before work. The food was still beyond his nervous belly.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd 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.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nUri had hoped for illumination. Instead, he flinched at the brightness of the lights.\n<\/p>\n
\nOnce 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nA magic that would soon be his.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere were no customers in the shop, just Uri\u2019s 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nFather\u2019s thin lips barely parted as he growled, \u201cWhat are you doing here, boy?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s my first day, Father,\u201d 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.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat came about quickly ,\u201d said Father. Eighteen years hadn\u2019t been quick for Uri, especially the years delivering milk, but at least Father accepted it was time. \u201cCan I see your hands?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri stifled a groan, but offered out a pair of hands red raw from repeated washing.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAcceptable, but you should cut your nails. We need to set a good impression.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes, Father.\u201d Uri nodded, despite having cut them this morning. \u201cI need to set a good impression to sell ghosts.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe do not sell ghosts,\u201d said Father, glowering darkly. \u201cWe are purveyors of the finest spirits to the distinguished and discerning customer. The only paranormal instigators in Northern England!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes, Father.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe 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,\u201d said Father. He peered at Uri and frowned. \u201cYou can see ghosts, can you not?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes, sir.\u201d Uri bowed his head. \u201cThere was a ghost teacher at Rev. Shackley\u2019s school I used to talk to at lunch. It made him happy. Although the other children thought I was just pretending.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHmm,\u201d said Father, stroking his chin. \u201cI will have to investigate that. We can always do with additional stock. Selection is good for business, as is diversity.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDo you struggle to find ghosts?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe find an adequate supply,\u201d said Father, slightly too quickly.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhy are there so few ghosts? Why aren\u2019t they everywhere?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nFather shrugged. \u201cNot everyone leaves a ghost behind. Some ghosts stay longer than others. That\u2019s 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.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nRemembered forever, Uri knew, as long as people paid an almost reasonable fee. \u201cHow do you find them?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGhosts 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.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLike the grave robbers?\u201d 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.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThose are ruffians and charlatans who steal from their betters for a living.\u201d Father\u2019s eyes flashed with anger before he took a deep breath. \u201cWe are preserving the noble heritage of our ghosts.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJust delinquents who are probably covered in tattoos,\u201d said Father with a sneer. In his ever loud opinion, just another kind of scar from needless violence. \u201cBut anyway, to business.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nFather 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nSome 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nEventually, 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.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri shuddered as he saw his father staring at him from inches away. \u201cYou see it, but can you hear it?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou must be quiet. They are not noisy by nature.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAt first, Uri didn\u2019t 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. \u201cI can\u2019t see. I can\u2019t hear. Where am I?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri 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.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019re handling it better than your sister. That is why we sent her to the academy.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri could only nod. Ana was the smart one, she\u2019d have understood the horror straight away and realised she wanted no part of it.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut you don\u2019t need to worry about any of that. Your first job is very important.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri puffed out his chest as best as he could given he could hide behind a stick with a toast rack attached partway up.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPolish the brass.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPolish the brass.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI thought I was here to sell\u2026 to purvey the finest spirits?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou 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.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes, Father.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\nAs Uri learned the true meaning of the phrase, \u2018If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,\u2019 a customer entered. Father sighed and put down his newspaper. He didn\u2019t rush, though. There was a lot to look at in the shop. Sometimes, he had told Uri, he even had to cough to attract the customer\u2019s attention. That being said, sometimes Uri had to cough to attract the attention of his reflection when he was shaving.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cGood morning, sir,\u201d said Father in his best Sunday voice, the clipped and polished tones so finished you could shave with them.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m Mr. Gellar,\u201d said an enormous man, pink and shiny-faced, with a few strands of hair teased across his head. Despite the opulence of the carriage outside the window, he stood in just sweat-stained shirtsleeves and braces, with a huge cigar dangling from his mouth.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow can we help you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe bought a house in the country. Rose gardens, coach house, you know the type.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nFather nodded as if that was where he spent most of his time, and not wearing a battered pair of slippers in the rooms upstairs while resisting lighting a fire until ice formed on the inside of the windows.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut it doesn\u2019t have a ghost.\u201d His cigar shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. \u201cI\u2019m not bothered, but the wife tells me it\u2019s the done thing.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri stared at his father, impressed with his reserve. Only if you knew to look for the wringing of the hands, the stiffness of the back and the tilt of the head would you realise just how apoplectic he truly was at customers he felt beneath him. \u201cYes. A high-quality house ghost can be what truly showcases a high-class home from a jumped-up pretender.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cApparently. Put your best ghost in a box and I\u2019ll be on my way.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri saw his father about to explode with rage, and stepped forward. He had read the flyers and the catalogue every day for years. \u201cWhat can we interest you in, sir? We have a wide array of ghosts, with a wide array of effects. This can range from but is not limited to, a lingering burning smell in rooms, unsettling wails, knocking objects over or even spectral sightings when one is alone. Which is a popular one to impress visiting houseguests.\u201d Uri smiled, and realised that a ghost with a burning smell would have competition with Mr. Gellar as he lit a new cigar off of the old one.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSightings sound good to me. What the hell is the point in having one of the buggers if you can\u2019t even see it?\u201d Mr. Gellar shrugged. The new cigar shifted in his mouth. \u201cHow much we talking?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWell, our entry-level ghosts can start at\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTwo hundred crowns,\u201d said Father, recovering enough to double his prices on the spot and stand on Uri\u2019s foot at the same time.\n<\/p>\n
\nMr. Gellar nodded. \u201cAnd the premium ones where you can see what you get?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI think we have the perfect ghost for your wife just down here. Four hundred crowns. She was a laboured artist, a misunderstood genius, who died trying to steal just a little more burnt umber for her masterpiece.\u201d Father walked the customer to the other side of the store and sent Uri a wink.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt stopped Uri dead. He hadn\u2019t been sure his father was capable of such an action. The fact his own Father was a walking, talking person who committed human actions was such a revelation that Uri had to sit down and watch his parent work.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe sat in a chair between the shelves, surrounded by dark light and the thoughts of ghosts. They didn\u2019t seem happy to have any living people close. It was mostly just the moans and aches of ghosts wanting to move, but finding themselves unable to.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter Father had arranged payment and finished his rambling post-sales pitch, Uri carefully nestled Mister Gellar\u2019s ghost within the velvet lining of a fine rosewood box and whispered to it that it was going to a nicer place. It would soon be free to haunt and stalk across the halls of a fine home, albeit one that if Uri\u2019s coughing was any judge, would be full of smoke without the need for spectral effects.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nAfter the customer left four hundred crowns lighter but one ghost heavier, Father came back across. \u201cGood work, boy. I wasn\u2019t sure about you coming into the business, especially with how your sister turned out, but you showed me right. And to think I thought you were just a simpering mother\u2019s boy. It\u2019ll take a lot of work, but I\u2019m sure you can be useful.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThank you, Father.\u201d Uri wasn\u2019t truly sure if he\u2019d been complimented or not, but he was aware it was the nicest thing his father had told him in some time. In fact, he hadn\u2019t talked to Uri until he was twelve, believing prep boys should be neither seen nor heard.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI just wish you had a better type of first customer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOnce we dealt with real class. But this, they tell me, is the modern day. Now it seems that, as soon as a man opens his second sandwich shop, he insists on calling himself a gentleman.\u201d Father sneered, as if just saying it made him feel unclean. \u201cButchers, bakers and candlestick makers. What a drop in standards.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it better that we have more people to sell ghosts to? And you did charge him double.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll understand when you\u2019re older, boy,\u201d said Father with a stern nod. \u201cThe type of customer we attract reflects on us and our reputation. Do you want to be associated with the lords and ladies of the chattering classes, or a greasy man elbow-deep in sausages?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri nodded. He hoped he would understand. Especially when the sausage man was able to pay a lot more money than the chatty lords. He had always presumed his father was a master salesman who didn\u2019t play games, but he was starting to question that. Alongside just how well he knew his own father.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut for now, he had a far more important question. \u201cWhat if ghosts don\u2019t want to go with them?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWho cares?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWell, I imagine the ghosts might?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMy boy,\u201d said Father, in the way that signalled the end of the conversation was nigh. \u201cWe are doing them a favour. They get remembered, the lords get a party piece, and we get a modest fee for arranging it all.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri looked to the shelves and shuddered. The idea of being trapped forever in the shop blind and unable to move for all eternity was monstrous. Being a party piece at some castle where the people didn\u2019t care about you didn\u2019t feel like much of an upgrade either.\n<\/p>\n
\nFather didn\u2019t see it that way, though. From his perspective, he was rescuing these ghosts from oblivion, fading away unremembered and unloved. Was that wrong?\n<\/p>\n
\nUri thought about it for a second. If what he saw was the result, then it was wrong. They weren\u2019t preserved, they were trapped like a bug in a jar. He couldn\u2019t think of a more depressing fate.\n<\/p>\n
\nIf he noticed any hesitation, Father didn\u2019t give any indication. \u201cBut you\u2019ve done well today. Tomorrow will be more impressive.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat do we do tomorrow?\u201d asked Uri. \u201cSell two ghosts?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cVery droll,\u201d said his father with a face like a bulldog licking urine off a nettle. \u201cNow there was a burial today, so that means we have a new guardian ghost to acquire.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cShould we not get them now?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo need. Today was productive and I now have some errands.\u201d Father patted the register, and Uri suddenly had a lot of questions about where that money ended up. It was a year\u2019s salary for a labourer, and yet Uri saw precious little riches around the house. While the shop was plush, the home upstairs had carpets and blankets so worn they could have been used as fishnets. \u201cAnd I have the lists. There are no scheduled burials tomorrow.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nBefore Uri could respond, Father took two pounds out of the register. \u201cEnjoy that as a bonus. Don\u2019t spend it all at once.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThank you,\u201d mouthed Uri. That was two weeks\u2019 wages for his friends who worked at the docks. But his father had already gone, to wherever it was he went. Uri just hoped his father wasn\u2019t taking the purse for a bout of horizontal refreshment on Threadneedle Lane.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut Uri knew where he needed to go, the graveyard. To free the ghost before Father trapped it forever.\n<\/p>\n
\nRight after dinner.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nMother was a good cook, although she tended towards what Father preferred. In her own time, or while he was away, she would prepare delicious, delicate things to be savoured. However, Father was a man who measured culinary achievement by the amount you got on your plate. It might not taste astonishing, but you went to bed full and that was what mattered.\n<\/p>\n
\nTonight\u2019s dinner was a stew to use up old leftovers. Somehow, there seemed to be more leftover meals than regular meals. There was mutton floating in Uri\u2019s giant bowl of stew, and he couldn\u2019t remember the last time he had seen mutton in an original meal.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri was given a second buttered roll of bread, a rare sign of favour. His mother added, \u201cA working man needs his strength.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter dinner, and Mother left to read a novel in the parlour, Ana looked at him. \u201cHow was it?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt was awful.\u201d Uri shivered. \u201cHe\u2019s trapped them for eternity. It can\u2019t be right. They don\u2019t want to be there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThey don\u2019t. They want to pass onto wherever ghosts go on the other side.\u201d Ana shrugged. \u201cI did tell you, little brother.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI hate you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t be silly, you love me.\u201d Ana tossed Uri\u2019s hair, the way she had done when they were little. \u201cYou can always come to university with me?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCould Father afford that?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOf course, he can. Do you know where all of his money goes?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nUri shook his head, Father had never been keen to answer questions on that. And suddenly Uri didn\u2019t want to ask anymore.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHe goes to the Yorkshire Club. A poncy gentleman\u2019s club where you pay a king\u2019s ransom to be allowed in. He thinks it\u2019ll help elevate his station.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIs it helping?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNothing has ever come out of it. He just loses money at cards and gets annoyed when they let rich merchants in. Says it shows the drop in standards.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIs that where he is now?\u201d asked Uri, his mind already heading back to the ghosts.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOf course. He\u2019ll be losing silly money on playing baccarat with people who don\u2019t care about his existence when he could be buying houses to rent out.\u201d Ana shook her head. \u201cFor what he\u2019s paid over the years he could own half the street.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHow interesting,\u201d said Uri, swallowing his feelings hard like he had a throat full of nettles. He had entered the day thinking his father was a genius, but he was just a man sycophantically chasing the tailcoats of bluebloods like a dog with a cart. Father kept the family in near squalor chasing his goal, something that sickened Uri so much he didn\u2019t want to talk to the man.\n<\/p>\n
\nSuddenly the idea of freeing the ghost before Father could capture it had more than just altruistic motivations for Uri. \u201cOn that note, I\u2019m going to bed. It\u2019s been a long day.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nShe gave Uri a look which said, \u2018I can read your mind, even the small print,\u2019 and then gazed around the room again. \u201cI know you, you love to try and fix problems. Don\u2019t you dare turn up at the club.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI promise I won\u2019t. I don\u2019t even know where it is.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOpposite Theatre Royal, but don\u2019t.\u201d Ana winked, then left.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri didn\u2019t rush. He didn\u2019t want to raise his mother\u2019s suspicion. Or, by proxy, his father\u2019s, who would certainly wonder tomorrow why he wouldn\u2019t find a ghost at the graveyard. Instead, he washed, read in his room and laid quietly until his mother went to bed. Then he snuck downstairs.\n<\/p>\n
\nOn the way out, Uri grabbed Father\u2019s seal for remit and a lantern. The lantern was to help him find a ghost, and the seal was in case anyone stopped him.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe wasn\u2019t convinced how much his father\u2019s papers would protect him, but he supposed a thin paper shield was better than no shield.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe left the fine candle-lit cobbles of Merchantgate for the badly paved area near the city walls and then finally headed to the slums outside of the walls where the roads weren\u2019t paved at all. Where little shacks hugged each other for support and made garden woodpiles look well assembled.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri pulled his coat to his chin, and kept going. Through the slums, onto the mud of the private road and onto the graveyard just outside of town.\n<\/p>\n
\nA neck-high metal fence surrounded the two acres of dimly lit graveyard. The fence was so encrusted with vines that it was almost completely green. A tall wrought-iron arch marked the entrance, guarded by a pair of stone lions which looked so depressed they must have been close to the grave themselves. They guarded a gate that was very much locked, no matter how much Uri rattled the handle.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe turned to see if any guards were keeping a lookout, but if they were then none were in sight. Although it probably wouldn\u2019t have stopped him if there were. In York, their job was to give up by the second corner, out of breath.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri used the vines to get over the fence and lit his lantern on the other side. It would be a long walk to the fresh graves, where he presumed the new ghost would reside. Although, it now occurred to him that he had no idea how to find it. He should have asked his father for more details while he had the chance. The best idea available was to walk around and hope.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe plots on either side of the path were marked by fading marble headstones or the rare mausoleum for the richer families. Everyone ended up forgotten in this graveyard eventually, Uri noted, but some were certainly doing it in style.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs Uri walked his head kept turning towards the thin shadows from the lantern in the corner of the yard and under the grave markers. They were simply shadows, haunted by nothing more than dust and spiders.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut Uri didn\u2019t like it. When he thought of ghosts, he thought of his father\u2019s shop. It seemed so much warmer and more welcoming than the dark. Ana\u2019s cartography studies were looking better by the second. He didn\u2019t think he would be going back to Father\u2019s Shop. He would free this poor ghost and then make a new path for himself.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs he got to the fresher graves, the first thing he noticed was a ghostly pang in his head, the feelings of fear, upset, and loathing hitting him with the subtlety of a gorilla with a brick.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe second thing he noticed was a small cart with a funeral parlour logo that had two people arguing next to it.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThis is stupid. We need to hit the mausoleums, that\u2019s where the good stuff is.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYeah, but rich people notice if their shit goes missing. Especially out of a big stuffy room where people are expected to visit.\u201d The larger of the two shifted. \u201cPeople in graves don\u2019t get visitors. You could take the damn body out of it if you wanted, and no-one would notice.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBecause there\u2019s nothing worth noticing in them. Who cares about some old baker\u2019s Sunday best shoes? Or a wedding ring with the gold content of seawater?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cEvening gentlemen,\u201d said Uri, much to his own surprise. Perhaps it was the pain of the fresh ghost he had come to free, perhaps it was the anger at Father, but something about the grave robbing put words in his mouth. \u201cHow are you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNone of your goddamned business,\u201d said the smaller of the two, jerking round and hoisting a shovel up.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCal, calm down,\u201d said the larger of the two, then he turned to Uri and flashed him a smile. \u201cNow I\u2019m sure our friend here in the graveyard at night also has his own business to mind that we would hate to question.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThere\u2019s a lot worse people with shovels than us,\u201d said Cal with a cackle. \u201cSo why don\u2019t you be on your way, and we\u2019ll be back to our job.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI have a writ that says I am allowed to be here,\u201d said Uri. Then, without thinking, he added, \u201cDo you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIf by writ you mean a large man with a shovel, then yes we do.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe larger man sighed, but he started circling round to Uri from the right, as the smaller man came straight towards him.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t loot graves like that.\u201d Uri flinched as he heard spectral screaming right next to his ear. The ghost was riddled with outrage and disgust. \u201cIt’s not kind. These people have passed on, and should be respected.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s nice.\u201d The large man looked to his friend and said, \u201cWe\u2019ll lock him in the mausoleum. Someone will find him in a day or two.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019ve seen your faces, I have seen your cart with the funeral parlour details and as I am here on work. My father is expecting me.\u201d Uri stood as tall as he could and did his best not to tremble. He almost succeeded. \u201cIn fact, he will be here to pick me up soon.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLook, kid.\u201d Cal closed the distance, causing Uri to back up to the open grave. \u201cYour father ain\u2019t coming here. Don\u2019t feed us that. You got two options. You can leave now and forget you ever saw anything. Or we can beat the living hells out of you, and then you can leave.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI can\u2019t leave,\u201d started Uri. \u201cI need\u2014”\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTwat.\u201d Cal punched Uri in the gut, hard enough to make him cry. The pain was immense, enough for Uri to stumble back, lose balance on the grave and hit his head awkwardly on the stone.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe next thing Uri knew was he was lying in dirt, looking up at walls of mud all around him. Just above the mud, were the two men. Uri tried to stand up and get out of the hole, but all that happened was he waved a hand weakly.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cShit the bed,\u201d said the big man. \u201cWhy the hell did you do that?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI was trying to scare the lad. I didn\u2019t want to hurt him.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPunching him is a funny way of showing that.\u201d The big man shook his head. \u201cLot of blood down there, let’s get him out.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDid you hit your head?\u201d asked Cal, waving his hands in front of his partner\u2019s face. \u201cHe already wanted to call the guards. What do you think he\u2019s going to do now? And he\u2019s seen our faces. Next time we go to The Old Star, he\u2019s going to clock us.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWell, he\u2019ll be going there now. But we can\u2019t just leave him?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWho said anything about leaving him,\u201d said Cal, hoisting a shovel into the air.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri tried to say something, anything to plead his case, but nothing came out. Just strange garbles, and the warmth of blood dripping from his head.\n<\/p>\n
\nDirt started to trickle in, a small flow at first, as if the pusher was unsure, and then shovelfuls followed.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCal, you can\u2019t do this.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019ll be easier this way,\u201d said Cal, another shovel of dirt punctuating his words.\n<\/p>\n
\nUri struggled, but it did nothing. More dirt came flying down. It hit his feet, his chest, and finally his face. He tried to hold his breath, but before long his lungs screamed for air and he had to open his mouth. Then he got a mouth of dirt, and neither breathing nor screaming were options available to him anymore.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe men were still talking, but their voices were too muffled through the soil to make out. There was another sound, like a drum being beaten, and Uri realised it was his own heart thumping in his ears.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe tried to breathe, but found nothing but soil. Then he stopped trying at all.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nUri awoke blind, unable to feel his hands or feet. It was just so cold, so very, very cold. The air around him was filled with sobbing, screaming, and the crying of strange people.\n<\/p>\n
\nFor a second, Uri joined them. And then he heard his father. \u201cAs you can see, your grace, the colours on this one have come out even finer than I could have imagined.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cVery good, very good. The Duchess will love this, it will complete the East Wing. Is there a story attached?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOf course. He was just a boy who followed his father to the graveyard, staying by him every night until grave robbers put an end to it.\u201d Father breathed out one of his fake sighs. \u201cVery sad. Very tragic.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPerfect. Have it sent across,\u201d said the Duke, then Uri heard footsteps.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cFather?\u201d asked Uri.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe footsteps stopped and a door shut, then Father said, in the most cheerful voice Uri had ever heard him use, \u201cDon\u2019t worry, my boy. You\u2019re going to a much better place. You\u2019ll love Castle Howard.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
Rick Danforth is an author from Yorkshire, England, where he works as a Systems Architect to fund his writing habit. <\/p>\n
His short fiction can be found in Hexagon, Translunar Traveller’s Lounge, and many other places. Two of his stories have been shortlisted for BSFA awards.<\/p>\n
He one day hopes to introduce himself as an author without feeling awkward about it. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Father had always told Uri that if he didn\u2019t get a good trade behind him, he would die alone in a pauper\u2019s 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 …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":108130,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20191],"tags":[20193],"class_list":["post-140861","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-55-spring-2025","tag-the-colored-lens-55-spring-2025","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140861","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/108130"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140861"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140861\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140862,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140861\/revisions\/140862"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140861"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140861"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140861"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}