Ghosts Don't Blush

Thomas sat stiffly in the drawing room, teacup in hand, convinced this was all an elaborate staging.

Candlelight flickered too evenly, casting gentle shadows across Eleanor’s cheekbones as she poured his tea with graceful precision. The entire house, though aged and laced with dust in its corners, had an odd sense of readiness to it—like a stage set moments before the curtain rose.

“You’re very committed,” he said, eyeing the cup but not drinking. “Historical costume. The right atmosphere. Hidden lights in the candlesticks, I presume?”

“I see.” She stirred her own tea leisurely, her silver spoon barely making a sound. “So you think I’m… what? Part of the village’s entertainment committee?”

“I think someone wants to keep the ghost stories alive,” Thomas replied. “To keep people away, perhaps. Or to hide a sinister secret.”

Eleanor laughed—a low, rich sound, full of amusement. She leaned back against the couch, drawing one leg slowly over the other, and exposed her calves. “Pity. You came all this way in your fine cassock, and all you find is a woman with too much time on her hands and a kettle on the boil.”

He studied her then. Her skin was pale but not unhealthy. Her eyes were… strange. They caught the candlelight without quite reflecting it, like storm clouds heralding silver rain.

“You play the part well,” he admitted. “I’ll give you that.”

Eleanor smiled—an expression both pleased and wicked. “Then let me play it a little longer and raise the stakes. Tell me, Father, do you believe in sin?”

“I believe in many things. Just not fairy tales and baseless banter.”

Her smile deepened. “You’re determined not to believe I am a ghost, aren’t you?”

Her tone danced around him like smoke. She was enjoying herself, that much was clear. And why shouldn’t she? If she was hired to spook him, she was doing a marvelous job. A small, irritating part of him even admired her commitment.

“I know what I see,” he muttered, sipping the tea now, if only to anchor himself to something real.

Eleanor watched him over the rim of her cup. “Do you? Truly? Then tell me, Father—what do you see?”

He glanced around. “I see a clever young woman, a crumbling house kept standing by illusion and clever lighting, and a very patient prank.”

She laughed again, louder this time. Then, rising in one smooth motion, she drifted toward him slowly, not with menace, but with the perfectly executed elegance of a woman who had never rushed for anything—or anyone. Her delicate feet made no sound on the worn carpets.

The drawing room was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the longcase clock and the soft swirl of Eleanor’s gown as she crossed the floor. Thomas watched her with growing wariness—not because he feared danger, but because something in him, deep and unspoken, feared desire.

She stopped close—closer than polite, closer than appropriate. Her scent was that strange blend of roses and musk.

“May I ask something, Father?” she said softly.

He met her gaze and held it. “You may ask.”

“What do priests dream about?”

He blinked. “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern.”

“Oh, but it is. You see, I only have company when they sleep. Dreams are such… honest things.” Her voice softened, growing syrup-sweet. “Do you dream of heaven? Or do you dream of things you shouldn’t? Of forbidden pleasures?”

He tried to summon outrage, but only managed a grim tightness in his jaw. “You enjoy being provocative.”

“I enjoy being true,” she said with a smile. “It’s the living who lie. Especially to themselves. You’re far too handsome to waste yourself on disillusionment.”

He turned sharply to face her. “That’s enough!”

“Is it?” she asked, standing now directly in front of him, her voice velvet, her eyes fathomless. “Because I haven’t even started.”

He looked away. The air felt thick. Too warm. He wanted to take a step back, but since he was sitting in his chair he only could lean back so much.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said hoarsely, “or what you want. But if your game is to rattle me, you won’t succeed. I’ll stay the night.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, I do hope so.”

She moved closer, close enough to whisper. “Your faith is strong, I’m sure. But your flesh...” She reached up—not touching, never quite touching—and let her fingers hover near his cheek. “Your flesh is... curious.”

He caught her wrist, suddenly and firmly. “I am a man of God.”

“And I am dead,” she whispered, her voice a secret in his ear. “So tell me, Father—what are the rules for a pair like us?”

They stood like that for a moment. Her breath—if it was breath—ghosted against his skin. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Then she pulled gently from his grasp and turned away.

“I’ll prepare your room,” she said, her voice light again. “I do hope you sleep well tonight. The dreams in this house are quite... vivid.”

She walked through the archway into the hall, her silhouette melting into the twilight.

Thomas remained seated, breathing shallowly, his lips slightly parted, his heart pounding. “What is this I'm feeling?” he asked himself.

Certainly not fear.

Certainly not belief.

And God help him—not longing.