I have successfully distracted Thesis Cat with a giant cardboard box. Time enough for a quick jot of words inspired by one of this week’s Odd Prompts spare challenges. Huzzah! Creative writing has such a different mental flavor.
This week’s prompt: “The ghost of the Savoy at Mussoorie haunts not for justice, but for…”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve never been to India before,” I said to the woman seated on the heavily embroidered chair in the Savoy’s lobby. “I don’t know if it’s the thing to do here. Tipping, I mean. Do you know?”
She looked up from her book, her eyes wide and surprised. She blinked before opening her mouth. I had the feeling she didn’t talk much, and her voice confirmed it, rusty with disuse.
“American, aren’t you?” She nodded her own confirmation at my outfit before I could reply. “One of your dollars should do it these days, I believe.”
Her voice was properly British, reminiscent of tea and crumpets. She was dressed in a rather old-fashioned getup, but the wide-brimmed hat was practical for the sun, and I’m sure the dress was cool in the heat. A proper lady, even sitting stiffly upright while reading. Straight out of the Empire, that one.
“Thanks,” I said, annoyed with myself for passing judgment when she’d been so helpful. “Listen, can I buy you a drink, maybe a scone, as a thank you? I’d have gone through hundreds, and been swarmed.”
The woman set down her book and reached back to smooth a curl, looking amused. “Thank you, but I must decline.”
“As you wish,” I said, surprised at the depth of hurt I felt at a stranger’s slight. My face must have shone it as I picked my bag up from the tile floor.
“I do apologize if I’ve offended you. It’s not what you think,” the woman said, standing and smoothing her long skirt. “I’m much past such mundane needs as the flesh requires.”
“Ah,” I mumbled, unsure what to say. “Um, that sounds nice.”
She walked with me as I headed toward the check in counter. I was starting to wonder if I’d made a mistake. India was known for spiritualism, sure, but this was a business trip.
“It’s been so long.”
Her voice improved with use, I noticed.
“No one’s noticed me in ever so long.”
I gave her a sideways glance, questioning. She smiled sadly, her face wan under her enormous straw hat.
“I only wanted to play the grand piano,” she said, and her voice was soft, grief-stricken.
“One last time, like my darling and I used to spend our evenings before he was taken from me. I shouldn’t have minded being murdered so much if I’d been able to play just one more time.”
She looked at me again, and this time I noticed the hollows in her cheeks, her sunken eyes, her skin that tightened and discolored before my gaze.
“I couldn’t find him without the music. It’s been so long. I can’t remember the song any longer.”
I stopped walking and stared at the woman turned wraith, her dress now faded and flimsy rags, her clenched hands skeletal.
She bared her teeth at me in what must have once been a smile, turned, and walked through the lobby’s grand piano.
