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This thing could use a cover. In the meantime have this.
“…divorce him, kill yourself and marry me.” “No.” “To which bit?” “Crikey, mate! That’s morbid even for you.” As Alison rattled her way down the line, Humphrey jokingly jibed up at the poet from held in his clammy hands. “Hush now, Humphrey. The fair Alison, she—” Halting in her footsteps, the alive woman chose to stand before the two spirits, eyes impossibly softening along with her rage. “Missed you,” Alison murmured. To both of their chagrin, Thomas’s gaze turned lovelorn as he puffed out his chest and practically tripped over his own feet and into the ‘swooning’ Alison’s arms. From held in his arms, Humphrey prepared himself for the inevitable fell swoop of the drop, oddly fearful that it wasn’t a long way down. His jaw would crush beneath him, back teeth grinding together hard enough to draw ‘blood’ but, that was alright. He’d felt worse. “…eyes so… nice…” “EUGH.” Not enthused, the alive woman jumped back, then singled her eyes on Humphrey instead of Thomas. From his hold in the poet’s bony hands, he swallowed thickly. “You,” Alison began harsher than intended, spooked eyes falling to her feet, “I didn’t ask: what d’you want?” The heat rushed to his cheeks and he chuckled nervously as all eight ghosts (with legs to do so), gathered all around him, staring hard back down at the severed head as they waited with bated breath for him to answer. If Humphrey could, he’d jokingly (or not so) swipe at the ‘sweat’ that was surely prickling at his forehead. He cleared his throat and hummed. “Ideally to have a body at the end of my neck,” Humphrey’s head jibed. “Buuuut that’s clearly wishful thinking. So, err, we’ll have to settle for another ‘hello’.” Alison blinked. Held out a hand. Stammered. Withdrew her hand. “Is this thing for real?” “Thing?!” Humphrey’s lips parted to protest, but he swallowed it down. “Actually, yeah. I’ve heard worse.”
“So, Ali,” The frazzled husband piped back up, wedging something small, flat and glowing in her freshly stitched back up face, “Psychotic break, yeah?” Her right eye twitched, as did her raised hand. Then, unsurprisingly, Alison snapped. “Come with me! All of you!” “Way to ruin it, Humphrey,” Thomas spat, dropping him. Somehow, the bastard’s drop was still graceful. The severed head landed heavily with a huff and rasped ‘Oi!’. As expected, his fellow ghosts didn’t bat him another look, instead choosing to carry on hurrying after Alison. Then, he groaned from his position of cheek smushed into the chalky gravel and turned away from them all, as not expected, the hastened footsteps halted. The soles of shoes squeaked as they turned on their heel. Footsteps grew closer and closer to him; his whole face creased and he forced his eyes shut, breathing quickly as he tried to suss out who was coming for him. He had never heard such footsteps, nor witnessed such dainty, feminine hands – with some rather fetching gold-foil type jewellery – come to wave before him and - Humphrey shrieked, cursing himself for such a feminine sound – those hands forced their way through him. Prodded. And again. “No, don’t!” And again. “Man not alive!” “I can’t… damnit.” She slumped. “I can’t help you, can I?” “Afraid not, no.” A slightly disoriented Tudor nobleman determined. “Was kind of you to try, though.” “Right!” Sucking in a breath, Alison promptly arose to standing and jabbed at another ghost, silently demanding they fetch the severed head. “Carry on.” Footsteps - certain of themselves strides, Humphrey deduced from his spot on the floor - sounded, growing closer by the second. A throat was cleared and knees did pop. Oh Jeez. The Tudor sighed, mentally preparing himself to be barrelled under the scratchy fabric clad, rigid free arm of The Captain. He inhaled a deep breath, knowing the elder man wasn’t one for neither the gentle cradle nor the soft, upstanding landing. “Hey!” His face was blinded by olive, brown, clinging medals and the like, “Don’t... ah, Captain! Watch the neck, mate, please!” Together of sorts, The Captain muttering away about ‘tanks this’ and ‘super weapons that’, the two spirits followed Alison in, and Humphrey silently welcomed her to their frightfully haunted home.
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As the outraged Fanny flounced away from the debauched builders, and the rather comical situation unfolding on their phones, calling tirelessly for Alison, Humphrey, for once with legs in some good working order, arose cautiously to standing and strut over to come face to face-ish with both the impish Julian and… The Captain? That didn’t seem right. On the one hand (he was really enjoying having), he was used to the cunning plans and plots of the MP, but the soldier? Humphrey paused, not quite buying into this strange disobedience. What’s Julian done to debauch him, then? “What are you blokes planning that’s got Fanny flapping like that?” He asked slyly, raising a brow and folding his arms. “Tha-that’s…” The Captain, as expected, appeared mildly put out, jerking and grasping his swagger stick. The ‘weapon’ now poking at Humphrey’s chest, he sputtered, “The-this operation does not concern civilians. I-it’s already in motion.” “You know I’m a Knight, right?” Startled, The Captain mumbled and shirked himself away: clearly, Humphrey had bested him. Bloody Git. Sending Julian a look he deemed ‘too unbothered to put up with this’, the smarmy MP smirked back in kind, raised his shoulders nonchalantly, and Humphrey rolled his sapphire eyes. Calling over his padded shoulder, “You won’t get away with it!” Humphrey was glaringly aware of The Captain’s lingering stare on his behind as he swaggered away. Carefully, of course, he knew his steps to be better executed than the other ghost’s crumbling builder plan.
***
“… Damn your eyes, Thorne!? Whatever were you thinking? You fell in love with me, like I’m in love with you. But dreaming’s all I do. If only—” “They come true?” “Gah!” Thomas startled, drawing a hand up to his bleeding wound on reflex. It took him a moment, then he was shaken again to witness the full bodied Tudor lounging in the corner of the darkened room, casually with one leg crossed over the other, candlelight flickering off his face, staring back at him strangely. “Humphrey! You frightened me.” Thomas raised his voice, adopting a more enraged, dramatic tone, “Curses, now my verse has escaped me!” “Nothing new going on then, I see.” Thomas sputtered, “Damn you, Sir Humphrey.” “I aim to please,” Humphrey beamed in mockery. “The song, ‘I Should Be So Lucky’, innit? Funny little ditty, that one. Think I heard it on the radio earlier.” Stroking his beard in idle thought, the nobleman continued in the hopes to fill the strangely poetic silence, “Oddly enough, in my head, it’s ‘I should be so lucky with limbs’ ‘cos, well, mate, you get the picture.” Sighing heftily, Humphrey gestured down at himself, “Oh and, the ‘we walk together hand in hand’ bit… bit discriminating, actually. Tom? Thomas? Where did..?” At some point, the pacing poet had strut straight out of the neighbouring wall. At being left alone, the Tudor spat, “Charming!” Sending a glimpse back the way Thomas had come, Humphrey noted that corridor lead to Alison’s room. Oh, God. For the sake of his sanity, the tiring Tudor didn’t bother putting two and two together.
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“Moonah Stona! Moonah Stona! Imma off myself again’a! Crikey, every blooming time!” Running right out of the wreck of a dinner party eclipsed by, well, the eclipse - Alison?! - Humphrey momentarily startled upon the realisation. He no longer was alone, and abandoned upon a bookshelf in the library. He now was just abandoned upon a bookshelf in the library. How things change, eh? The last he checked - well, sensed - all of the ghosts had gathered for the ritual, and the downstairs lot were downstairs, so… Why was Alison here? Why did she seem enraged? Why, most importantly, did she look like that? Who the Hell dressed her? Is this what passes for ‘posh’ these days?! Blimey, am I out of touch! “Oh, hello, Alison.” The Tudor began calmly, “What’re you..? Is that? What is that?” “A way to shut them all up!” She spat, rummaging through this top drawer. “Huh,” The severed head’s brows shot up, and he would have nodded along if he could. “I meant the outfit.” Her hands abruptly stopped, half buried in God knows what. “Oh.” “It’s a nice enough colour on you, sure but… erm, don’t you think it’s… a-bit much?” “I-I… they, the Beg Chet— we…” She harrumphed. “Probably, yeah.” Humphrey’s lips tugged upwards into a half-smile. “You know you, err, you don’t have to try so hard to—” “Be an arse-kisser, got it.” Shaking her head, she continued pawing about the tat in the drawer… then held an object aloft, quietly asking herself, “Will this work?” Chuckling to himself, Humphrey determined, “Yep, that’ll do it!” Alison paused, then whirled about on her heel. Gesturing to the compact disc in hand, she eyed the Tudor in bewilderment, and momentarily her words were rendered useless. “How did..?” “You’d be surprised at what being stuck on Heather’s dusty desk for twenty years does to a man. Counting paper clips only gets you so far.” Quick to dismiss his comment, Alison blinked. “…Yep, alright.” Without another word, only a weird swish of her funny material burgundy gown, Alison hurried out of the library. Two, perhaps three seconds passed. Then, to the Tudor’s surprise, she returned with both a confused and disappointed look. “Wait. Have you been in here the whole time?” Humphrey clicked his tongue. “Beats bein’ in there doing that ritual for the… thirteen hundredth-something time.” “Yeah, OK. Bye…” Alison whipped back around on her funny-looking heel, teetering unsteadily out of the library.
“It’s all the colours at once!”
“But what does it do?”
“… a compact disc.”
When several astonished voices flooded their way down to him, Humphrey, snickering to his bodiless self, rolled his eyes and fondly declared: “Idiots.”
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“Thank God.” An overly relieved severed head piped up from his perch, nose deep in Charles I’s life story. “Guys, I’ve read this page at least fifty six times over its makin’ me head spin! What’s happening, anyways? I can hear voi—” “Not now, Humphrey. Alison has opened the border and this is our only defence. A-a blockade, if you will.” The Captain informed. “She wha..? None of that adds up, mate.” “We have to hide so that we are the only men around here to get a glimpse of Fanny.” “Yeah,” A mildly repulsed Humphrey sniggered, “That’ll be the day.” “I-I will not be resulted to being… paraded, showboated about in my own home—” “Oh God…” It’s mine too, you know! I’m all for it, I think. Would be nice to get some attention round here, actually. Never mind a little extra cash; there’s far too many suspicious holes… He snapped his lips shut. Fanny’s lips were still flapping. “— fleeced by Alison for that… that riff-raff! For a measly profit! Eugh, the impudence!” “Steady Fanny, steady the buffs! There they are!” Soldiering on, a still ranting Edwardian with her skirt hoiked up and head bowed, stormed by the severed head glaring them down. “Oh, don’t just— take me with— Ohh.” Humphrey called, “You wankers!” As soon as he had entered the room, The Captain phased in through one wall and right out the opposite one, leaving the Tudor glaring at the same empty space. “I don’t know what’s worse: The lot who can’t see me or the lot that can.” With a tut and roll of his crystal eyes, the severed head spat, as if on cue, several irritatingly alive people barrelled their way in. They had strange lights on them, and took to poking and prodding everywhere. Cowering behind his open book (the beheading was written on the next page, surely!) Humphrey braced himself for the inevitable walk through— “Oi!” Humphrey’s head cried. “You git, I were readin’ that! You could at least turn the page!… I meant, one page not twenty-one! Bloody Hell!” —Instead, one of the Living bastards had stumbled backwards into the book stand sending it, and the Tudor, tumbling to the floor. Moments later, a mildly disorderly Humphrey rolled and came face to face with… some bloke’s rather fine-ass trainers. “Ooh!” Humphrey’s head perked up from his new spot, “Haven’t seen those colours before. And, ‘Ah-dee-dasz?’ Huh, that’d better not be French.”
***
Before he could register it, he was tucked under the blubbering Mary’s arm, also seemingly trying to escape the intruders to their forever home. Before he could resister it, he was deposited someplace and Mary, in a puff of smoke, left him be. “Visitors?” “Oh no, not ‘gain’s!” Within seconds of shuffling away through the wall, one voice – female, surely – came barrelling down the corridor, followed swiftly by hurried footsteps. Humphrey harrumphed, not recognising such a sound. Scribbling of lead on paper came too, and he furrowed his brows deeper in thought. “Ooh, visitors!” “… Ghosts, Dani. The frequency…” Grossly neglected and perched weirdly on his skewed neck by the Jacobean maid meant that, in the sudden movement, the Tudor lay ignorant to the contraptions buzzing and bleeping all around him, trying to record… well, him. Him, in order to prove his kind’s existence, that is. “Sounds fancy. Must look fancy too, if only I could… c’mon mate, a tad more to the left…” The severed head struggled, eyes straying in that direction. A large, imposing woman hunched over, shooting out an arm and almost hurtling straight through his neck wound. “Woah! Watch it! Some of us are sensitive to fingers up our necks!” “… Ghosts, Dani,” She repeated, more for the sake of hearing her own voice, Humphrey deemed with a groan. “We should find… ah, here, see? The energy levels have spiked.” “Does that mean I’m famous? Ooh, snazzy!” Dani, not that he could really see her, took to scribbling away behind her presumed mentor. “Now would be the perfect time for a ‘disembodied voice’ joke, heh.” Chuckling to himself, the Tudor declared. “Dani you, err, never mind laugh, can you even speak?!” “…are spirits all around us.” “Fancy that,” Humphrey snickered, “Being famous is like being included!” “Some may even be in this room. The dial, here, Dani, says that—” “Yep, got it.” An eager Humphrey answered. “I’m right where you want me! Ask away!” “…the levels are spiking.” The Ghost hunter presented her findings with a vague swoop of her arm. “There’s clearly energy here, that’s exactly what I wanted to see.” With a grin, “I aim to please, unlike the rest of—” “Spirits! Knock once if you can hear us, twice to converse!” With bated breath, eyes darting all around, the Ghost hunter asked. Humphrey’s face fell. “Well, suppose bein’ famous ain’t all that.” Nothing. Both women sighed. “Knocking’s not gonna fly, mate. How’s about I, err, cough? Yell?” “…disappointing to see.” “Or rather, not see!” He laughed. “Annoying, ain’t it?” “Perhaps we should try the next room. We’ll check the frequency later.” Before she could comprehend what had been asked of her, Dani hurried after her mentor, scribbling away. “Guess it’s fun pissing people off by simply existing.” Rolling his eyes, Humphrey then declared in a raised voice with a snarky tone, “That ‘Ghostbusting’ crew did it better!” “Did what better?” Came from the doorframe, and Humphrey perked up. “Oh, Thomas look! Rad piece’a kit, all this!” Humphrey’s lips parted to respond, yet already Pat and Thomas were ignoring him, the former enthralled with the technology all around him, the latter’s confusion sweeping his face. Already the younger spirit was jockeying with trying to have his Northern twang heard. With a sigh, the severed head grumbled, “Was fun while it lasted.”
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“You’re a spineless, little traitor, Patrick!” “Oi! Cap, don’t be a twat.” Humphrey shot back. “Pat, don’t take it from him, you can do better.” Meeting the scoutmaster’s flaming eyes, he prayed. Just this one time. This one time… “Oh, NAFF OFF YOU WAZZOCK!” “Yes!” Alison shrieked. The crowd erupted. “Get it, mate!” Amazed, Thomas sent Humphrey a look. Both men were grinning from ear to ear. In a perfect world, the Tudor would swagger there to cut some (highly likely questionable) shapes on that dance floor, and enjoy the freedoms of being a whole, in-tacked man with the AUX. Alas, his wayward body had taken off and left him in pieces again. However Humphrey, from his perch atop the piano, with a face full of a blitzed Alison and a wickedly abused Dante, really did have the best seat in the house. He also had had, at one point or another, an eyeful of a delightfully, skin tight, leather-clad behind or two— “Need borrow this.” “This? Excuse me, I’ll have you—” —Had he any notes, or indeed existed in a time that used pound notes, he most certainly would have thrown a couple Tash’s way in appreciation. Julian was right: The woman could move. “Oh? Wait, who— HEY, WHAT, WOAH, WHO IS— whee! - WHERE ARE— oh, hey, how’s it going, Robin? It’s been a while, Mary.” Greeting them jovially, his tone switched to a playful irritation. “Couldn’t you have waited a moment longer? I wanted to watch Alison, Kitty and Tash with— Oh God, have they spilt wine on him?” “Who?” Robin grunted. “Tash. Lovely name, that.” Humphrey motioned with his eyes. “Alison’s friend. Obi’s other half, I believe.” Robin supplied, “That dog.” “Not Dante! The actual living woman she’s with!” Had he had limbs, Humphrey’s head would now be in his hands. “You know Alison has a life outside of us here, right?”
“Hows doth he knows?” Ignoring him completely, in a treble voice, Mary queried Robin instead. The caveman shrugged and grunted, nonplussed. “Err,” Humphrey blinked, “I-I’m the head of the household. Comes with the territory, you see.” Confused, Robin and Mary shared a look. “Doesn’t matter,” Humphrey conceded with a sigh. Peasants and their unrefined sense of humour!
Now held in the paws of his eldest friend, he breathed in and out heavily in the hopes to somewhat keep the caveman’s distinct scent from knocking him out, and together the three spirits headed outside. Momentarily the Tudor nobleman wondered if they had found the rest of him but, knowing better about wishful thinking, he therefore bit back his hopeful thought of a best-case scenario. Instead, he came face to well, chest, with Mike and Obi. “Oh, hello, Michael. Isn’t the party meant to be in there?” Wondering why he held a boot in his hand, Humphrey let it slide with a fond rolling of his eyes. Kids these days, huh?! “Party no inside. Party out here!” “Alrighty, if you say so, mate!” Gazing up at Robin from held in his clutches, Humphrey replied. “Why’d you both need me, anyways?” Something dark crept over the caveman’s face then, and simply, to Humphrey’s chagrin, gazed heavily upwards in the direction of the roof. Mary followed a beat behind, almost looking guilty. There he saw it: so many beautiful shoes. “…Oh, no.” The realisation slowly hit him, “You’ve got to be joking!” In truth, the Tudor had always had a real fear of heights, having been plagued by it enough sat on the roof in life to escape the horrors that being down on the ground bought; never mind when he would be flung aimlessly, for sport, for something to do, about the grounds in death. Even so, Humphrey’s head sucked in a sharp breath, knowing that he was the closest thing they had to a ball, and besides, he wanted to feel useful. Feel included. Casting a fleeting glance to Michael managing to land another boot upon the roof, Humphrey sighed. It was a party, after all. Mistakes were to be made; the Tudor was supposed to regret his actions. From the few bashes he had hosted in his day and the Higham’s many soirées (both making this little piss-up look like child’s play) he absolutely knew that to be the case. With so many more nights to go on (un)living, he may as well make the most of this one. “Ready?” Robin asked, breaking his silent contemplation. Changing his tune, not wanting to upset or displease the spirits, Humphrey put on the bravest of faces as the caveman hoiked him up, swinging him gently by the bouncy hair. “I-I was born ready.” With so little time to breathe, he then was being whirled, his whole life turned upside down – “Whee!” again and again and— soaring a million miles an hour for those few, blissful seconds, the wind really getting up and under him, hurtling Humphrey— “Mother fu—!” He crashed nose first into a pipe. That crushing of his nose and grating of his back teeth together rather hurt, actually. He came tumbling back to the ground. Robin was awaiting him, eager for another turn. From the sanctuary that was the blooming ground, Mary added, “Is stupid game anyways.” “Maybe if you aimed a little more to the left?” The Tudor supplied, “Left a bit, eh?” Nodding over and over, Robin agreed, putting his whole dead heart and soul into it, lining Humphrey up for the next throw. This time, surely… They missed again. That defeat struck Humphrey, and he willed himself – momentarily forgetting that he had next to no power, here — to make this work for Robin and Mary’s sakes. Even so, it went without saying, the severed head hadn’t felt this alive in centuries, even if being used as a bloody ball was the only way to make it happen; he was determined to enjoy it, enjoy the caveman’s attention and hands all over him, while it lasted. Which, surely, wouldn’t be lo— “Oof! Yes! Well done!” Now what? Uh oh. “Bollocks. I-I didn’t think this through…”
***
“Whatever you’re thinking mate, don’t. Don’t do it.” Overly cautious, and clearly hungover, Michael shuffled about the roof, peering over with fear. He screamed, and it was breathless. Humphrey, from his place besides the alive man’s feet, could barely hear him. “Long way down… you know that.”
***
Footsteps came. Heavyset, hunched over. Kicking up the gravel. He would know those plods anywhere. “… Robin? Robin!” Humphrey yelled, knowing he couldn’t be seen from the ground. “Oh, thank God! If the ghigeon takes a dusty crap on me one more time, I swear to—” From the ground, the caveman snarked, “Some say that lucky.” “Oh, sure.” Humphrey rolled his eyes. He didn’t feel particularly lucky at this particular moment in time. Or ever. “Can you please come get me down?!” “Heheh, no.” A long winded laugh sounded. Even from this distance, he could still hear the cheek in the other man’s gravely tone.
Bastard.
Footsteps receded. Lighthearted, mocking. Kicking up the gravel. He would know that cheek anywhere. “Charming!”
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“Blue jeans, and a green jumper.” “Like Alison?” Fanny queried, suspicious. “Oh gosh,” Kitty cried, “Yes!” “And now… Humphrey!” Patrick declared jovially, pointing to the severed head and making his presence known. “Good to have you here, mate.” “Oh? Err, me? Can’t… Captain have a go?” “This.” The man in question deemed, earning him a sea of sighs. “Back to you, Humph!” The scoutmaster cried. “What’d you wear today if yer could?” “Oh! Erm, I-I…I, ah, err…” Blast. Humphrey’s heart sank. Wherever it may be in that moment, that is. “…Terribly sorry. It’s rather hard when you have no body to dress.” Wincing at his own terrible pun, Humphrey added, “Literally!” “You what?” Lips parting, the Tudor didn’t manage to get a word in edgeways when Julian arose to take over, smarmy and dismissive per the norm. “Pffft, can’t be that hard! I bet I could do it. Very much on board.” “Not having a body includes not having your penis, Julian.” “Innuendo!” Fanny flapped. At the Tudor’s clipped words, the MP blinked, falling back to seated. “Very much not on board.” “Thought as much,” Humphrey sighed, “Bloody git.” “Still though.” Somewhat begging to get the topic back on track, Pat continued. “There must be something that’s crossed yer mind in the last few centuries, Humph, yeah?” “I-I… don’t think denim on denim would be my thing. Nor are seashells.” The severed head thought hard, not wanting to blank and disappoint again when he couldn’t answer. Though, it wasn’t like any of his fellow ghosts opted to help him out. That didn’t surprise him, to be fair. The silence grew long, and the Tudor awaited his turn to be passed over. Oddly enough, it was Alison who had the suggestions; he hadn’t thought she would be paying attention to their silly little game. Besides, she had enough outfits at her disposal already! “How’s about a more modern take of what you— uh, your body is wearing? You know, something a little less… grand?” Perking up, Alison turned to them all, “Like… a-a velvet suit? Lots of men wear those now! Here, Humphrey, I’ll show you!” With a quick tinker on ‘the computer that folds’, the alive woman arose to standing and headed to where Humphrey’s head lay on the low coffee table. She placed the device down before him, and the ghosts gathered. “This one, here. It’s very dapper!” Alison pointed. Pointing to a maroon tinted, velvet two piece, paired with a satin undershirt that was buttoned low, a big grin crossed her face. Alison idly talked him through what he was seeing, even linking the look to that ‘James Bond’ fellow on the television, awaiting to provoke a reaction from Humphrey’s head. The model’s chest peaked through, and instantly the Tudor saw what had drawn Alison to this outfit: the golden chain glistening against the pasty skin. The combination of crimson and bling was the nobleman all over, really, equipped with that effortless swagger, poise and prestige wearing his regalia required. Never mind all the years of lessons on etiquette (from everything like how to stand, posing with swords and the like to how and when to blow your nose – i.e, don’t. Ever.) and pulling such a look (along with his silken stockings) off! Still smiling, Alison added, “I think you can pull it off, you’ve got it in you.” “Ooh!” The severed head cheered. “A very snazzy ensemble, that. Maybe with… err, dad’s old rings.” His eye-line faltered when he mumbled, “Always wished I died wearing one or two of those, actually. Rubies were always my favourite.” Julian’s lips parted and finger arose to comment however Robin, his right hand man, nudged at him to keep quiet. “Hey!” Michael strut in holding a variety of tiny items Humphrey couldn’t see. Had he his body, he likely still wouldn’t see – being the last to notice, be informed and the like. Whilst stealing back his wife’s attention, the ghostly group instead gathered around Michael’s outstretched hand. His salvation, Robin, opted to pick him up and bring him in with the others. “How he thought he’d get to keep his cock and balls is beyond me.” Now in the caveman’s hands, the Tudor murmured. “Works.” He sneered. “You is head. He is dick. So together, you dickhea—” “Robin! We’ve been through this!” From the other end of the room, Michael jerked at her sudden outburst, Alison scolded. “Eh, is true.” Squaring off against Alison, the caveman enforced and Humphrey’s bottom lip cocked up. The two men laughed to themselves… and then came the musket ball. That blasted musket ball.
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You’d have to fall out of a window, bang your head…
“…what’s in it?”
Interesting how you’re gonna dig yourself out of this one, mate.
“Berries… and stuff.”
And onions, egg shells, various cursed spices I’ve never even heard of…
“Can I have some?” Oh, good God. Alison, you do not want that. You can already see us! “No… ‘cos it’s…” Several loud gulps. Some choking. A burp. “All gone.” “Way to neck it down, Mike.” “Oi! Poor choice of words, there!” With a soft laugh to himself, knowing that he had startled Alison, Humphrey strained to roll his eyes to find her behind him to little avail. “If I could throw up I would have, Alison. Long ago, as a matter of fact. Be thankful he downed it all in a crappy bid to see us.” The chatty severed head filled her in, a fond smile in his voice. Noting his wife’s strange silence, the other alive body in the room sighed longingly, placed something down atop the wooden table with a dull thud, and then - if the tell tale sound of furry fabric brushing said so - likely crossed his arms in a silent bid for attention. Michael relented. “There’s one in here isn’t there. Damnit.” “Yeah,” Humphrey confessed. “Swallowed that godforsaken concoction for nothing, I’m afraid.” A swoosh sounded – he decided she was pocketing her phone, still with no word from Lucy. Then Alison replied breezily, “Humphrey, he’s on the table, yeah.” “Hello… Sir…” “Hi! I’d shake your hand if I could, mate.” The Tudor beamed. “He can’t see you, Mike. On the table, he, he’s facing the other way.” When she strutted on by, Humphrey came face to — well, hip with Alison, and smiled crookedly back at her. “Afternoon.” She nodded to him. “They must have left him here this morning,” Alison figured with a sigh. “Oh,” Michael cleared his throat, suppressing another onion-infused burp, “That’s not very nice.” “See!” Chuckling from the table, “Somebody here knows what it’s like to be left behind!” “Why don’t you call one of them to— Ali? Ali, what is—?” “Alison?” Humphrey posed as the alive woman tore herself from his line of sight. “Oh no, Ali. That ideas-y look. Uh…” Michael, addressing the back of his head, stammered. “Humphrey, Sir, you see when she looks like that — yeah, that’ll be the death of us both! Wait.” “Too late for that, Michael.” Next, various clanks and clashes could be heard all about the kitchen, equip with one muffled swear from her, and another “What’re you..? Actually no, I don’t wanna know,” from her clearly skeptical husband. “I’m glad I can’t see ‘em.” “Come on, you can’t give up that easy!” Humphrey encouraged him nonetheless. Moments later, Alison returned holding a large, rounded silver tray. Oh, OK. Probably left over from an event – Humphrey deemed raising his brow. Suppose I can get on board, literally, with this. “Are you sure?” The Tudor nobleman queried her. “That’s fine silver, that.” Momentarily put out, the alive woman didn’t disguise that look well. “What? Yes, of course I’m sure, Humphrey. Now, can you, uh, you know.” Holding out the platter, the severed head followed her flickering eyes from him to what she held, smiling sadly. Likely again wishing she could help, or wondering if this next tumble would really take it’s toll on the Tudor – admittedly, both of which may have been wishful thinking of his part. “Very well.” Humphrey inhaled a deep breath, and embraced his second wind. With a sudden surge of energy, the severed head hurtled himself - Whee! - off the table and - somewhat - into Alison’s arms - if Thomas could see me now! - thankfully not over calculating and rolling straight off to come crashing to the floor. Otherwise then, they’d both be in a right pickle. The crash, then clang, ricocheted about the kitchen. Still lolling about dizzily side to side, Humphrey wished he hadn’t caught Michael’s stunned eyes, blinking on what, to him, lay an empty space cradled in his wife’s arms. Alison, on the other (non existent) hand, her whole face had lit up, and perhaps she was stunned to even be holding him, never mind that Humphrey hurtling himself off the kitchen table had worked. Now, being incredibly careful, she cautiously bought him up higher, almost eye-to- bleary, red eye with the long deceased Tudor nobleman.
“Never thought I’d see severed head on the menu,” Alison muttered, readjusting her grip on the platter, knocking him off balance somewhat in the process. Humphrey blinked, unsure whether to be offended or disappointed at himself for not coming up with such a gag. “W-well, err, depends. What’s for dessert?” Despite herself, Alison chuckled. “Sorry, sorry, Humphrey.” She faltered, bringing him up to meet her apologetic eyes. “Now’s not the time.” Both bidding farewell to Michael, Alison, slowly but surely, began her venture out of the kitchen, eyes glued to Humphrey’s own the whole time. From this rather… intimate angle gazing back up at her, the Tudor debated whether to just screw his eyes shut or come clean; he didn’t have the energy left within him to roll himself the other way— “That’s a lovely shirt, Alison. What, err, you know, what of it I can see from down here.” Some rather other nice… don’t. Just don’t. Her eyes fluttered downwards, and a faint flush crept across her pasty cheeks in the realisation. Clearing his throat, Humphrey continued before the had the chance to speak, “Very… me, actually. Yes. Or the missus. She would’ve liked that. The fabric, I mean, not the colour.” Think she hated red to spite me, actually.
Alison paused, eyeing him with concern. “I-I didn’t know you had a wife.” “You never asked.” No one does. “It’s better this way, don’t trouble yourself.” With a rueful smile; he deemed that look to be guilt settling on her face. —And besides, he would very likely topple right off the engraved edge and come cheek-to-floor faster than she could say ‘thair-arh-pee’. “I’m sorry. What was that, Alison?” “Hmm? Oh! Kitty, she… we… I’m trying to get her talking about going to this ball with her sister.” Humphrey’s face hardened. Alison sighed, “Oh, no. Not you as well. You know these days, we think it’s good to talk about—” “No, no! It’s not… well, maybe it’s a bit Kitty, but. Blast.” Inhaling a deep breath, he forced his eyes away and stared hard at the silver surrounding him, momentarily cursing that all he could see was his own discomfort and disappointment reflecting back up at him. “My, err, other half wouldn’t happen to be there with you all, is it? He? Me?” And Fanny…? Halting at the door to the red room, she gave him a strange look. “Yes, why? Don’t you want to be reunited with your—” “Actually no, I’m good.” In spite of the shaky voice and darting eyes, Humphrey tried to both ration and suppress his guilt. Alison had gone above and beyond to get him here, and now he was swerving his way around the issue at hand: having hands, amongst other things, thinking for themselves… God, he felt like such a coward. “You can leave me… o-on the tray’s fine, over there.” Apologetically, the Tudor insisted. Eyeing him with concern, she asked, “Are you sure? I mean; your body— Humphrey, it’s right through—” “Yeah, don’t worry about it. You get back to ‘em all, therapist.” Holding him high, their eyes met as if to wordlessly say:
I’ll talk to you later.
No, no. Alison, you really don’t have—
No, Humphrey, I want to. So I will. He felt the reluctance in her heavy steps, along with the slight shake of her hands vibrating through the tray as she settled him down with unease. “I’ll see you tonight for ‘Wizard of Oz’!” Humphrey yelled at her back as Alison slipped back into the main room. Then, face and voice falling, “Hopefully… maybe… probably not, no.”
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“I’m back! No thanks to you lot!” Swaggering into the kitchen – with his blessed long, stocking-clad legs to do so, Humphrey commanded. Using grand gestures and the swooping of his arm, “I’d’a been out there for days if the Countess hadn’t found me!” Several eyebrows raised and lips parted. Humphrey ignored them all, glittering eyes falling to the caveman. “Robin, Mary, she and the guys from the other side say hi.” The caveman’s face broke into a shy smile, and Mary followed suit with a curt nod. “Oh and, Mads wishes to see you Tuesday, mate.” “Tuesday,” Robin noted. Kitty looked about ready to ask – she wouldn’t remember them from when she was alive – Humphrey continued jovially. “What’s goin’ on here, then?” “Ah, err, family dinner, Humphrey,” The Captain stammered. “Family, huh?” He silently totted up the servings and extra chairs, then rolled his eyes. “Budge up!” He ignored the slightly perturbed look of the Ghosts on his side, hopping carefully over them and tacking himself on at the end of the line. The table had been set, each upstairs Ghost was present and poised over it. Stomachs were rumbling and mouths were watering, and Michael had something stewing away in a large orange pot. “Head of the table, ain’t ya?” A joyful Patrick, holding what he presumed to be a so-called ‘pint’, commented. Then, his crystalline gaze flickered to that of Alison who, Humphrey noted, was grinning back at him, something glinting in her bright, lovely eyes. Thank you, Alison mouthed about the scammer, then raised her wine glass to toast the nobleman from afar.
Smiling back, Humphrey posed, “What’s everyone ‘eating’, then?” “Yes, and berries. Yes, and cream.” Miming, the caveman repeated with a broad grin. “Well,” Humphrey cocked a brow, “Beats ‘bum and chips’ I suppose, mate!” “And you, Humph?” Patrick asked from opposite, motioning to — well, the shared serving, there obviously hadn’t been one bowl and plate in place for Humphrey. The Tudor pointedly ignored this, knowing better than to let that drag him down now. “Err, let’s have a think.” He taunted, twirling his tweaked moustache idly. “What’s good, what’s good..?” “What did posh Tudors eat?” Attention fully on him, Alison interjected. “Boar, innit. And, you know why?” Mike, halting mid pour over his wife’s bowl, exclaimed, “‘Cos vegetables are for peasants!” Both Alison and Humphrey sent him a look, startled, Alison almost falling off her chair, both choosing to not question where that remark came from. “He’s right, you know.” The Tudor stated. “Meat, meat and more meat. Whatever could be, erm, caught… shot.” Humphrey cleared his throat at Thomases laughable startle and offence. “Oh, and fish! Lots of fish straight from the lake. Certain religious days required it and all that.” “Pheasant!” Robin stated randomly. “That, yes.” Humphrey’s cocky smile faltered some, “Was the missus’ favourite. Can’t think why I was never too keen…” “Swan!” “Theys bes bedevilled!” The Jacobean yelped, sending the table into soft laughter. “When Henry was around, I’ll tell you!” “Desert?” Thomas asked Humphrey with a grand wave of his bony hand. Humphrey grinned, still salivating on the thought of ‘anything goes pie’. “Sugar, fruit, sugary fruit… a bunch of new spicy stuff bought over from Europe and the America’s. Sculptures of boats and horses and, oh! Don’t forget your cutlery. Granted, we didn’t have forks back then.” “You ate your cutlery?!” Astonished, gaze shooting to the very metal and very inedible spoon half pressed to her thin lips, Alison cried. “Mmm, spoon.” A salivating Neanderthal agreed, pointing at poor Michael’s confusion. “He what his what?!” “You didn’t have forks?!” “He didn’t have what?!” “Forking brilliant, they are, I’d say!” The Tudor chuckled, then winked Alison’s way. “You name it, I ate it.” “Good Lord.” The Captain murmured. “Except hedgehog, wouldn’t touch the stuff dead or alive.” “A-ah, err, yes, I suppose one might…” Catching himself when Humphrey eyed him playfully, The Captain flushed slightly, and cleared his throat poorly. Evidently, the soldier was still perturbed to find the Tudor as a full-bodied man, able to lean into his side and breathe on him as he so pleased. “What might, ahem, Humphrey, what hard, wet meat tickles your throat’s fancy this fine evening?” “Whilst I got it! Personal question much, huh, Cap?!” He smirked and swallowed back down his obscene joke. The Captain wouldn’t be able to withstand it, anyways. “As I, err, I didn’t get much of this in my thirties and beyond, still convinced those damn villagers – sorry, Mary – are the reason the lake was always out, fish sounds brill. Or boar… hog… no, fish. It’s been yonks!” “Fry it,” Robin countered with Patrick nodding vivaciously in agreement. “Alright,” Humphrey conceded with a laugh. “Fried fish, a side of peacock, potatoes and a sugar sculpture will do me just fine. All washed down with some mead.” Then, he clicked his tongue, gaze straying back to his eldest friend at the other end of the table, “I still haven’t forgiven myself for all that wine, post mortem.” When the caveman barked out a cheeky laugh, and Humphrey waggled his brows at Robin, clearly going back to his early dying days, none of the other spirits in the room thought it wise to question him. They proceeded down the line as Alison and Mike tucked in. Holding their glasses of wine, beer, strawberry milkshake, mead, stale rain water, an absurd sounding ‘coc-soc’ creation and the like, Humphrey smiled fondly back at his frightfully messed up, yet perfect little family. The manor house had never been so full of life, laughter and chatter in his day, and he had always hated the uneasy silence. Therefore, the Tudor wouldn’t dare change a thing.
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Stomping footsteps and the door flying open were enough to rattle him out of his daze. Oh no. She’s lost her head. Heh, join the club. From his idle resting spot upon the ironing board, Humphrey sent two panicked eyes to the bed as Alison stormed in and collapsed face first atop it. In her hurry, he could’ve sworn she had been red in the face as if from shouting. Or crying. Or both. Smacking a hand atop the bedsheets saw the raging Alison flip herself over and come to stare aimlessly at the ceiling in a huff. He was right; her eyes were glassy, and cheeks flushed with tears. As always, the Tudor knew where he wasn’t wanted, though in this case, he didn’t want to be there. That’s not to say he had the choice to quietly excuse himself if he could. Alison didn’t need to face his face: not here; not now. Momentarily he was torn. Alison was angrily muttering away, swiping roughly at her eyes, in a clear distress that Humphrey – if by some miracle he happened to have them – wished he couldn’t put his finger on. Blast. Then, with a sigh of defeat, the severed head made his presence known. Surprised, cursing herself for not doing her ‘ghost watch’, Alison jerked to seated and staggered, hunting Humphrey’s disembodied voice down. “Whoops! Err, sorry!” When they locked eyes, Humphrey admitted with unease, “Just call and get one of them to remove me and I’ll get outta your hair—” His voice cracked. “Stay.” She was, quite literally, on the edge of her seat, arms and legs folded, staring blankly at him. “Please, stay.” He noticed instantly that her bottom lip was trembling, and new tears threatened to spill. Even so, the Tudor battled on through the guilt, and again requested that Alison call for another ghost. Humphrey had been trying to all day; no wonder he hadn’t been heard. “…was quite the tellin’ off. You sure you’re all gonna be alright? I mean, yeah, OK, I can’t see them but even I could see that—” An unsuspecting, alive husband followed in moments later, and Alison sighed. “Well, the jig is up.” Humphrey exclaimed more so he could understand it himself. Michael stopped, waving a hand before her face, and still she didn’t move. He attempted to follow his wife’s glazed eyes, landing on the ironing board, and coming up empty, of course. “Ali? Are you..?” “It’s Humphrey, he’s… he’s keeping me company.” With a vague wave of her arm, Alison gestured loosely to the empty space. “Oh? Oh… Alright, Sir?” He faltered, whispering rather loudly to his wife, “Do we call him, ‘Sir’?” “Nice to feel like one of the group. Just ‘Humphrey’, if you please!” The severed head replied truthfully, sad eyes bouncing in their sockets to the dazed Alison. “Terribly sorry, I’ll leave you both alo—” “No.” Voice misty, and more muffled into her snot-coated sleeve than to her husband’s face, Alison then translated: “Just ‘Humphrey’. Mike, will you give us a minute?” Gaze worriedly straying to where he guessed the severed head lay; uneasy, it took him a moment to grant his wife’s request. “N-no, it’s OK,” Alison told him, “He’s the one ghost with a head on their shoulders.” “Well…” “Figuratively speaking,” Alison answered the Tudor’s quip with a wry smile. Humphrey watched as Michael closed the door, momentarily forgetting the Tudor couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. He remained quiet a moment, the air thick and heavy between the two. Clearly, the gears in her mind were turning faster than what Alison could handle. With the clearing to what little remained of his throat, Humphrey tread carefully. Metaphorically speaking, that is. “Let me guess. They’re driving you up the bloody wall and haven’t realised it?” Alison frowned. “They’ll be sendin’… I wanna say… Kitty? Kitty in with an apology?” “Probably,” She muttered. “And no one will think to ask why you’re so upset?” “Nope!” Alison spat. “Ah, got it.” Sucking in a breath, “I’m sorry, Alison. On behalf of us all, I hope you know I really mean it.” “But you don’t know what… actually, err…” Blinking back at him, she nodded slowly, Alison put her foot in it. “Oh, what did he— it; for God’s— me, the rest of me, do wrong this time? Can I help, you know, tame the bugger at all?” Then, to his surprise, she leapt up to standing and paraded over to him. Offering Humphrey a weak, apologetic smile, Alison leant in and whispered sharply. “Holy… awfully sorry you had to witness such behaviour.” The severed head blanked. “I’ll have, err, a-a stern talkin’ to him when, you know, somebody comes to fetch me and… erm, if he had ears…” Despite it all, the black cloud eclipsing her, at that remark Alison found it within herself to smile. “And, you know, this part of me? Alison, what have I—” “You, well, this part of you, Humphrey, I’d say has done nothing wrong.” She responded honestly, “Really, I-I meant what I said. You’re, uh, the only ghost around here I can handle. Which is weird because, well, you’re…” “Disembodied. Virtually disabled. Can’t move for the life of me or do jack for myself…” He rationed when sucking in a breath, “It’s OK, you can say it, mate.” “Invisible.” Mildly put out, Alison countered stonily. “And still, Humphrey, you need the least looking after.” He met her small, tight lipped smile with a lop-sided, sad one of his own. “Well, Alison, guess I know what it’s like to feel taken for granted in your own home…” Without really having meant to kill the mood further, Humphrey revealed, meeting her sorrowful eyes. “Damnit. I-I’m sorry.” “I know,” Alison breathed, visibly relaxing and managing a small smile, “Humphrey, thank you.” “You’re most welcome,” Humphrey beamed. Then, his face fell. “I’ll, err, still have to join in the group’s apologies for the sake of this, won’t I?” “Afraid so.” “Eh,” Humphrey debated with himself. “The one time it’s not nice to be included. Can’t have ‘em all, I suppose!” She chuckled softly at that. Without another word, Alison then slugged her way back to the bed and rolled atop it, kicking off her shoes in the process. Next, she swore under her breath, another ghost had swooped in and back out all within a single breath. “Apologies.” “Not accepted.” “Understood.” “Captain, Captain! Take me wi—” Humphrey cried after the military man, marching his way through, “Oh, you wanker!” “See, Humphrey? You have to stay.” Before and to his right, a half knocked-out Alison did snicker.
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“See you Tuesday.” “Tuesday,” Robin replied with a half-hearted grunt. “Oh an’,” The groundskeeper piped up, stopping the caveman in his tracks, “Bring Humphrey if you can, ‘s been a while, be nice to catch up.” Nodding, a bright smile cracked its way across Robin’s sun-beaten face. After all that Maddocks had been through with his fellow dead idiots, the least he could do was grant him this one wish.***Tuesday rolled around quicker than expected, especially since the caveman had come barging in, had yoinked the severed head from underneath the sofa, and began the trek about Button House in search of the rest of him. Ooh! This is nice, Humphrey deemed. The change of scene and the use of multiple limbs, a somewhat freedom of movement and control that the others took so for granted, was most welcome on days such as this. Strutting his stuff out and round the back, deeming the weeds to be in need of a good trim, silently joking that he knew the man perfect for the job… the Tudor had to be very careful now. Halting in his stride, Humphrey approached slowly at first, with that same truthful grin stitched to his lips. As always, with that momentary spark behind his light eyes, his face brightened, and that alone was enough to melt Humphrey’s heart. Maddocks whipped off his flat cap and took to a deep bow before the nobleman. And, as always, he ignored Humphrey’s cheerful laughter when rebutting him of such a formality. They were long-term friends, after all. “Word on the floor is, mate, you finally met ‘em all.” Mid bow, Maddocks’ brows furrowed. Slowly, the groundskeeper eyed the Tudor then cleared his throat. “Don’t’cha mean: street?” “I meant what I said.” The Tudor sent him a dubious look, then one down at his somewhat in-tacked self, electing a small laugh from Maddocks. Humphrey continued, “Surprised you lasted this long unfound, actually. Dare I ask, how’d that meet-and-greet go?” The groundskeeper’s face crumpled, and his eye-line fell. “Bloody unbearable, the lot of ‘em,” He eventually managed, and the Tudor had to hold back his snicker. “Story of my afterlife!” “Dunno which were worse, Humph,” Maddocks’ continued quietly, gaze creeping upwards to land on Humphrey’s sympathetic blues, “The badgers or them lot’s badgerin’.” “Them.” The Tudor nobleman agreed backed by a short bark of hearty laughter. “Terribly sorry you had to deal with that, I know it’s not easy.” Something akin to understanding - or, rather, wishing he didn’t understand - crossed the other spirit’s face. It went without saying that Maddocks had been more than a little overwhelmed at all these newfound, sudden cries for attention. “All them voices, yeah, and never getting a ruddy word in…” “That lot make my head spin at the best’a times, and I don’t need much help, there!” The Tudor plastered a grin to his face, though his crystal eyes didn’t sparkle anymore. “Anyways, sod ‘em. I’m here, now, should you wanna chat?” He awaited the other man’s stiff nod, and the faintest of joys flickered across Maddocks’ light eyes. Then, coming to a careful halt, an even more careful crouch, Humphrey came to seated, crossing his legs, arms shooting to hold his head in place just in case. Again, this provoked a small, chuffed chuckle from the other, shyer man who, much like him, much preferred this. This one on one; chatter with a bloke who cared for what had to be said, who took well to mindless gossip and could really hold juicy conversation. Humphrey knew what it was like to be him. “So,” Humphrey posed with a soft smile, “Tell me, mate, where’d we get to? A, err, ‘totally bladdered’ George – as you youngsters put it - had put the moves on Lord whatshisname and he threatened to…?” “Gave us a raise to keep me mouth shut.” Impossibly, Maddocks grinned broadly, “Easiest shilling I ever made.” Now that’s more like it. Meeting his chuckle with one of his own, his laughter being rather infectious, the Tudor quite literally lost his head a mere three seconds later.
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“He no like. He may laugh, but he no like.” “What’re you saying, Robin?” “Fun Film but Film was life.” “What the Devil do you—?” “Mate, it’s OK. You don’t have to—” “No, no.” The caveman crossed his arms and eyed him. “You sad. Film of life make you sad. Should say what you feel.” Humphrey sighed heartily from his spot. Now surrounded by Robin, The Captain, Thomas and Pat, he cowered back slightly under the caveman’s knowing eyes. “It’s an awfully funny film. It just… hit close to home, you know?” The Captain gestured to Robin with his swagger stick, silently demanding he explain; Humphrey’s eyes straying upwards to follow the man’s staccato movements. “Film has Queen. Film make fun of cause. Film follow man who took his life.” Robotically, the caveman determined. His face contorted, trying to sound out the strange name, “Wahl-see— Wah-al-see-in—” “Walsingham.” Humphrey determined, then let slip a bitter laugh. “They utterly nailed the bastard, must admit.” “And ‘Liz-ee-bet.” Robin choked out. “Not Liz he like remember.” Humphrey’s lips parted, but he crucially couldn’t find the right words. “Should we tell Alison you didn’t enjoy your gift, Humph? It’s best to be honest.” “No! No,” The severed head replied in a shaky voice, eying Patrick sincerely, “Maybe not this time, mate. She wanted this to be the best Christmas for us all… let’s keep it that way.” Patrick raised an arm as if to rebuff, this Christmas had been about he and his family tapes after all, then swallowed down his words. “This,” Humphrey continued, cheek-smushed into the seat, “Being all together — well…” “Steady Humphrey, steady!” “You lot being all together!” That earned him a small chorus of laughter. “And watching something based on my time with me… that inclusion’s far more important.” The Tudor smiled warmly up at them all; a fondness twinkling in his crystal clear eyes. “Thought counts,” Robin managed with a grin. “Yeah, that.” The Tudor conceded with a tight lipped smile. “To her credit, she chose rather well… apart from the, err, killing the Queen parts. Nailed it in terms of the comedy, though. The pie-stall scene had me in stitches! Gah, if only…” That joy seemed to appease the four other men. Following The Captain’s rigid whirl of his heel, muttering about this endless game of ‘Risk’, Thomas and Patrick headed out of the library. Robin motioned to step back. He stopped, turning fully back to face Humphrey, eyeing him intently. Picking him up with an oddly gentle grab, “You sure be OK?” Smiling warmly back at the caveman from held aloft in his furry arms, “Course I am. Hell, you know I’ve seen and done worse!” Gaze bouncing down to his abruptly ending neck, Humphrey lightheartedly confessed. “Pain in neck… and bum!” Robin chortled. “Thank you, though.” The severed head grinned from ear to ear. “Merry Christmas, mate.” “Happy Holiday… mate.”
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“…there’s only one of them. They don’t even have a severed head!” “…is no hesitation. We walk together hand in hand.” Humphrey stopped, looking down at himself with a snigger, waggling his fingers, “I must say, it’s much more pleasant this way. Damn song.” He tutted to himself, almost certain he had heard… Thomas squealing from behind piano of all people— actually no, that made perfect sense to the nobleman. “Don’t question it, you’ll regret it.” With a shrug, Humphrey dismissed his likely senseless thoughts. Rounding the side to his forever home, heading towards the front entrance, the Tudor halted at the sight of a new car, his handsome face creasing as he witnessed his fellow spectres’ unnaturally lively reflections in the black-tinted windows. The other Ghosts were waving – is he… no way, Julian’s blowing kisses?! Hide your daughters! That’s gross! – as they retreated back into the house muttering amongst themselves. Alison was clearly stunned; strangely, both she and Michael weren’t quite able to leave their spot. Not even with what he perceived to be a highly jealous of her attention Kitty nattering away in her ear… oh, scratch that, a still beaming Alison reluctantly did budge. Then he realised why. Two women were staggering away from the foyer. She had just had visitors. Good for her, Humphrey decided, then his face fell. Undoubtedly, the rest of his undead family must have ruined it for Alison: Maybe she’s miffed rather than gobsmacked… yeah, sounds more like it. Anyways, one pint-sized blonde was dressed in an alarmingly leopard print coat and this caught the Tudor’s wandering eye. That’s… oddly snazzy. Perhaps a little much for my tastes, but— More confused than before, Humphrey cocked his head, then let it go with another shrug. (He was thoroughly enjoying having the shoulders to do so, therefore he may as well milk it.) “Where were we? Ah, right.” The Tudor thought aloud. He continued to hum the lively ditty as he passed the two Livings, being kind enough to bat them an eye and smile, “—there is no hesi—Good afternoon Ladies!— we walk together—” “God,” Another voice groaned – one that sounded odd, like, not from around here odd. “They’re all at it. Get me out of here!” “Oh, so soon?” Humphrey offered with the folding of his arms, muttering loudly to himself, “They never stay long with that lot about, can’t say I blame you, mate. Wait.” Both Humphrey and the Living woman stopped. Gaped, stunned. Mind blanking, the Tudor inched his face around with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. His head rocked dangerously forwards atop his neck stump. He was instantly met by an equally out of her wits woman; spinning around, the blonde’s light eyes bulged in her head and her jaw hung open. Shes’s frightfully small… “Wow.” Humphrey gasped. “It’s like they don’t know any of your other songs… Do I know any of your other songs? Apart from that one, of course.” Whipping his way to face her full, the gobsmacked Tudor’s head rolled a little too far forwards, dislocating itself and tumbling to the floor faster than he could say: I just can’t get you out of my— “You’re kidding. They ha—” He sighed, “Oh, come off it!” “They have a severed head?!” “Ooh, I’m famous!” Humphrey joked from his precarious position at her feet. “Pleasure to meet—” From above him, the pint-sized, odd-sounding woman shrieked nasally, the tell tell scream of the gravel under her boots telling him that she had hooked her arm under that of the other woman and taken off. That was fast. “Yeah, err, I’d opt for the castle, too, if I were you.” A not deterred Humphrey sucked in a breath then yelled, “Also, you might wanna avoid the Tower of Lo— Alright, yeah, you got that! Come back soon!” Within moments, the car roared to life and the tires screeched, quick to take off and leave Button House behind. “‘Eh,” The severed head began, “Least she didn’t call me a ‘thing’, or ‘it’. God I hate ‘it’… Ah well, I should be so lucky with a face full of gravel, it is,” Humphrey harrumphed, then quickly settled back to his faint humming of the late 80s, cheesy bop. It took Kitty, bless her heart, prattling endlessly on about “reason number twenty-six” or something along those lines, three full days to traipse outside in the pouring rain, keenly following a mildly disgruntled Alison— “You know, when I said I’d be gettin’ my nose back to the grindstone for this new season,” Humphrey murmured snippily, still practically kissing the ground, “This is not what I meant. Should’ve known better, actually.” “You what?” “Nothing!” He replied to Alison as he was hoisted upwards. —to look outside the bloody window and insist that the Georgian pick Humphrey up and bring his head back inside. At least Kitty, now drivelling on about “reason number thirty-one”, had gentle hands. Plus another two weeks for either Ghost to bother finding the rest of him, but who’s counting? He knew by now to not, should he still wish to smile.
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“Did we get him!?” The severed head cried for the infinite time, knowing this time that with the hurried footsteps approaching he may actually be heard. “Alison, is that you? I said, did we—?” Humphrey’s face fell, those footfalls sounded awfully familiar… Oh, no. Moments later, he caught sight of those ever familiar colourful trainers, and trained his eyes up to meet Alison’s own. She was smiling back at him and, Humphrey could have sworn, her eyes still sparkled. Perhaps with all their prank-tastic pranks, she had gotten Pat to break. Their tenacity had paid off. “Hi, Humphrey! Kitty’s here and I have a little surprise for you,” Alison beamed. In followed Kitty, lugging his counterpart (as heard) in by the hand. Humphrey hummed to himself, then muttered a little ‘Whee!’ as the Georgian lifted him up with an airy giggle. She was quick about righting him, giggling some more, curtsying to him, and scurrying out of the room. Clearly, Kitty was up to something. Or, more to the point, she knew something. Something of great importance. Ah well, a fully whole Humphrey sighed to himself. She was their low-hanging fruit; it wouldn’t take much for the young woman to spill. “So, did we get him?” He asked for the infinite plus one time, eyeing the spritely Alison devilishly. “I’m sorry, Humphrey, no…” “Nothing to fret about. There’s always next year.” She paused at the table, gesturing forwards. “Will you sit with me?” “O-kay.” He stretched out the syllable in skepticism, then stretched out his neck. Alison winced at the loud, booming crack. “Is this still a revenge mission? Did you rat me out to the others?!” “Oh, no, I think you misunderstood—” Alison’s teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she focused her eyes on his. “I got him. At least, Pat thought I got him.” “Oh, amazing!” The Tudor cried. “And what foul, wicked little trick did you pull on our most idiotic of idiots, huh? If it wasn’t Scotch eggs, it must’ve been… did you switch to Twinings? If so, he’d be so mad! The gullible knave—” “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but, you see, I—” Alison interrupted, stumbling over her words. “Humphrey, I— we—” Her shaky hands bought something up into the light; Humphrey stared at some stick-shape thing on the table. The Tudor blinked, then gaped back at the Living woman incredulously. Only now did it strike him that she had kept her hands below the tiny round table this entire time, as if she was clutching to something. Something secretive. Now, studying Alison closer, tête-à-tête, Humphrey noticed that her face was breaking, it gleamed, and, he squinted, she had the faintest of happy tear tracks staining her powdered cheeks. “I had to go out and buy— I had to know,” Alison finished, again wiping at her face. His heart was in his throat - now that he had his blessed, slit throat, that is. “I… don’t know what that means.” She followed his confused eyes downwards, smiling softly to herself. “It means: I’m pregnant.” Humphrey’s words died on his tongue. The Tudor stared hard at the stick, at the test, he presumed, at the line that crossed it. Well, beats a ‘piss prophet’, I suppose. “But, but it— it’s not—” Humphrey began, stammering, “If I’m not mistaken, twelve PM’s long gone, right?! I thought you weren’t… I thought I wasn’t a target, Mrs Nice Alison?!” “Relax, Humphrey, relax! You’re not— you’re not a target, no!” She laughed. “I think, you suffer enough.” “So.” He leant forward, placing his hand down close to hers, resting close to the test that had changed her fate. “Alison, does this mean, you really are … with child? Err, pregnant? Otherwise, that’d be a bloody sick prank, mate.” “Humphrey, Humphrey, listen to me. It’s way past twelve.” Alison nodded with glee, showing him her watch. Reading the time, his face broke out into a soft, contented smile from ear to ear. His sapphires locking onto the sparkle of Alison’s hazels, they were promptly clouded by his own slightly watering eyes. He coughed promptly, removing his hand from beside the Living woman’s on the table. “What is it? Have I said something wrong?” “Hmm? Oh, no, nothing, it’s just…” The nobleman trailed off, carefully shaking his head. “It’s nothing, really.” By the look on her face, Alison wasn’t buying it. “Are you not, uh, happy for me and Mike?” “What? No, I’m over the moon for you two, honest,” Humphrey insisted. “This is incredible.” He cursed under his breath. That had sounded a little desperate, and lacking conviction. Alison nodded slowly, tearing her eyes from his and back onto the test at hand. Bless her, she didn’t have the heart to ask. Therefore, he swallowed down his thoughts, that strange protectiveness teeming with jealousy as he watched another living woman from the sidelines, embark on a passage of life with the cards he had never been dealt. If only, they had had those little test-stick things in his day; that may have saved some heartache. Never-mind the confusion, the constant questioning and guess work… The silence grew long. “Personally,” Humphrey choked out, “I-I preferred trapping Fanny with the fake tattoos.” Alison had been staring at the now empty space besides her hand, the water welling up in her eyes. He gulped thickly. “Yeah. Although that was genius, those won’t be rubbing off any time soon. Now I can’t even get real tattoos,” Alison harrumphed. “Uh, speaking of, how’d you even know what tattoos are but not a pregnancy test… actually, never-mind.” “And the writing on your boobs,” Humphrey continued playfully. “A nice touch for Tom, I’m sure.” The alive woman glanced down at herself with a snicker. “They will be now, yeah!” Alison retorted, drawing a hand up to her aching chest awkwardly. Thankfully, the sadness in her eyes was replaced with laughter within moments. “Could you still murder a scotch egg?” She salivated, falling back into her seat. “Absolutely,” Alison growled.
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The ground shaking beneath hurried, stomping feet jolted Humphrey awake. He blinked rapidly, eyes quick to adjust. The next thing he knew, he was being ripped from his seat beneath the sofa and smushed into someone’s arms.Grey, and a faint scent of lavender. Also mud. Lots of mud. Humphrey’s head sighed as Lady Button stormed out of the house. She was ranting, as was Fanny’s way, ranting about what the severed head couldn’t be sure. Slowly it dawned on him, as he caught wind of her distaste of Alison’s decision. The young, alive woman was planning to sell the land, to strip Fanny of a smidge of her precious few acres, and ruin what was still stood of her marvellous estate. Humphrey’s thoughts caught up with him as she placed him down in the grass before her, presumably where Alison was planning to sell. From his lack of height, the severed head strained to catch a glimpse of Fanny - who’s lips, Humphrey grumbled to himself, were still flapping. “…an insult, a violation. The ruin of our magnificent home! Don’t you agree, Humphrey?” Fanny quietened, staring back at him. “Humphrey?” “Hmm? Oh, terribly sorry,” Humphrey gaped back at her, “I didn’t think you were finished.” “Well, I am.” Fanny coughed out, crossing her arms. From his spot by her feet, he strained to follow her stern eyes back to their manor home, standing an acre away. The Tudor frowned to himself, his face creasing with it. “Don’t you have anything to say?” Humphrey tread carefully; inheritance and finances were a very slippery slope at the best of times. “Maybe I do. Doubt you’ll like it, though.” Fanny made some sort of noise of flagrant disregard but the Tudor, gearing himself up for the fight, spoke up anyways. “How many acres is it now, eh?” Fanny paused, her eye-line faltering. “A handful.” “And rooms?” “A few.” “Right.” Humphrey huffed out a breath, it hitting the trim of Fanny’s ruined dress. “Might you lift me up? This’ll be a chat that’s better to have face to face, you see.” “Oh, alright.” “Thanking you kindly, Fanny.” Fanny’s soft fingertips clutched at his chin and cheek, drawing Humphrey into the air. She held him before her, low down, so that he was gaping back up at the Edwardian through squinted eyes. “‘Twas four hundred acres in my day, a good four-fifty by the time I kicked the bucket.” Fanny’s grip on him tightened. “My family— err, I owned the villages, the church of sorts, you see. With all that land, scores of farmers, traders and workers came hunting for employment. They bought their families, young and old, who bought their chatter, their laughter, and such a life to work for me, on my turf…” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Somehow, I’m even lonelier now, with what, a mere ten acres at best, and all of you, than what I was back then with a staff of fifty and a guy to, quite literally, wipe my arse if I asked. I did not ask.” Fanny’s snooty nose turned up, as she angled her blistering from the cold face towards their home. “There’s no easy way to put this but, erm, none of you lot know what it’s like to have to maintain all this. What it’s really like to try and keep afloat; keep the roof from cavin’ in – or rather, keep the caveman from burning it all down… Alison does. I do,” Humphrey insisted with a nervy gulp. “I mean, it’s insane, sure, and I came from money. So much money… But, I made it work, some crazy how. I’ve seen it for generations, Fanny, and Lord knows the Higham’s had some, uh, less than legal ways of keepin’ the joint. But they did it. Annie and her husband did it. That restoration couple I still don’t know the names of did it. George’s folk did it. You know, it’s remarkable this place hadn’t been run into the ground for so long. We know Heather tried, we know she could afford to try, but, you—” Fanny’s gaze ripped back onto him, suddenly back in the moment. Humphrey swallowed. “Sorry, uh, I didn’t mean to—” “Then, what did you mean?” “I meant, I-I found ways to make this land work. Make it profitable. And by doing that, well, it bought people here. They made a life here and, in turn, made mine richer in every sense for it.” He eyed her, blinking back so much. “Alison, bless her heart for trying but, this was all, uh, thrust upon her out of nowhere. You know she and Michael have been trying, and, Christ, they doesn’t stand a chance if they can’t be allowed to move with the times.” Fanny’s teeth ground together, her jaw tightening. “Stephanie,” Humphrey dared, in a soft, small voice, “I know you. You can’t, I guess, fault Alison for doing that. You can’t fault her for needing to do all that she can for her family, so that she can live. Live in the now.” He blinked, surprised to find his eyes growing misty. “She stayed, didn’t she? She’s still staying, right?” Humphrey inhaled and exhaled slowly, longingly, preparing himself to be dropped. Thus, he dropped the bomb. “This Button’s only trying to clean up the last Button’s mess, is what I’m trying to say.” It’s a vicious cycle that doesn’t end. “Oh, heavens! I will hear no more of this, this slander of my good name!” “Our, Alison included.” As expected, Fanny promptly dropped him. She stormed off in a huff, lips flapping, staggering off further towards the woods. The severed head rested there, sighing to himself. “You don’t own the house anymore, so stop trying to, please. Well, George did, not you…” Humphrey muttered to himself knowing, that even after one hundred and ten years dead, Lady Button was yet to accept such a thing. It was hard, he knew that. Therefore Humphrey hoped, and hated that Thomas was his only hope, that when the poet flounced his way to the huffing Lady B, that he could help her see sense. Humphrey remained out in the fields, alone, for at least another week. Maybe two.
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Humphrey was plotting. “Perhaps, you’re in the kitchen.” “Yeah, could be.” Humphrey struggled to look up at Kitty who clutched to him tightly under her arm. She giggled and batted her lashes down at the nobleman, before picking up her skirts and tootling towards the kitchen. Another plotting voice flowed down the corridor. “Hmm, what is it? Half your age plus seven? That’s…” A disgruntled pause. A revolted shake of head. “No, no, no.” Humphrey’s head perked up and Kitty stopped in her tracks. “Kitty, love, d’ya mind if, maybe, er, Julian gives us a hand finding my hands?” He asked slyly, plotting away. “Oh, another helper! How wonderful!” Bless her cotton socks, she stopped and made her retreat. Humphrey came crotch to face with Julian but, instead of his usual grimace, he eyed the MP darkly. Knowingly, cocking an accusatory brow. The Georgian handed his severed head over without further ado, then skipped her way to the stairs. Now held in the smarmy MP’s hands, Humphrey stated, “What’d you say, mate? If you can find him, maybe you can have him.” Humphrey was plotting, again. “What?” “Well, that’s what you’re after, right?” Julian blinked. Fumbled with his tie. Choked on nothing. Humphrey smirked in triumph. “Oh, come off it. I know that look in your eye. And, uh, well,” Humphrey cleared what little remained of his throat, “I’ve been caught beneath you enough times to know…” “With respect, Humphrey, with respect—” The disgraced politician bluffed, waggling his hands, dropping Humphrey’s head to the ground in a huff. Julian jumped back. Humphrey meanwhile, didn’t look any less deterred. Even with the pain searing in his right cheek. “Besides, it’d look grand on your bucket list. What with your ‘being virtuous’ and ‘someone here to witness it’ streak, and all.” Julian raised his News-night Thumbs once more… only to remain silent. “Like I said, mate, beneath you…” Julian pulled a face, stiffening. And not in the good way. He cast a timid glance over his shoulder.
From Humphrey’s position, he thought hard as the image became clear. The basement, the Tudor realised, Julian was prepared to go for the lowest of the low. Maybe there he would find one as riddled as he was. Actually no, that would be impossible. A good chunk of what Julian was infested with wouldn’t have existed in his time, never-mind that of the plague pit. They had had enough of their own syphilis going around as is. Even so, Humphrey belt out a hearty laugh at such a realisation, knowing that was what had lured the youngest ghost down south, too. The Tory was well and truly caught red (or, rather, blue) handed. “Ah, right. So, Fanny’s not good enough for ya? She’s a Hell of a lay, or so I’m, uh, not told.” Julian’s face flushed as bright as the Tudor’s doublet. The one in which he hadn’t seen in a while. “And, well, pregnant or not, Alison’s rather off limits, ‘eh?” He chuckled to himself at Julian’s pause. Of course he had thought inappropriately about their most gracious of hosts. “But, our dear, sweet Kitty? Really? You’d consider de-flowering the poor girl before me?! Julian Fawcett MP, I’m hurt!” The crook in question fought to meet the mockery in Humphrey’s cerulean gaze. He blustered, flustered, cowering away. “Crikey, how did you ever survive Have I Got News For You ? That lot were savage in your day.” “Ah— badabada, Humphrey, that- this is not about my reputation—” “Alright, mate, I get it!” The severed head bellowed, delivering Julian the hard truth. And the other hard truth. “Takin’ the easy way out. I don’t blame you, actually, mate. He’s a stinker, er, the rest of me. If you can even get a hold of his, er, my, you know, that is.” Julian visibly relaxed. Humphrey’s voice dropped to something more vulnerable. “Unless, you want me there, too?” Julian physically tensed. At least, from Humphrey’s more limited view, the MP took to clenching his thighs. He could understand that trepidation: the boundaries in which even Julian, of all bastards, feared to cross. That and, well, boning his headless body was just plain weird. Unfortunately for Humphrey’s head, weirder things had happened. Besides, when his head became involved, that only seemed to complicate things more. However, if they only had this last day not quite on Earth, the bodiless spirit was rather prepared to rethink everything. Rethink Julian, even, body or no body at his disposal. “Alright, don’t lose your head over it, you wanker. I understand. Let’s call it a day, huh?” The Tudor sighed. “Think you can catch Kitty up for me? She can’t have gotten too far.” The Tory nodded to Humphrey, picking him up. Now held crotch to face once more, the severed head cocked a brow and snickered, “Oh, and, Jean may be a good bet. But, er, there’s freakier down there, I’m sure. Take Walter for instance…” Humphrey was still plotting, probably. Having finally regained some of the colour in his very dead face, that was enough of a remark that Julian laughed, snorted. Even remarked with a Samantha Fox-esque anecdote. That was what Humphrey wanted to see, especially if he could push down all thoughts of Julian finding his relief before the inevitable sucking off at midnight. He shuddered. Maff really wasn’t the caveman’s strong point, unlike French. “Er, Julian?” “What is it, Head? I have a bucket list to get through.” He replied a little more tensely than Humphrey had expected. The Tudor pressed, his tone dropping and face full of sincerity, “You sure I can’t help?” “Ah,” Julian stiffened, his face blanking. “I, uh, I… no, there is no need.” “Wow. A Tory prick can tell the truth.” “Oh, don’t give me that flack—” “It’s too bad though, I’m told I give great head,” Humphrey cried as they made their way back into the light. “Well, I’ve seen some freaky stuff in my day, let me tell you…” Julian agreed, face splitting into a plot-worthy grin, equip with a Palmer Point for emphasis. Humphrey had stopped plotting. Probably.