Jane, you see, had always believed in ghosts. When she was a small girl she’d lived with her horrible aunt Reed and two equally horrible cousins, and one night her aunt had forced Jane to sleep in the “Red Room.” (This room had red wallpaper, red curtains, and red carpets—hence the name “Red Room.”) It was creepy, and Jane had always imagined it was haunted by some shadowy, evil spirit. When Aunt Reed locked her in there, Jane tearfully begged to be let out, then screamed until she was hoarse, and finally fainted dead away—her heart, unbeknownst to Jane, actually stopped beating, so great was her terror.
She literally died of fright, if only for a moment. And when she opened her eyes again her late uncle was kneeling next to her, and he smiled at her kindly.
“Oh, good, you’re awake. I was worried,” he said.
“Uncle? How . . . are you?” She couldn’t think of anything else to say to him. She knew she was being terribly rude, since clearly her uncle wasn’t doing very well due to the fact that he’d been dead for years.
“I’ve been better,” he replied. “Can you do me a quick favor?”
In the morning, when she was finally let out of the Red Room, Jane had marched right up to her aunt and informed her that Uncle Reed was quite perturbed. He had loved Jane—and as he was dying he’d made Aunt Reed promise to take good care of her, to “love her like a daughter.” But Aunt Reed had obviously interpreted those words to mean “treat her like an indentured servant, and maybe starve her a bit for your own pleasure.” For starved Jane had been, and generally mistreated, and Uncle Reed had taken note of it all from beyond the grave, and now he demanded that Aunt Reed make amends.
“He wants you to remember your promise,” Jane explained. “He’d just like you to try to be a bit nicer.”
Aunt Reed had responded by calling Jane a “liar” and a “devil child” and sending her away to Lowood, where Mr. Brocklehurst had also labeled her a “disobedient heathen girl who was headed straight for hell.” But Jane never questioned what she’d seen. In her heart she knew that she’d really conversed with her dead uncle because it was the only moment of Jane’s rather tragic life when she’d felt that she’d been part of a real family.
She never spoke of her uncle now, of course. Not to anyone. In Jane’s experience, talking about it usually led to some form of punishment.
She stared at the tavern, her stomach grumbling loudly.
“Are you hungry, too?”
The soft voice startled her. She turned to discover a raggedly dressed little girl standing beside her. A street urchin.
“I’m hungry,” reported the child. “I’m always hungry.”
Jane glanced around. The street was deserted, save for herself and the urchin.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve nothing for you to eat,” Jane whispered.
The girl smiled. “I want to be pretty like you when I grow up.”
Jane shook her head at the wildly inaccurate compliment and turned her attention back to the pub.
“Are you going in there?” asked the girl. “I’ve heard it’s haunted.”
Yes. There was a ghost in there, and since nothing was happening outside, Jane must go in to see it. “Stay here,” she said to the urchin, and then hurried across the road. She took a deep breath and pushed through the door of the pub.
She’d done it. She’d gone inside.
The pub was packed. The scent of liquor mixed with body odor assaulted her senses. For a moment she felt paralyzed, unsure of what to do now that her waning burst of courage had propelled her into the tavern. There was no ghost that she could see. Perhaps Charlotte had been wrong.
She should ask. Of course, that would mean she would have to speak to a man. Jane had wistful fantasies about boys, but these were men. They were hairy and smelly and huge. It seemed utterly impossible to have a conversation with one of these drunken men lurching about the pub.
She did not belong here. She lowered her head, slyly pinched her nose to shut out the dreadful man smells, and barreled through the crowd toward the bar. (At least, Jane would call it barreling. We would describe it as delicately weaving.) At her approach the barkeep glanced up.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked. “Are you lost?”
“No,” she said hoarsely. “No, at least I don’t think I’m lost. Is this the . . . establishment . . . where . . .”
“Where what?” asked the barkeep. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”
Her corset felt horribly tight. (It was. That was rather the point of corsets.)
“Here. On the house.” The barkeep poured a glass of brandy and slid it over. For a moment Jane looked utterly scandalized that he should offer her such a thing. Then she snatched up the glass and took a sip. The liquid fire seared down her esophagus. She gasped and put the glass down. “Is this the place where the—”
She had just started to pronounce the word ghost when an unearthly shriek filled the room. Jane jerked her gaze upward to behold a woman in a white nightdress hovering in the air above the bar. The woman’s hair was raven black, floating all around her head like she was caught in an underwater current. Her skin was almost entirely translucent, but her eyes glowed like coals.
She was perhaps the most beautiful ghost Jane had ever seen. And Jane had seen her share of ghosts.
“Just ask your question, miss,” the barkeep was saying, his eyes still fixed on Jane. “I haven’t got all night, you know.”
He obviously didn’t see the ghost.
“Never mind.” Jane took another sip of the brandy and backed away from the bar to better regard the unhappy spirit.
“Where did they take him?” the ghost moaned. “Where did they take my husband?”
Jane felt a tug of pity for the woman.
“Where is he?” cried the ghost.
How awful, Jane thought, to be parted from one’s true love, to be so cruelly severed from one’s other half, like losing a part of your very soul. It was terrible. But also . . . terribly romantic.
“I know he’s here somewhere!” shrieked the ghost. “He always is. I’ve got a few things to say to him, I’ll tell you what. That good-for-nothing Billy-born-drunk!”
Oh. Oh, dear.
The ghost raised her arm and swatted at Jane’s brandy glass. It went flying, whizzing past Jane’s left ear, and crashed into the back wall.
“Cricum jiminy!” exclaimed the barkeep, because he had obviously noticed the flight of the brandy glass. “The Shrieking Lady’s back!” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Right on schedule.”
“Not worth a rap!” bellowed the ghost. “The boozer!” She swept around the room in a whoosh of cold wind and then back to the bar, knocking the clock off the wall for good measure. “The muck snipe!”
“Where’s the blooming Society?” the barkeep groaned. “They’re supposed to be here.”
“I know you’re hiding that ratbag!” The Shrieking Lady grabbed the bottle of brandy and lobbed it at the barkeep’s head. Her aim was true. Down he went, without another word.
This wouldn’t do at all. Jane ducked so that she would be less of a target, and crawled and slid and scurried until she was safely tucked away behind the bar, where she could use the unconscious barkeep as a shield. (Always thinking of others, that Jane.) The hem of her dress was sticking to the booze-soaked floor, which was unfortunate, but unpreventable at this point.