Transgender and Non-binary Queer Ghost Stories

Ghost Gallery-3

“This was a bedroom,” Xan muttered.

“When the house was first built, sure.”

“There was a bed there,” Xan went on. “And over there, a writing desk.” He looked up at Gracie. “And you were there.”

She laughed, placing a gentle hand over her heart. “Who, me?”

It all made sense now: why Dolina had addressed the staying-late instructions to him and not her, why none of the other staff members reacted to anything she said. They couldn’t see her. They couldn’t hear her. Because she was a ghost.

“This was you,” Xan went on, his legs so weak with fear he couldn’t stand. “I saw you die. I saw your death. I know what happened.”

Gracie c****d her head suspiciously. “What exactly were you smoking while I was in the bathroom?”

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he assured her. “I know who you are—who you really are.”

That got her. She blinked about a thousand times and clutched her collar. “You know? How do you know? How did you find out?”

A loud banging sound resonated throughout the gallery. It seemed so real Xan’s whole body stiffened. There it was again! Where was it coming from?

Gracie didn’t seem so shocked, but ghosts were like that. They didn’t scare easy. She said, “Come on, let’s get the door.”

“The door?” Xan stammered. “The door to where?”

To heaven? To hell? To another dimension? Where was he taking her?

“You are acting so weird,” Gracie said as she faded into the darkness of the hallway. From somewhere out there, she went on, “That’ll be Safiya Bhat with her art delivery. Don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Xan’s heart raced when he realized the actual world and the ghost world were somehow fusing for him. He was seeing this ghost, Gracie, like she was just another living being. Meanwhile, one of his biggest heroes was knocking at the door and he was supposed to act like nothing weird was going on. Oh God, his legs barely worked. He had trouble just rising to his feet.

By the time he managed to work his way downstairs, Gracie had already opened the door to Safiya Bhat and greeted her warmly. When Xan reached the bottom of the staircase, he watched the two women hugging and kissing on both cheeks like Europeans.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Gracie was telling Safiya. “You’re such a busy, busy bee these days. Let me make you a cup of tea so you can sit and relax while Xan helps me bring in your art.”

“Xan?” Safiya asked, glancing across the hall as Gracie indicated his presence. The great artist stuck out her hand and went to him. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Gracie said, “He’s brand new. He just started here. But he’s a big fan of yours. You two talk amongst yourselves while I put the kettle on.”

With that, Gracie disappeared into the staff room, leaving Xan alone with an artist he’d only ever dreamed of meeting face to face. Any other day, he’d have gushed about the amazing impact of her art, of her very existence. But tonight, the first words out of his mouth were, “You can see her too?”

Safiya Bhat brushed her highlighted hair over one shoulder and offered a nervous chuckle. “I can see... who... Gracie?”

“You know her?” Xan asked in confusion.

With a generous smile, Safiya Bhat said, “I’ve known Gracie since she was five years old. If you want to get anywhere in the art world, the Fairacres are the people you need to know. I got in good with them right out of art school and look at me now.”

Xan should have said her art was so good she would have made it big anyway. Instead, he asked, “The Fairacres? What do you mean? This is the Fairacre Gallery.”

“Right,” she said. “And Gracie is a Fairacre.”

Safiya Bhat quickly covered her mouth with one hand. Each of her nails was painted a different colour, and Xan wondered if it was nail polish or if she was just a messy painter.

“Oops,” she said. “You didn’t know about Gracie, did you? I always forget she keeps her identity secret around here. As soon as people find out she’s from this big art family, they suck up to her like crazy. Everyone seems to think that, if they’re buddy-buddy, her parents will buy a bunch of their art. I should know. I’ve kissed more Fairacre butts than I care to admit.”

“They should be kissing your butt,” Xan offered. “Your work is amazing.”

“A lot of people’s work is amazing,” Safiya said. “Trust me, it’s all about who you know. I mean, look at this gallery. Little Gracie’s great-great-great grandparents built it in the 1800s, and even then it was filled with gorgeous pieces. In those days, collectors bought from Paris. The family was big on art even back then.”

The image of what he’d seen in the upstairs bedroom flashed across Xan’s field of vision, and he quickly asked Safiya, “Do you know what happened to them? Like... I mean... how they died?”

Safiya c****d her head and smirked ever so slightly. She said, “Gracie and Norman Fairacre. Our Gracie was named for great-great-great grandmother. This house was built as a retreat, but the pair of them didn’t spend too many summers here. One year, Gracie disappeared. Poof. Gone. Norman told the authorities she disappeared in the night, but rumour has it he killed his wife somewhere in this house.”

Upstairs, Xan thought. The upstairs bedroom.

“Who knows?” Safiya went on. “Her body could be buried on the property. Her remains were never found.”

Xan’s mouth fell open. In his mind’s eye, he saw that window. He watched the big man haul the little woman’s lifeless form off the floor and through the gap. She tumbled onto the gable and rolled down its incline, landing in the fresh garden earth in front of the house.

Rushing past Safiya Bhat, Xan crossed through the front entrance.

“What is it?” she asked, following him outside. “Are okay? Are you going to be sick? This gallery, it’s so haunted some people can’t stand to be here.”

There in front of the gallery was a garden of roses. In his mind’s eye, Xan could see the first Gracie Fairacre lying very still in her deep blue dress. With her eyes closed and her hands crossed over her chest, her body sunk into the ground, like the earth was swallowing her up, taking her home.

“What are you seeing?” Safiya asked.

Xan pointed to the rose garden. He told her everything. Told her what he’d seen upstairs, how that woman in the blue dress looked exactly like the Gracie they knew. He told her the vision he’d just seen, of Norman, the husband, pushing her body out the window.

“He buried her there,” Xan said. “He buried her where she fell. You probably think I’m crazy. I don’t even care. Maybe I am crazy.”

“Maybe we all are,” Safiya said, taking hold of his hand and squeezing it tight.

Gracie appeared in the doorway and asked, “What are you doing out here?”

They jumped in tandem, then laughed at their overreaction.

“Tea’s ready,” she said. “Xan and I should get started moving your pieces.”

“We were just admiring the rose garden,” Safiya said. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Yellow roses. There’s something soft and comforting about them.”

“I think so too,” Gracie agreed. “When I was a kid, I used to plant my face in those roses. Almost got a bee up my nose one time, but I just loved the feel of those soft petals against my skin. It’s like the feeling of your mom kissing your forehead when she tucks you into bed. Such a peaceful, calming feeling.”

They stood together, all three of them, admiring yellow roses in the moonlight. Xan knew this was a moment of silence, of respect and reflection, for the dearly departed. Safiya obviously thought so too. What was Gracie thinking in that moment? Was she reflecting on the ancestor she never knew? Or was she just admiring the roses?

“Well,” Gracie said after a moment of peace. “Let’s get this art in, Xan. Safiya’s got a plane to catch.”

Xan had never handled anything with such care, but the last thing he wanted to do was ruin new works by a respected artist. They say you should never meet your heroes, but sometimes they turn out to be even more amazing than you could have imagined.

Safiya stood by the rose garden, tea in hand, and said to Xan, “You know, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out what to work on next. All my projects lately have been so brash and contentious. Part of me thinks it’s time to stop and paint the roses. Is that too cliché? Has it already been done to death?”

“Sure it’s been done,” Xan told her. “But it’s never been done by you. That’s the thing I love about art: if you have a hundred people trying to depict the same rose, you’re going to end up with a hundred different versions of that rose. Everyone’s take is just a little bit different. And that means there’s always room for more.”

Before setting off for the airport, Safiya Bhat thanked Gracie and Xan, and kissed them both on the cheek in that European way of hers. Xan would never forget this night. So much had happened. So much he’d never anticipated.

“Come on,” Gracie said. “Let’s grab our stuff and get a move on. You need a ride anywhere? I’ve got my car here.”

For some reason, now that he knew Gracie was from this rich and important family, her kindness touched him really deeply. Maybe it shouldn’t make a difference, but it did. He said, “Yeah, a ride would be great.”

Gracie made a bee line for the staff room, but Xan stopped along the way to tie his shoe. When he looked up, he was shocked to see a woman standing in the hallways about ten feet away from him. She looked every bit as real as Safiya or Gracie, but he knew she couldn’t be real. Because he knew who she was. He knew by the blue gown, by the brown locks, by the familiar pixie-like features.

Though the hall was fairly dark, he could see her perfectly clearly. A silvery blue light shone like it was coming from inside of her. She lifted a yellow rose to her face and buried her lips in the petals, relishing the softness. When she brushed the rose down her chin, she gazed in Xan’s direction and smiled softly.

He’d never felt such peace in all his life.

The door to the staff room opened and Gracie emerged with her purse over one shoulder and Xan’s backpack in hand. “Is this all you brought?”

“Uhh... yeah,” he said, gazing past her legs. There was nothing to see. The vision had gone.

“So you’re ready to call it a night?” she asked, handing over his bag as he rose.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s been a long night.”

Gracie left the gallery before he did. Xan sort of dragged his feet on his way out. A part of him kept hoping something else would happen. He’d experienced so much already, and it made him greedy for more.

As he pushed open the door, he gazed over his shoulder and down the long hallway, but he didn’t see a thing. Maybe the Gracie he’d seen upstairs was gone for good. Or maybe there was a part of her, the battered and bruised part, that would return to her death every night forever and ever.

Either way, Xan wouldn’t find out the truth tonight. It was time to go home.