Page 17 of How I Met Your Murderer

“How did he die?” Raff asked after scribbling a few lines in his notebook. His penmanship was small and tidy, like he put care into each word.

“By my sins, the tallow took flame roaring like a demon, and the roof leapt skyward!” the chef answered for himself, appearing first as a wisp of smoke in the pantry that slowly coalesced into a more solid form as he strode toward the stove, a jar in each hand. His apron was as colorfully stained as it had been in life, and the hat he always wore was singed—like his once-red eyebrows, reduced now to just a few hairs.

Raff chewed on that for a moment. “You blew up the kitchen, did ya now?”

“For the honor of my craft,” the chef confirmed solemnly. Then, with a glance at me, he added, “Eric, my lad, you’re positively glowing this evening. Would the two of you be interested in tasting my surprise pottage? I thought perhaps some rose petals and pine nuts would be welcome additions for the Samhain banquet with the very important guests.”

“We’re actually making the rounds, so I’m afraid we’ll be moving on soon,” I answered quickly. Ghosts couldn’t actually taste anything, which would leave Raff as the sole victim of whatever dish the chef cooked up. I didn’t even know what pottage was, and I’d been visiting Máirtín in this kitchen for years.

“Well, perhaps you’ll come back when I’ve perfected my jellied offal,” the chef said hopefully, twisting the lid on a jar he didn’t have the strength to open.

“Let me, sir,” Raff offered, rising from his stool. Maybe he already had some idea of what would happen if he didn’t intervene: eventually, the jar would shatter on the floor or the counter when the frustrated chef threw it like last night.

“If it isn’t any trouble,” Máirtín said, loudly setting both jars on the island. I could tell he was pleased by the way he started humming some old song, his hands tucked into the wide pocket of his apron as he did a little shuffle-step around the stove.

Raff hissed softly through his teeth as he touched the first jar—it must have been stinging cold to the touch—but he unscrewed both lids. “Suppose you could clean up after yourself when you’re done so Caoimhe isn’t in bad form in the morning?”

“A fair exchange is no robbery,” the chef agreed, giving Raff a fond smile.

I almost wished we could stay so I could keep watching the two of them, but I really didn’t want to put Raff through taste-testing anything not fit for the living.

So we said our polite goodbyes and I took him to meet Fiachra Mac Fíon, the wine steward who had been responsible for all the spilled liquid in the foyer last night. Fiachra had died while heavily inebriated, and his ghost was much the same. He didn’t really interact with anyone much—he wasn’t as aware of the other spirits as we were of him—so I didn’t know his story the way I did the chef’s.

Mostly, while Raff watched the wispy apparition stroll through the wine cellar and rattle the bottles, I watched Raff again.

He fascinated me. He didn’t have any of the usual disdain or fear of spirits that even I probably would have had when I was alive. At least he didn’t when the whole castle wasn’t trembling and flashing the lights like it was hosting a rave. He didn’t flinch away when a spirit appeared at random or rattled the picture frames on the wall in passing. Didn’t go pale when an inhuman shriek shattered the quiet.

He didn’t even flinch when the spirit of Lorcan McGilroy, the former ExorSquad employee who had died on the job, slammed the doors of Caoimhe’s office in our faces for trying to talk to him. It was like that with Lorcan, I explained, and we weren’t likely to get many answers from him. He was a nervous guy, and spent most of his time here so far in hiding. Everything seemed to scare Lorcan, in life and in death.

It made me wonder what actually scared someone like Raff, who seemed so at home in his surroundings. Not that I knew him well enough to ask. Instead, I studied him like I was the one doing a job and not just acting as his ghostly guide.

We were watching through a tall window as one of the poltergeists threw seasonal decorations around the inner courtyard when Raff suddenly closed his notebook and turned, focusing his intense gaze directly on me. I didn’t have the ability to maintain a vivid manifestation all night, but I did draw enough energy to give him something worth looking at for a moment.

“Earlier, you said something about . . . whatever happened to you here,” Raff began hesitantly. “It got me thinking. You know so much about the other spirits, but do you not remember—? I mean, has anyone given you any possible explanations as to how—?”

“How I died,” I said easily, saving him from floundering. “Yeah. I can’t remember anything from that day. Can’t even remember coming to the castle, but Síofra saw it happen. I climbed to the fourth floor and fell all the way down into the foyer.” I splayed the fingers of one hand out, splat. “People think I jumped,” I added, the tone of my voice unchanged. “I’ve heard the rumours from the kids who used to sneak onto the grounds and paint dicks on the walls. But I know that can’t be true. Síofra says I just kind of toppled over and fell, so I’m thinking maybe a heart attack or something.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, anyway. It happened, and I can’t make it unhappen.”

Raff leaned against the wall, all his attention fixed on me so he completely missed the poltergeist chucking a scarecrow clean across the courtyard.

“It’s just—it’s odd, isn’t it? I always thought spirits knew the exact manner of their death, because it’s part of how they haunt,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “I swear they told us that in training. Don’t worry, though. I’ll still find a way to move you on, just like the rest. You won’t be here forever. You have my word. It’s the least I can do when you’ve been so helpful.” He smiled, like he was doing me some kind of favor as he added, “You know, you’re not the worst.”

That was high praise from an Irishman, but still, the words left me cold.

“Thanks,” I whispered, starting to fade away. “But maybe save the compliments for after I’ve introduced you to the rest of the lodgers.”

Finally moving on from the castle was the best outcome I could hope for, and it sounded a lot gentler than being zapped a second time. But for some reason the thought of just being gone completely made me sadder about my death than I had been in years.

We ended the night there, with plans to meet the rest of the ghosts tomorrow. While fading away altogether was my biggest fear, I still, at least for the moment, wanted to disappear.

From the Notebook of Rafferty O'Meara, ExorSquad Spirit Extraction Expert

9thof September

A FULL ACCOUNTING OF SPIRITS MET IN MY FIRST WEEK AT ARDRUIN CASTLE

Entity Name: Lady Síofra Ní Dhomhnaill, Countess of Ardruin

Level: 3