Those Voices

"I don't like that Lockwood character."

Isadora looked at Benny through the mirror, "no one likes that Lockwood character." She was fixing her hair into the classic short jazz bob.  "You wanna bitch about anything else before I go down there?" 

"Oh haha!" Benny growled. "Forgive me that I'm doing my job." 

"Meaning you'll forgive me for doing mine then," isadora returned to doing the makeup Rosie specifically asked of her. "I do get why you're completely scare-"

"No you don't."

"Yes I do!"

"No! You don't." Benny pulled up beside her. He exhaled through his nose first, "Isadora. You have been trusted with tremendous gifts we've inherited from our parents, and you've become a sign of hope for other ghosts who are willing to co-operate." 

"Because Stockholm syndrome kicked in." She turned to face him. "All of my dead clients are actually clients because someone who knew the ghost brought them to me." Isadora sighed, "I love my job, I honestly do! For once I feel like I'm actually doing some good." 

"And these agents here are going to ruin that." Benny sighed, taking the lipstick from the makeup tray. "Come here," He scooched forward and took Isadora's face into his hands and worked on applying,"I've seen how hard you've worked to stay afloat and succeeded as well too."

"I know. You're always looking over my shoulder."

"Meaning," he groaned lightly, then placed the lipstick back down, "it's gonna be painful if everything tumbles down, and I won't be able to put a bandage on you."

Isadora swallowed hard, "it's not gonna be like that. They aren't like the agents in town...they aren't like Aunt Jade." She turned back to the mirror but couldn't look at her reflection. "You know, Benny, you need to have faith in people again. They aren't like the reporters." 

Benny stood up and leaned against the vanity, "anyone's better than gossip-obsessed journalists."

"I know," Isadora stood up. "Now!" She dusted off her shiny black minidress. "You gonna come watch Rosie's performance or not?" 

Benny smiled softly, "yes I will." He picked up a walking cane with a golden encrusted handle. He handed the cane gently to Isadora, "you go on ahead though. You've got an audience waiting." 

Isadora smiled at the cane just as tender, possibly even more than her brother, "you ready Rosie?"

and a little squeaky voice chirped, "ready!" 

She smiled, grabbed the cane and left her room. 

The couches and tables were pushed flushed back to the walls but a single chair stolen from kitchen's dining table. Candles lit up the living room to 'limit psychic connection interference' according to Issy. Lockwood examined the room's complexity for something anyone of their generation can do normally. 

He chuckled, "little extreme for a psychic connection." 

"She is a proper professional," George fluffed a pillow and leaned back onto it. "Issy's probably done this over 100 times."

"When Lucy made that psychic connection with Annabel Ward, there wasn't all this showboating," Lockwood gestures to the grand stage created. 

"Thought you would've loved the grand stage," Lucy grabbed another pillow and held it close to her. She snuggled up to a corner of the couch. Despite the very elderly outdated patterns, they sure as hell were comfortable. "Why don't you lay off on her? She's giving us a free performance." 

"Oh now you want me to lay off her?" Lockwood smirked, falling down between George and Lucy. "We're helping Graham with a job. Probably another reason she dragged us out here." 

"Please don't make me regret bringing you along," George sighed to himself. 

Tapping footsteps from the staircase made the three agents turn their heads. Out popped Isadora dressed head to toe like a jazzy flapper girl, walking cane provided too. The beaded fringe made music with every sway in her hips. 

Lucy smiled a little, "wow. You look great!"

Lockwood looked up and down at the getup, "is this really necessary?" 

"If the client specifically requests it, then yes," she walked towards open wooden chair, "this is Rosie Silvar. She was an aspiring dancer in the 1920s but never got to properly perform in-front of an audience." 

Isadora sat down and held the cane firmly, "what she needs to help pass on is a positive audience reaction. So things like smiling and clapping when she finishes is what I'm looking for." 

"Understandable," George nodded. "We don't have to go extreme though, right? I don't think I can give a standing ovation." 

"No, they just have to be positive but seem genuine too," she looked to Lockwood, "right Limpwood? Cause you're brilliant at lying." 

Lockwood poked the inside of his mouth, "but it's gonna be hard giving you positive reaction."

"Well luckily it won't actually be me for a few moments," Isadora calmly placed the bottom of the cane on the carpet. 

"Perfect," Lockwood smiled. "I get a break from you for five minutes."

Isadora rolled her eyes and took a deep breathe. Both hands tenderly wrapped around the head of the cane to steady herself. Yes, this isn't the first or last time she has used herself as a vessel for spirits, but this time people are watching her do it. She took one more deep breathe, closed her eyes, straightened her back and began. 

"I, Isadora...Graham..., give full permission to Rosie Silvar to use my physical body to help her complete her unfinished business," then softer, more for herself, "it's okay Rosie. I'm right beside you. Everything is safe."

Her hands got cold with a thin layer of ice growing between the flesh and the cane; it's happening. George leaned forward in curiosity, then Lockwood, and then Lucy. Isadora's head dropped dead but the rest was up straight. The air was thick with patience. 

It was quiet.

Too quiet. 

In slow movements, the head began to raise again. Isadora was gone, before them was a physical ghost. This girl, Rosie Silvar, eyed all three members and smiled gentle. 

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," it was Isadora's voice, kind of? It came out squeaky like a mouse. "I hope you enjoy the show."

She lowered her head again, the vinyl player jumping on too. Was she possessing it too? Maybe if she was able to possess Isadora. A classic tune with a funky trumpet boosted through...and then...she jumped up from her seat. 

And boy. Could she dance! 

Have you stumbled upon an old video of those jazz dancers on stage with the lively music and cheering crowd? It was like that, history being brought before the three. Rosie had on a huge smile, the biggest smile brighter than the stars! She was living out her dream…through the hands of Isadora. 

Lockwood, Lucy and George all leaned forward with a keen eye. Each of them had on different variant of astonishment in their glistening eyes. A ghost wasn’t causing harm to the host. No, Rosie was just simply doing what she loved.

The record slowly died down, and so did Rosie. In a single swoop, she grabbed her top hat and gave a generous bow. Lucy, Lockwood and George clapped with bright smiles, well for George it wasn’t fake. 

“That was brilliant!” George boosted, his smile got bigger.

“Thank you! Thank you all so much!” Her squeaky voice was pure joy. Her giant smile couldn’t be faked. She was running on pure ecstasy. "Tell Issy I said thank you, for everything,” with a sudden jolt, her head raised shot up to the sky and a white and blue ball of energy lifted out of her mouth. 

The body fell to the floor like a corpse. All three agents rushed to Isadora's body, George kneeling down and lightly slapping her cheek. 

"Issy! Isadora!" George tapped lightly between each issy. His heartbeat was echoing in his ears. "Oh Jesus! Did Rosie take her too!?"

Lockwood lifted Isadora's wrist and placed two fingers directly in the centre, "can't be. There's still a pulse." 

"Move over," Lucy pushed a shaking George out of the way. Her hand lightly tapped on the cheek, then harder across. 

The body shook with the slap, and she was back. "Oh! Bollocks!" Her voice was incredibly raspy, like she was still recovering from the flu. Her breathing was heavy too. "What the shit was that for?"

She sat upright into a seated position. Lockwood, Lucy and George all had dumbfounded looks on their faces. Speechless? That was an understatement. Did they just bring someone back from the dead? 

"What the hell was that!?" Lockwood pointed to the ceiling. 

Isadora rubbed her reddened cheek, "she completed her unfinished business, so she passed on." She pushed herself off the ground and into the kitchen, "tea anyone?" 

Those dumbfounded looks turned into confusion while they watched Isadora fill the kettle and place it over the stove. 

"I'm sorry," George stepped into the kitchen. "A ghost, that you allowed to use your physical body passed on while inside of you!?" 

"Yes," Isadora nodded while she pulled out four mugs from the cupboard. 

Lucy strolled up beside Isadora to grabbing a bowl full of sugar cubes, "Jesus. It looked like a soul left you body." 

"Well... a soul did leave my body," how calm she was about this made Lockwood take a double take between George and Lucy. "I swear! I've told every single one of my clients to not do that and they still do! It's so annoying." 

"Still do!?" Lockwood gasped. "That has happened more than once!?"

She turned to him slowly, eyebrows knitted at the question, "it's one of my services to help spirits pass on- you all wanted to see how I work!" Isadora pulled off the firing kettle from the stove, grabbed a wooden cutting board and placed them on the table. "Not my fault you don't have the stomach to watch it." 

"It's just mind boggling, that's all Isadora," George took a seat beside the 'Granny' girl. "Is it? You know...painful?" 

Isadora shook her head, "it does feel odd, I can guarantee that. I mean I am giving my complete physical body to them." She poured boiling tea into a mug that had a little kitten imprinted, "it's a shame though. I'm gonna miss her." 

Lockwood and Lucy shared a look, then back at Isadora. From Lucy's own past experience with psychic connections and physical body usage; she had some after effects. But here was Issy, having a cup of tea like any other evening. Something was definitely odd about Isadora Graham. 

———

It's been far too long since Lucy has had the chance to not worry about hunting ghosts, and a good night sleep is definitely what she's been waiting for. It's unfortunate she couldn't sleep. Maybe it's because she's in a complete stranger's house? 

Either way, she couldn't get any shut eye. 

Lucy left her bed and hoped down the stairs. She forgot how quiet the more country towns were at night, it did send a small shiver down her back. Lucy stepped down and entered the kitchen. 

"Fine. They aren't that bad." A weak voice spoke in the distance. "except that weirdo with the glasses." it was male, probably not that much older than her. 

"Don't call Georgie a weirdo, you ableist dick." That voice was faint, but it was Isadora. 

Lucy turned her head closer to the voices. They were coming from outside. The window above the sink peaked over the bench outside. Isadora was there, and a figure too. Male; only older by a couple of years. Looked a little similar to Isadora too. That must be her brother.

"Avoid the attic, and he'll avoid you."

Lucy crawled closer to the window. She tuned into their conversation. 

"First impressions aren't everything, you know." The older man sighed. "And why is he so obsessed with meeting?" 

Isadora chuckled, "gee, it could be because you're a very unique." Isadora took a sip of...something... then exhaled. "Did you at least see Rosie's performance?"

Benny seemed to have smiled. "Yes. And you were right. She was very talented." 

"Very talented," Isadora emphasised the first word. "Tis a shame I couldn't watch her like the others. Can't believe Lockwood was able to cheer her on and I couldn't." 

"Why are you sulking?" Benny asked. "You gave her a temporary body to perform one last time."

"But she was looking so forward to see my reaction to her dance!" Isadora whined. "And I was too! She was incredible!" 

"Well now she's dancing to her heart's content on the biggest stage in of a huge crowd or whatever the bloody hell happens on the other side!" Benny's chuckles took over, and mixed in with Isadora's too. 

it was quiet for a while, Lucy opened her eyes to see if he was still there. He was, his arm was rested on the backs of the bench. Isadora had her knees to her chest and a cardigan swallowing her up whole. She looked like a ball of yarn. Her face grew soft. 

"Do you ever wonder what the afterlife is like?" 

The mist that formed Benny's face swirled to form a frown, "probably whatever we truely want. Like an island paradise, or a fancy mansion or-" 

"where mum and dad are?" 

He paused, then blew through his nose, "yeah. where they are." 

Lucy didn't feel comfortable anymore listening on a private conversation. She started to back away from the two and out of the kitchen. Lucy moved through the dining area and into the living room. She continued to explore the other side of cottage. Wherever she walked the wall were playfully covered in pictures, newspaper articles, magazines covers and all. For two people living alone, it surely felt like a whole family was here. 

Behind the dining room was a cracked open door. Lucy took a look back over her shoulder for safety then proceeded. She found the switch, flicked it, then took a step back. Bookcase lined the walls with every kind of subject imaginable. Soft velvet purple couches matched the purple wallpaper. At the back of the room was a circular table with a pentagon rug and a crystal ball. 

This was a seance room. 

Lucy stepped closer in the cosmic area. Then she noticed the walls, or more correctly, the decorations. These wall decorations were different though; they felt more personal. Every single one those framed artefacts had the same word in them; Buchanan. She stepped closer to decorated walls. The pictures were of the same man and woman from teenage years to proper adults. Scattered here and there was a young boy all the way to his teenage years. 

"Oh my god," Lucy stepped forward to a familiar one. 

It was of the couple with an elderly Marissa Fittes, younger Penelope Fittes and Jeremiah Hargrove when he was just a simple political figure. The smiles seemed genuine enough for the public. This was the last photo of them before the horrific Buchanan Crash and Drowning.

Of course, it all makes sense. "Holy shit! Damien and Camille Buchanan!"

"I prefer mum and dad." 

Lucy snapped her head to the open door. Isadora leaned against the doorframe with a glass of wine in her hands, the other in her cardigan pocket. There was a deadpan look to her face but a slight blush to her face; probably because of the wine. Lucy was prepared for it; the yelling, accusing, physical fighting. 

Isadora pushed herself off and strolled up to the wall. She reached out to a framed photograph, removed it off the nail and held it close to you. 

"This is my favourite one," she spoke softly, but still had some sort melancholic tone to it. 

It was an ancient photograph of the Buchanan couple. No older than 17 and 19. They had matching red plaid pyjama bottoms on and gladly wore these silly goofy smiles. Surrounding them were billions and billions of pillows and blankets. The two were young, happy and free. 

Isadora grinned tenderly, her thumb grazing over the side of the frame, "handsome couple, weren't they?" She pressed her lips together to suck down the tears building.

Without looking up, Isadora handed the wine glass to Lucy, "do you really think I need a drink right now!?" 

That made her look up from the photograph, her eyebrow raised and another deadpan took over, "come on Lucy, like I don't know." 

Lucy's eyes darted between the Buchanan and the wine glass, then with a hefty sigh, she snatched it and took a gulp. 

Huh, that actually worked a little. 

"Okay!" Lucy sighed, rubbing her eyes in disbelief, "what the fuck Issy!?" 

"It's a long story-"

"Long story!?" Lucy gawked at. "You're a Buchanan!" 

Isadora grimaced, "and that!" She pointed to Lucy. "That is why I say my name is Graham!" Isadora sighed, walked back over to the wall and returned the prized frame onto its nail, "ever since my family died, everybody treats me like a freak." 

"Because you're family has been the only recorded people to be immune to being ghost-locked!" Lucy took another sip, allowing it to steady her nerves. "You're not doing a great job at hiding it too." 

"You'd be surprised by how oblivious people are to plain sight," Isadora growled. "Nobody bothers to connect the dots until you actively look." She swallowed hard, "I am gifted with the same Buchanan talents, yes, that explains how I provide my services." 

Lucy hopped in, "so you continue your parents work even though you hate the Buchanan name." 

"They are different things to me," Isadora was harsh. "I love my parents. I cannot be anymore honest then that, and Benny practically raised me all on his own," then she walked forward and pointed to the wall, "but my family's name has been thrown to the dogs after their passing." She bit down on her bottom lip, "adored but feared; wrongfully so." 

Lucy's eyebrows knitted together. Benny? Her older brother? He died years ago, around when Isadora would've been 4? 5 years old? How can a dead person raise a child? That is...unless...

"Benny is a ghost!" Lucy stepped back so far that her back halted into the bookshelf. Plenty of books fell to the carpet like teardrops. "The rumours are true! Buchanan Manor is haunted!" 

"Who the hell is saying my house is haunt- that's not the issue here. Lucy," Isadora held her arms up high in surrender, "please listen to me. Benny is not dangerous." 

"Bullshit! He's a bloody GHOST!" 

"Keep your voice down Carlyle!" Isadora tried to keep her cool. "Benny isn't your...average...ghost."

"Because he's family?" Lucy chuckled at the ridiculous nature. "You sound like a ghost cult member." 

"Don't you dare compare me to those cunts." Isadora growled to herself, looked away briefly, inhaled deeply then returned her gaze, "can we talk about this in the morning, please?" 

"No way!" Lucy chugged the rest of the wine down, "I'm leaving first thing in the morning." 

Then sprinted out of the room, up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. She locked the door behind her, and exhaled a deep growl from her chest. Her hands were shaking even when they ran through her hair. Lucy threw herself onto the bed and checked the clock again; 2:32am. There wouldn't be any train running back to London til at least at least 9:30am, and hard to get a ticket last minute too. She crawled under the Lucy covers and stared at the ceiling with one thought and only one thought constantly playing on repeat. 

The Buchanan line lives on.