On the Nature of Ghosts

I have been ruminating on the nature of ghosts. Pondering the Beyond was never my area of expertise, but the thought experiment was always a welcome distraction from my studies. Oh, how lively the discussions! We would take the chairs nearest the fire—the best ones!—and debate the whole night. Are ghosts truly the essence of the departed? Or perhaps a summoned Fae, finding entertainment in creating a facsimile of the deceased? Regardless of their nature, they haunt me. I hear the voices of those I know to be dead, calling to me from the Pale, held back only by this Calcularian machine. And me, to maintain it. But our supply of coal dwindles, and where once I had friends, family, and colleagues to keep me company, I am alone. Except for the Bound, who are relentless. And the ghosts.

I hear them more now. Rupert. Briar. Clementine. They’re dead. I know they are! Rupert was lost in Paris with the rest of the Academy’s delegation. The Bound took Briar in front of me, faster than I could scream. And Clementine… dear, sweet Clementine. You died in my arms. I watched the light fade from your eyes and held you as you went to your eternal sleep. But I hear them. Their ghosts call to me, in the Pale. I have tried to steel myself! Tried, and failed! This is a trick, I know. A cruel magick trick, designed to drive me to Despair. And yet… I am so alone. I am so lonely. I am so tired of being lonely. And when I hear their voices… It is the closest to Hope I have felt in a long time.

We are almost out of coal. The Pale Pylon will fall, and the rest of us with it. I know nothing of the welfare of the other districts, but I am sure they will follow us soon after. Briar tells me that it is not so bad beyond the Pale. She says that everyone and everything that was swallowed by the Pale is just as it was before The Calamity, that we are simply overreacting in the face of the unknown. That as a magickian, the Hermetic Truth I have dedicated my life’s pursuit to lies within our grasp, if only I am brave enough to open myself to it. I have tried not to listen, but there is no one else to talk to. Nothing else to break up the monotony of my remaining days.

I have been debating with Rupert. Just as we used to in our student days! I was surprised to hear that he is of a mind that ghosts are truly the spirit of the deceased. But I think I am persuading him to my camp. While I’m of the belief that recorded instances of psychic phenomena are likely a result of Fae intervention, I also believe that the Fae are more able than us to reach into the Beyond and commune with something of the departed soul. How else could they copy their voices? Access memories and knowledge that no other could know? The metamechanics of the soul are not so well understood, but something of the original person must return when the Fae answer our spiritual summons. Perhaps… the Pale is all that lies between us and them.

I am going to do it. I am convinced. Resolute. And if I am wrong, if this act seals our end, is it not better that Nightingale’s ending comes by our own hand, on our own terms? But no matter. This will not be our end. ‘As Above, So Below’—Clementine assures me that her experience beyond the Pale is safe. That every minute we resist its embrace is needless, that our suffering has been unnecessary. That this can end and we will begin anew. I am turning off our Pale Pylon. Only Despair endures here. We will reunite with our lost in the next world. I leave my journal here for other citizens to find. Take comfort in my words! End your torment! There is no need for it. Open yourselves to the Truth of the Beyond!