Author's Note: I still enjoy The Ghost & Mrs. Muir. As big a fan as I am of "old" movies, I have to say that this one was almost ahead of its time, as well as the book. Lucy doesn't take any flack from anyone, even her old in-laws, despite being a grown bereaved widow in a time when women were expected to be entirely dependant on others.

Since I finally got around to getting the DVD as reference (it's a rare day when AMC shows this movie!), I'll be more frequent in updating this story. Sorry to those of you who've been waiting since 2014!

It's always such a bother to break away from these sorts of scenes. I ought to have just written the letter and sent it after I'd gone. You'd think it was the turn of the century, the way they're carrying on.

Seras Victoria, nineteen years of age and recently—as in, exactly one year to the day—orphaned, sat staring blankly out the window of her great-aunt's expensive manor home. Said great-aunt, dressed from bony chin to skeletal toe in black linen and lace, was sitting across the tiny round tea table and staring severely upon the tiny blonde that had landed upon her doorstep a year ago. Her mother, an aged, weeping thing, was employed in her favorite hobby of dabbing at her bloodshot eyes with a handkerchief. The tea sat between the three, untouched.

"My mind is made up," Seras finally said, cutting through the oppressive silence as she turned her eyes from the fruit stand across the street to the embroidered tablecloth.

"Oh, Seras!" her great aunt exclaimed sharply. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

"Oh, Seras, Seras!" the eldest woman wept, fishing for a drier handkerchief in her skirts.

"Please don't make it more difficult," Seras asked, fighting the exasperation that gnawed in her stomach. "I know you've tried to be generous and kind," she consoled them, finally looking her great aunt in the eyes, "but I simply can't live here." Her great-great grandmother shook her great aunt's arm lightly, upsetting the antique veil draped over her pale curls.

"Eva, speak to her!" she pleaded, wide-eyed.

"Are you serious, Seras?" her great aunt hissed, narrowing her eyes. Seras squared her shoulders, rising to full height in her chair.

"Yes, Aunt Eva. I am." Her great aunt shook her head.

"And your poor parents not cold in the ground."

"They've been dead almost a year," Seras protested. She kept her voice calm and even, though her lips admittedly trembled at the mention of her poor mamma and papa.

"Still," the older woman said, eyes flitting to the tea tray and back, "you might have some consideration for your parents' memory." Her great-great grandmother nodded in time with the other's words. A sigh swept past Seras's lips, unable to be stopped in time.

"I don't see what my parents have to do with this," she admitted, frowning down at the tablecloth and scratching at a hole in her casual jeans. "I'm not leaving them. I'm leaving you."

"After all we've tried to do for her," her great-great-grandmother whispered, dabbing harder at the consistent flow of tears. Seras looked at her, offering a tight smile.

"You mustn't think I'm not grateful," she said imploringly, reaching out a hand and placing it on the old lady's. Her skin was crinkled like wet paper and felt of the grave: cold and lifeless. She looked back up at her great aunt. "You've both been so kind to me, but I'm not part of the family, not really." She winced at her words, which sounded a little callous in the current situation. "I never knew you except through my parent's memories, but now they're gone." She swallowed. "I have my own life to live, and you have yours… and they simply won't mix."

"Whatever do you mean?!" the great-great-grandmother cried.

"Well, it's just that… I've never had my own life before. First it was my parent's life, then yours and Aunt Eva's, and now?" she trailed off. Her great-great-grandmother began to cry openly, with little sniffs and whimpers.

"Stop sniveling, mother," her great aunt ordered. She pursed her lips. "If she's determined to make a fool of herself then there's nothing we can do about it." Her mother looked up, kerchief held to her mouth.

"But what will I have to remind me of the poor, dear Victorias?" she wailed, the sound muffled by the damp cloth. Her great-aunt seemed to want to roll her eyes, but instead turned back to face Seras again. She shook her head and rose to her feet, hand seeking the brooch at her neck. She moved to the window, pointedly turning her back on the party.

"I'm sure I don't know how you'll manage, Seras," her great-great grandmother managed to say, her hysterics softened for the moment. "You haven't any money." Seras laced her fingers on the table, ignoring decorum as she thought.

"I have the income from Dad's stocks. I can live cheaply with only Walter." Her great-aunt whirled around, expression one of disbelief.

"Seras Victoria, do you mean to say that you're taking Walter?" she gasped incredulously. Seras returned the look with one of perfect ease.

"I don't see why not. Walter was with me even when I lived with Mum and Dad. He can come with me wherever I go."

"Of all the ungrateful—"

"Please, Aunt Eva," Seras interrupted, standing and squaring up with the old woman. "I'm sorry, but I've made up my mind."

"But where, Seras? Where can you go?" her great-great grandmother asked, turning slightly in the chair to look at her while her great-aunt stormed away to the mantle.

"The seaside, I think." Seras nodded to herself. "I've always wanted to live by the sea." She paused, looked at both women. "Well, that's all I've got to say."

"I should think it's quite enough!" her great-aunt retorted. "Apparently there's nothing we can do about it, but when you've realized your mistake and try to come crawling back to us, well—don't expect any encouragement from me!"

"I won't, Aunt Eva," Seras replied calmly, knowing it would rile the older woman.

She wasn't wrong.

"Excuse me!"

Seras stepped into the charming little store, looking around at the folders on the shelves, pictures of houses decorating the walls.

"Oh, pardon me!" she gasped, when she realized that the only man in the room was currently biting into a large sub sandwich. He looked at her, lettuce and onion dangling from his mouth, and managed a sheepish smile before chewing and reaching for his napkin. He rose, wiping his hands as he swallowed and reaching to shake hers. She was glad that gloves were required as part of her new police uniform, which was a little on the old-fashioned side. It suited the old-fashioned town she'd ended up in, though, and she didn't mind. After all, she'd spent the past year holed up in her great aunt's manor with two women stuck in the early 1900s.

"It's quite all right," the man replied not unkindly, wiping the remnants of his last bite from his thin mustache and patting his comb over self-consciously.

"Are you… Mr. Itchen?" Seras asked hesitantly, looking him over. He looked rather young for a realtor who'd been in business for nearly fifty years. The man jumped slightly, shook his head.

"Mr. Itchen's been dead these thirty years past, rest his bones." He looked appropriately solemn.

"Mr. Boles?"

"Likewise." He wiped his hands again on his napkin, as if afraid he'd missed some part. "May he rest in peace."

"Then you're Mr. Coombs." Seras smiled. The man smiled as well.

"Junior," he clarified. He looked at the half sandwich remaining, as though weighing his options.

"Please, don't stop on my account," she said politely, taking a seat in an empty chair in front of a locked bookcase. "I'm Seras, Seras Victoria."

"Ah, Ms. Victoria." He took another bite, nodding and wagging his finger at her. "You're the new policewoman at the station; I remember your email."

"Yes, sir." She looked down at her new badge, her face awkwardly smiling on the front.

"How do you like our sleepy little town?" he asked jovially, taking a sip from the mug of coffee on his desk.

"Whitecliff is a beautiful town," Seras replied honestly, hands resting in her lap. "It's a far cry from London, but it's just what I was looking for."

"And you'll be wanting a house." He pulled some papers towards him. "I've gone ahead and picked out a few places I thought would be…" he paused, looking at her, "suitable for a young lady in your situation." She smiled civilly, letting the sentence pass over her as she couldn't tell whether it was meant as a compliment or a subtle insult.

"I'll be happy to see them."

"Yes, yes, well…" he wiped his mouth again and set the sandwich on its wrapper. "Bowles Yard," he announced, handing over the first sheet for her perusal. "Seaside villa, three beds, two recept, complete offices, gas-and-water, ideally near bus stops," he continued, nodding at her, "private garden. £8,814, with a £700 deposit." Seras felt her jaw drop to the ground, but cleared her throat and managed a smile.

"I'm afraid that's a little too expensive," she admitted. "Do you have anything a little cheaper?" He smiled at her, turning over the next page. The smile left his face and he flipped it again, tapping the next with his finger.

"Ah, here," he said, a little nervously. "Laburnum Mount. First-class residential street. "Four bed, one recept, sunroom—" As he spoke, Seras slipped the passed-over page from the growing stack and peered at it. Curiosity had been the catalyst, but the moment she saw the house, her heart sang. "—company's gas-and-water, beautifully planted, short walk to the shoppes—"

"This one." Seras handed him the paper. He took it, paled, frowned, looked at her, and gave a sort of condescending smile.

"What was that, madam?"

"This place. It's exactly the sort of place I'm looking for." Seras smiled at the clearly abandoned lot. It looked a bit decrepit, the gardens in need of proper weeding, the shutters refastening, the wooden porch painting. But it was beautiful in its own way, with rising spires not unlike a cathedral and a stately, if not antique, air.

"Oh, no, no, no," the man muttered, the nostrils of his hooked nose flaring as he pulled the sheet from her hands gently, but firmly. "That place wouldn't suit you at all. Now, Laburnum Mount," he repeated. Seras stared oddly as he began repeating the Mount's features, taking the sheet back again and looking at the house. Something in the stained glass windows of the second story, of the iron balcony of the right tower, of the overgrown hedgerows and lone willow—it called to her.

"This one," she repeated obstinately, "is perfect. And only £3,800; that's cheap for a fully furnished house." She hadn't any furniture of her own to take, with her parents furnishings liquidated for their funeral and Great Aunt Eva not giving her any help towards her own place.

"It's a terrible price!" the man shouted, taking the sheet back. She reclaimed it just as quickly, glaring at him.

"Then there must be something wrong with it. The plumbing?" This pricked his pride.

"If Itchen, Bowles, and Coombe put a house up for sale, there is nothing wrong with it." He eyed her with a scowl. She eyed him back, brandishing the paper with a flick of the wrist.

"Then why would it not suit me?" The man took the paper again, this time a mask of false ease on his face. She peered at him, noting the quick movements of his eyes.

"My dear young lady, you must let me be the judge of that," he laughed anxiously. "I'm not even sure how that paper got mixed up with these other, more suitable homes—"

"But if I'm going to live in the house," Seras cut him off smoothly, her hands resting on the sheet with fingers splayed over the house's image, "then I should be the judge."

"Y-you'll only waste your time!"

"It's my time to waste," she responded, brow arching. "If you won't rent it to me, I believe I saw another rental agency in Whitecliff during my tour of the town this morning. Maybe they'll have a better price."

"Fine, fine!" Smoothing the ends of his mustache with his fingers, he sighed and rubbed his temples. "Whitby Chur—Gull Cottage."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I—" He looked abashedly at his desk. "The locals here refer to that house as Whitby Church." He waved his hands in the air vaguely. "You know… from Dracula."

"Why?" Seras laughed, looking at the cottage as though it were a sunny villa instead of a gloomy manor. "It just needs a little fixing up is all," she mused. "Two bed, servant's bath—that's all Walter and I need, really." Mr. Coombe Jr. shook his head, but grabbed his coat from a hook.

"I'll drive you there myself, if you're dead-set on owning the horror house," he offered reluctantly. "But don't blame me when you turn tail the first moment you step through that door!"