by LJ (ljensen1@gladstone.uoregon.edu)

Rating: PG-13. Kissing, death, ghosts, vampires - the usual, plus the teeniest touch of sexual innuendo.

Distribution: my site, ALSTSC, only. http://www.oocities.org/brigidharper/index.html

Feedback: like vampires for blood: ljensen1@gladstone.uoregon.edu

Disclaimer: I am not so brilliant as to ever think they're mine; I'm just borrowing them for a little bit.

Summary: Giles assists in a most unusual ghost investigation.

Spoilers: Through rumors of episode 16 of Season 6 or so, plus the occasional ATS spoiler as well. Takes place May/June 2002. I also like to think of this and my other current Giles story as…prequels or early episodes of "Ripper"…but that's just my own personal insanity talking…no spoilers for "Ripper", if any actually already exist.

Notes: Inspired by a single line of dialogue in another fic I’m currently writing; however, presenting that line in the header would ruin much of the story. I realize most spoilers and other information have Giles living in Bath these days, but, you know what? London is *so* much more convenient, so…let's just forget that whole thing.
 
 

Part One

"He’s there again, isn’t he," said Steven Murdock quietly.

"The third day in a row," replied his wife. Susanna stood in the foyer and contemplated the pale figure before her. Her dark eyes began to water.

"No, no, none of that now," whispered Steven, wrapping his arms about her waist. He nuzzled her shoulder, dropping a light kiss in the crux of her neck and shoulder.

"I’m sorry," she whispered back, leaning against him. "It’s simply…I feel somehow responsible for the poor fellow. All these years…stuck here, unable to communicate with the world, unable to even see the world, it seems. I mean, it’s my family’s house, and we don’t even know who he is, Steven. It’s so sad."

"Sh, sh," hushed Steven. "I’ll go and call that woman again. Let her know that he’s back. Maybe she has an idea or two, hm?"

Susanna nodded. "Please," she agreed. "I’ll watch him. See if he does anything unusual."

"You do that. I’ll make the call."

Susanna felt him leave and a few minutes later she heard his voice, muffled by the walls separating them. She nodded to herself, and then returned her watchful gaze to the figure of the young man before her. Quickly, out of curiosity, she glanced down at her watch, and then released her breath. A quarter past. Right on time, he was. As regular as clock work.

"She’s on her way," said Steven softly, coming out of the kitchen.

"About how long?"

"A full ten minutes, she said. Very likely more."

"But he’ll be gone by then. What good will that do?"

Steven hugged her again. "Not much, she told me, but it’s better than nothing, better than a random visit. Perhaps she’ll be able to pick up something from the air, or in describing it to her realize that he did something unusual this time. He has his routine, as always, but we’ve seen him vary it a bit a few times. Remember what she said? That might mean something, something important."

Susanna sighed. "As long as she’s coming."

"Indeed."

At that moment, as he had always done as long as they had been watching him, the ghost disappeared.
 
 

Part Two

Rupert Giles was awakened suddenly by a loud knock on his door. "Oh, dear lord," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his book-creased face, dislodging the sheet of paper that had stuck to his cheek overnight. Finding his glasses, he made himself stand and, checking to make sure he was at least somewhat presentable, went to the door.

"Carrie? What are you doing here at this hour?" he asked the woman standing before him.

Carrie Southworth was a woman of…slightly generous proportions, who managed to retain her dignity and her beauty despite her weight. Her brown hair was beginning to be lightened through scattered lines of gray, but Rupert could remember when it had been nothing but a dark blonde. Carrie had stood at the outermost edges of the circle of friends he had had when he had renounced Ethan Rayne and his chaos- and demon-raising lifestyle, but afterwards Rupert and she had become closer friends. Unofficially, they had gone on two dates, but had quickly realized that they were best together as simply friends. Through the years their friendship and correspondence had tapered off, but since he had returned to England - permanently, he reminded himself - their platonic relationship had, for lack of a better term, been rekindled.

"This hour?" scoffed Carrie. "Rupert, it's nearly eleven o'clock."

He glanced at the wall clock hanging over his desk and sighed. "You're right, of course," he conceded. "Please, come in."

Carrie smiled at the quick invitation and made a beeline for the couch as Giles closed the door. Once seated, she pulled a small notebook out of her large purse and made a quick note in it. Giles followed suit, settling down in an overstuffed chair (uncomfortably lumpy, but a housewarming gift from his mother and guaranteed to keep anyone awake as long as they sat in it) opposite his guest. "Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Coffee?" he asked politely.

She shook her head. "This," she said, gesturing to her notebook, "will wake you up more quickly than any caffeinated beverage."

"What is it then?" he asked.

She shook her head. "First, I need to know if you have any other…projects going on right now, anything you can't afford to put off or neglect in any way. Because if I tell you about this, I'll want your undivided attention for as long as it takes to figure it out, and I've already been working on it for a year. More than that, really."

He nodded. "I see," he said. "I haven't got anything particularly pressing at the moment, and you've certainly piqued my interest already, Carrie."

She smirked. "Nothing particularly pressing, Rupert? What were you up reading about all night? I can still see the creases in your skin. You fell asleep on your books."

"Like I said, it's not a pressing issue." At her maintained look of disapproval, he conceded. "The Council found another book about Glorificus and the Key. A year too late, mind you, but the information about the Key could still be pertinent," he told her. He didn't need to clarify who or what the Key was as one of their longer conversations upon his return had revolved around the insanity of the previous year in Sunnydale.

"That poor girl," said Carrie. "She's gone through so much. I image she must have quite the mix of complexes buzzing about her head, thinking she's not real, then flipping it around and knowing she's a vessel of undefined power."

"Yes, well, the latest communiqué from California indicates that her greatest worry at the moment is whether or not she'll be asked to the Prom, so I do believe she's sorted most of those issues out for herself," said Giles with a faint laugh. "I'm honestly not that worried about her; the research is simply a…an additional safety measure at this point, beside my own personal curiosity into the matter. So I assure you, Carrie, whatever it is you have to share with me won't be distracting me from anything crucial."

She smiled. "Excellent. Well, as you have probably already guessed, it's about a ghost."

Giles laughed. "Is there anything else you ever deal with?" Carrie was something of a medium and a psychic, using her talent to investigate rumors of hauntings and the like; most of the time, her efforts simply resulted in accounts that she compiled into books for tourists, describing the best locales in London and the surrounding area for finding ghosts. She had also used her expertise to write a few works of fiction under an assumed name. While she was by no means a member of the Watchers Council, nor officially affiliated with them, she had on occasion assisted them in eradicating harmful spirits. The fact that she was approaching him for help in investigating a ghost already indicated that it would at the very least be interesting.

Carrie contemplated the question. "I've dealt with a few possessions and several handfuls of poltergeists. But you're right; it's usually a ghost. And quite a ghost he is this time, too."

"He?"

Carrie launched into storyteller mode. "They call him the Ghost of a Quarter Past, the owners of the house he haunts. They've clocked him for about twelve years now, and he always shows up at a quarter past nine o'clock in the evening."

"That in itself isn't that unusual."

"No, but the rest of the when he appears is. The current owners are the latest in a long line of familial inheritors of the house, and every single previous inhabitant swears up and down that the ghost would appear exactly once a year, on May seventeenth. According to the current owners, that was true up until about four years ago. The ghost appeared as usual on May seventeenth, but then reappeared on the twentieth, twenty-fourth, twenty-seventh, and June third of that year. As Mrs. Murdock, one of the current owners, said, it nearly scared her to death. A few months passed, and then it appeared again, in October and November, only to disappear until its scheduled appearance in May."

"Scared her to death: it startled her, or it purposefully frightened her?" Giles asked.

"It simply startled her and all twenty of her guests at a dinner party. The family's learned not to have guests over on May seventeenth, as this is a highly visible ghost. Anyone can see him, not simply select individuals. Obviously, they weren't expecting him to crash their party on the twentieth."

"Goodness," exclaimed Giles. "That is highly unusual. Has the ghost continued to appear irregularly then?"

Carrie nodded. "Most definitely. He always makes his May appearance, as he has always done, but every year his other appearances increase. Last night they called me in again; it was the third appearance this week, and it's only Wednesday today. The only consistency is the time of day: nine fifteen p.m. There's no other pattern that I've been able to discern, and I've even run the dates past some mathematician and astrologist friends of mine. No one's come up with a pattern."

"Intriguing. Have they been able to establish who this fellow was before his death?" asked Giles. "Or even how and when he died?"

Carrie shook her head. "They've spent some time researching it every time the house passes to a new owner, but they've never established anything definitive. The sitings began about 1900 for certain, possibly earlier, but the first written notation about him was in 1901 in a diary. The author describes him as…oh, where was it?" She flipped through the notebook. "Ah, yes. She wrote, 'he is a pleasant-looking gentleman, in unfashionable clothing. A very handsome and earnest fellow. He seemed very sad. It is unfortunate that he appears to be a ghost, as despite his shortcomings he looked to be just that sort of man I would have liked to have spoken to.' My best guess is that something happened that year, or the year before, which brought him out of the…the between-space between life and death, between this world and the afterlife, where he had been stuck for whatever reason, and somehow he was brought into this world instead of passing on. I think he died much earlier, perhaps as much as fifty years earlier, and he appears regularly on the day he died, although I've never actually been able to see the motions of his death to verify it."

Giles considered this. "How much research have you done yourself?"

Carrie grimaced. "Honestly? Not much. Most of the work I've done has been in observing the ghost and in verifying and reviewing what the homeowners had already established. That's where you come in, Rupert. I'm not sure where to begin, but I bet you've already thought up three or five theories from what little I've told you! I'd be most grateful if you'd help me."

Giles laughed. "Of course I'll help you, Carrie. And I know just where to begin…"
 
 

Part Three

"Mrs. Southworth! Come in, come in," exclaimed Susanna Murdock. "I was hoping you would come by." She held the door wide open and let the medium and her friend enter.

Carrie smiled. "Mrs. Murdock, this is my friend Rupert Giles. I've asked him to assist me. That is, if you don't mind…?"

"No, no, of course not!" replied Susanna. "I'm open really to any suggestion you have, Mrs. Southworth. I really would like to get to the bottom of this." She extended her hand to Giles. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Giles. If you don't mind my asking, are you a psychic yourself?"

Giles shook the woman's hand politely. "No, ma'am, I'm not. However, I've spent most of my life investigating one supernatural phenomenon after another. Carrie and I hope I'll be able to bring a…fresh perspective to the situation."

"Of course!" exclaimed Susanna. She asked for their coats and hung them for them, and then invited them into the front sitting room. "I suppose Mrs. Southworth's told you a bit about our ghost, Mr. Giles?"

"Yes, a bit," he replied, taking in the room. It was rather large and tastefully decorated - except for one chair in the nearest corner. It looked worn and the fabric faded, and it matched nothing else in the room. Puzzled, Giles approached it.

Susanna noticed what had caught his attention. "You're very observant, Mr. Giles."

"Am I?" he asked leadingly.

"You are," she replied. "That's where the ghost first appears."

"I see." He touched the upholstery gently. "There doesn't seem to be anything unusual about it."

Susanna laughed. "Except for the fact that no matter where we try to move it to in the house, the moment the ghost appears it's back in its place against that wall."

Giles jerked upright and looked back at her. "Truly?"

Susanna nodded. From her spot on a more modern couch Carrie smiled. She knew Rupert would enjoy this.

"My goodness, the sheer magnitude and power of this specter must be…well, practically tipping the scales! There have been reports of small objects moving in conjunction with ghostly phenomena, but a large chair such as that?" he exclaimed. "Most intriguing." He examined the chair for a few more moments. "Perhaps now would be a good time to show me the ghost's pattern, Mrs. Murdock," he said. "Carrie told me that he moves about in the house, even leaves it, as part of his usual routine?"

"He does," replied Susanna. She moved towards the chair and sat down in it. "When he first appears, he's sitting here," she explained. "He sits for a few minutes, then gets up and walks a little in the room, stopping here and there like he's holding a conversation. After a few minutes of that, he moves on to this little room back here and sits down." She gestured and Giles followed her movement to see a small room with a couch and a few chairs, similar to the chair in the sitting room. "Have you ever tried moving those chairs?" asked Giles.

Susanna frowned. "Not that I can remember. We tried moving that chair from the front room into here once, but the ghost apparently didn't like that and the chair went back as usual."

"Interesting," commented Giles. "Please continue."

Susanna moved into the little room and sat down on the couch. "He sits, like so," she said, gesturing to herself, "and apparently holds a little conversation. But the end result of the conversation apparently upsets him. He's quietly upset, though; he's always very calm, quiet, composed, reserved -"

"Unless he's in one of his moods."
 
 

Part Four

"Unless he's in one of his moods," interrupted a male voice. They turned to see Steven Murdock enter the room.

"Steven!" exclaimed Susanna. "You startled us." She turned to Giles. "This is my husband, Steven Murdock. Steven, this is Rupert Giles, a friend of Mrs. Southworth's. She's asked him to assist her with the ghost."

Steven's gait was proud and determined in nature, his handshake firm, Giles noted. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Murdock," he said.

"Same to you, Mr. Giles. I see Susanna's giving you the ghost tour," said Steven.

"Indeed," murmured Giles. "What's this about his moods?"

Steven laughed. "Obviously, Susanna hasn't gotten to the good stuff yet. Our ghost is a tricky one these days, showing up whichever day he pleases and so on. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's sick," he explained. "We don't necessarily want him gone, Mr. Giles; we're really quite accustomed to having him around. But if there was some way of figuring out why he's changed his schedule of appearances these last four years, some way of getting him back on track, so to say, then we'd be much obliged."

"Certainly," replied Giles. "You've seen the ghost yourself then?"

"Absolutely. Most of the time he's no trouble, really, but every once in a while he'll…get into a bad mood, for lack of a better term."

Giles frowned. "What do you mean?"

Steven sighed and moved closer to his wife. "As Susanna was telling you, normally he comes into this little room, sits down, converses with someone we can't see. He becomes a bit upset and then leaves, walks right out the door and onto the street."

"Through the door?" inquired Giles.

"Of course. Why? Did you suppose that he opened the door, walked through and then shut it again behind him?" asked Steven jokingly.

Giles shrugged. "If there's a power linked to him that's strong enough to move furniture on the corporeal plane, I would think opening a door and shutting it again would be rather on the easy side."

"Oh," said Steven, almost as if embarrassed. "No, he walks right through the door, as if it wasn't there. You know the routine - ghosts walking through walls and such? That's what he does with the door."

"I see. What then? Does he continue out on the street?" asked Giles.

"Most definitely," piped up Susanna. She stood and pulled back the curtain of one of the windows. "He walks down the steps and continues down the street in a huff, still upset. He's startled any number of motorists over the years - they drive through him and then nearly crash, thinking they've actually hit someone with their car. It's one thing when he used to appear once a year, Mr. Giles, but now that he's back so often? It worries me on all sorts of levels."

Giles exchanged a look with Carrie. "I wouldn't worry to greatly, Mrs. Murdock. Carrie and I will get to the root of this. Now, Mr. Murdock, you were saying that the ghost…gets into moods?"

Steven nodded. "Every once in a while, he'll appear to get more upset than usual and as he walks through the room to leave the house, he starts injuring himself, you could say: he claws at his skin, pulls at his hair, and so on. We can't hear what he says, but it looks like he begins screaming, yelling, shouting. He claws at himself so terribly that he even begins to bleed, but whatever ghostly blood falls to the floor disappears within the next few seconds."

"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Giles. "I've never heard of a ghost that does that only occasionally. Usually, they have one mode of action and they stick to it. It seems that this fellow is quite unusual on a number of counts."

"Indeed," said Susanna. "So, Mr. Giles, do you think you can help us?"

Giles exchanged another look with Carrie and then turned towards the Murdocks with a smile. "Yes, certainly. I do believe I can."
 
 

Part Five

They spent the next several hours going over the research that the Murdocks had done when they had acquired the house, but Giles found very few leads. The house had been built in 1830 and some descendant of the original owners had lived there ever since. No mention of the ghost was made until 1901, but according to the Murdocks, Carrie was right: based on his clothing, he had died sometime after about 1850, but well before 1900. In all of the diaries and record books kept by the families who had resided in the house, there was no mention of any individual, related or not, who would have had such a deep connection to the house just before his death. It was highly puzzling, but, as he reassured both Carrie and the Murdocks, Giles loved a good mystery.

Quickly, the hour of nine o'clock came and they began to anticipate the ghost's appearance. "There's no guarantee that he'll show," whispered Carrie, "but if he does, it'll be any moment now."

"What time is it?" asked Giles softly. They had situated themselves on a couch in the sitting room, close enough to get a good look at the ghost, but far enough as to not interfere with his routine.

Carrie glanced at her watch. "It's time," she replied -

- And sure enough, the ghost appeared.

Giles stood and approached him carefully. He was a young fellow of about twenty, dressed in old-fashioned clothing. The Murdocks had been correct; the ghost was of a vintage a bit older than turn-of-the-century, but not by much. For the minutest of moments, the spirit's image seemed familiar, but then quite quickly that feeling left him and he refocused his attention to the ghost's actions.

Cautiously, Giles observed the ghost as he held a quick dialogue with an unseen figure and then returned to what he had been doing beforehand: writing. Giles wanted to chuckle a little at that - who had heard of a writing ghost? - but reined in that urge. The ghost looked up suddenly and said a single, multiple-syllable word.

Giles stepped back and contemplated that word while watching the ghost continue about his routine. Ten minutes later, the ghost was gone. "Well?" said Carrie excitedly. "What did you think?"

"I'm not sure," replied Giles. "He certainly is an intriguing fellow." He turned and looked back at the chair, miming the movements that the ghost had made with his mouth. An idea sprang into his head. "Carrie, do the Murdocks have a family tree that I can look at?"

"I believe so," replied Carrie. "You caught something, didn't you? You devil!" she exclaimed jokingly. "To think, I've been working on this case for over a year, and you catch something important the first night. What would I do without you, Rupert?"

Giles smiled, but gave her no reply.

"What is it that you want to see?"

"I'm thinking that this poor fellow may have been an…admirer of some daughter of the house," Giles told her. "I want to know if there was ever a girl living here named…Cecily."
 
 

Part Six

"Ah-ha!" said Steven Murdock. "Here she is."

The others gathered nearer to him at the kitchen table. "You found her?" asked Carrie.

Steven nodded. "Look - right here." He pointed to a name on the family tree that Susanna had produced for them from the boxes of notes and research done on the ghost over the years.

"Cecily Eliza Addams Moore," read Giles aloud. "Born in 1860, died 1903. She wasn't terribly old, was she?" The question was rhetorical in tone.

"My grandmother's…grandmother's mother, correct?" asked Susanna.

"Looks to be, Su," replied Steven. "When did she live here?"

"Give me a moment." She searched through some papers. "She married in 1883, according to this," Susanna announced, presenting a piece of paper. "Her brother remained in the house. His youngest daughter first saw the ghost in 1901. Oh, wait a mo'…Cecily was born in the house. So if the ghost is somehow connected to her, it would have occurred between 1860 and 1883."

"Interesting," said Carrie absentmindedly.

"What is it?" asked Giles, turning to her.

"What? Oh," she said quickly, realizing that she had attracted everyone's attention. "It's simply that I've read her diaries several times, and while she had an amazing number of suitors, I'm certain we've accounted for all of them."

"Are you sure?" asked Giles.

"Fairly certain, but I may just as easily have missed something. Susanna," she said suddenly, turning to the other woman. "You have her diaries there beside you, don't you? Why don't you quickly go through and read off the names that appear in her entries for the seventeenth of May, starting with…" She considered it for a moment. "How about starting with 1875? She would have been fifteen. That would have been about the appropriate age, don't you think, Rupert?"

"Indeed," murmured Giles as reply.

"Perhaps a scorned suitor of some sort, I think," added Carrie. "Someone who didn't find another girl to-to marry."

Susanna gave them an odd look but complied. "Let's see…1875…She mentions a Richard Feinley and an Archibald Doone -"

"Feinley married her best friend; Doone became a pastor. Both lived long into the twentieth century," said Carrie. At their looks, she added, "I said I had accounted for all her suitors."

"Oh," said Susanna and then continued thumbing through the volumes. "1876…Alexander Wyndam?"

"Married Juliette Pryce. Lived a stern but successful life in academia." She turned to Giles. "I believe you know one of his descendants," she told him with a smile. Giles smirked. The Murdocks exchanged a puzzled look; they, of course, knew nothing of the Watchers Council.

"Moving along," said Susanna. "1877…Michael Tate."

"Died of influenza the same year," said Carrie. "But he was a dark-complexioned fellow. The ghost is fair, very…sweet looking."

"1878…She's abroad with her aunt and uncle. She's in Paris that day. No mention of suitors whatsoever. Eh, 1879…George Fredericson, Allan Brisbey, Laurence Wells."

"Let me see…" started Carrie, looking up at the ceiling as she pondered. "Fredericson married, I know. Brisbey was involved in the navy, married some admiral's daughter, I think. Wells moved to New York and became involved in…in some sort of business there. Textiles, I think. Go on."

"1881…Ah, she talks about attending a musical performance of some sort with the Feinleys and a Robert Moore. Her future husband, yes?" asked Susanna.

Steven nodded, his eyes still fixed on the family tree.

"1882…more of the same. Robert Moore. And in 1883 they're already married." Susanna closed the book with a perfunctory but quiet 'thud'.

"Wait a moment," said Giles slowly. "You skipped a year. What happened in 1880?"

"There wasn't an entry for that date," she said, passing that volume to him. Giles opened it and began flipping carefully through the pages until he found the entries for the month of May. Silently, he read them. After a few moments he looked up and smiled. "Ladies, Mr. Murdock, I believe I have found our ghost," he announced.
 
 

Part Seven

"I believe I have found our ghost," Giles announced. He cleared his throat and began to read. "'May 15^th: Already we are making preparations for the little dinner party on the 17^th of this month. The formal invitations were sent out three days ago, although most of our guests are already confirmed to be attending. It is unfortunate that we must extend our invitation to certain individuals that I would rather not have in attendance, but such are the rules of civilized society.'" He paused.

"'May 18^th: I have returned from Henrietta and Mr. Feinley this evening in a most peculiar mood. The police have been visiting the homes of our guests from the dinner party yesterday, as it seems that one of our gentlemen guests has gone missing. My brother delivered to them a list of our guests as asked. In speaking with Henrietta, I have learned that this lost fellow is none other than young Mr. Carlisle, who surprised me greatly in even attending our dinner party, as he often shuns any gathering of such a large company and apparently prefers more intimate settings, though anyone I know is loathe to invite him to such. I spoke to Henrietta at great length about the matter of Mr. Carlisle, who had the audacity to approach me at the party. Greater still, he embarrassed me considerably with one of his dreadful poems and openly admitted that they are based upon his affection for me.'"

Giles looked up. "She goes on to mention that she is glad it was this Mr. Carlisle who went missing, and that she didn't even notice when he left the party. This fellow may very well be our ghost."

"But there's still the question of why he's a ghost in our house," said Steven.

Giles stood and slowly made his way back into the sitting room. The others dutifully followed. "Imagine this: it is 1880 and you are young Mr. Carlisle. You fancy Cecily and compose poetry in her honor. She invites you to her dinner party and you realize that this might be a good time to announce your intentions to her. But, being the unliked, artistic fellow you are, you do not realize that she doesn't like you at all until you finally speak to her and she rejects you completely. You have a choice: either you stay at the party, where you and your 'dreadful' poetry are only to be ridiculed, or you leave, quite upset, and march down the street, unheedful of what you may encounter."

"Quite obviously you leave the party," said Carrie. The Murdocks nodded in agreement.

"Most certainly you leave," continued Giles. "And, quite surprisingly, something happens. Any one of a million tragedies besets you and you die, quite unexpectedly."

"And because you are so terribly upset, and angry, and so on, your soul is stuck between the mortal plane and the hereafter, re-experiencing that terrible, unhappy evening over and over again in this house," Carrie concluded. "Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense. But a number of questions remain. Why did it take until 1901 for him to become visible. What could have possibly happened to cause that change? Why has he changed his schedule of appearances? Why has he started to harm himself?"

The Murdocks swung their eyes towards Giles, who frowned. "Now that," he admitted, "I haven't got the foggiest idea. Carrie?"

Her eyes grew wide and an anticipatory smile grew upon her lips. "Séance."

Giles grinned. "Séance."
 
 

Part Eight

The next evening found the four sitting in a circle in the front room shortly after nine o'clock. Candles were lit in a circle around them and they all held hands.

"What time is it?" whispered Steven.

"Sh!" said Giles. "It's almost time."

A few silent moments passed.

The ghost appeared.

Softly, Carrie began chanting. "Restless spirit, wandering soul," she intoned, "commune with us. I implore you, speak through me, tell us of your sorrows, tell us of your joys. Speak to us, spirit!"

The ghostly figure collapsed to the ground at the same time Carrie did. Quickly, Giles took control of the séance. "Tell us, spirit: what is your name?"

The voice came from two directions. "William…Carlisle…" it said slowly.

The Murdocks' eyes grew wide and they almost broke the circle, but Giles held on to them as tightly as he could and continued.

"Tell us, spirit: in what year did you leave us?"

"Never…left…remain…here…"

"Tell us, spirit: why do you remain here?"

The voice screamed and then spoke again. "I…remain…here…twofold…"

"Tell us, spirit: what happened to pull you back into our plane of existence?"

"I…remain…twofold…here…and…else…where…"

"Tell us, spirit: what happened elsewhere?"

It screamed again. "Death…love…death…and…love…"

"Tell us, spirit: how can we set you free?"

Carrie sat up slowly, her eyes blackened and unseeing. In a cocky tone, the voice said, through her, "What can I tell you, baby? I've always been bad."

She slumped over. The ghost disappeared.

Quickly, Giles said the incantation to open the circle and release the spirit's power from Carrie. The Murdocks were more than happy to finally be able to release their hands. Giles opened his mouth to speak, but -

A telephone rang.

Silently, the Murdocks and Giles looked at each other in befuddlement. Suddenly, Giles realized that it was his phone, the cell phone that the Council had commissioned him upon his return to England. Quickly he found it in his overcoat. "Hello?"

"Oh, God, Giles, you have to help me!"

"Dawn? Why on Earth-"

"Giles, it's Spike. He's sick or something. All of a sudden he started, like, flailing about and screaming and yelling things. Giles," she added in a whisper, "I'm scared."

Suddenly, it was as if every thought in his mind clicked, as if every thing they had learned in their research made sense. "Dawn, listen to me very carefully," he said. "Is Spike injured? Is he still flailing about and yelling?"

"No. He's-he's calmed down. It's like he fell back asleep."

"Is Buffy there?"

"Yes," replied Dawn. "It was her idea to call you. We tried Angel but no one answered."

"Very good. Put her on the phone, please."

"'Kay." There was a long pause with unintelligible voices murmuring, during which he exchanged a look with Susanna Murdock, as if to say, 'Oh, terribly sorry, I'll be as quick as possible,' and then he could hear someone pick up the phone again. "Giles?" It was Buffy.

"Buffy, is what Dawn just told me true?"

The Slayer took a deep breath. "Most definitely. At first I thought that maybe there was something wrong with his chip, you know? Like he was having a…a something-or-other in the brain, but…it felt off."

"Listen, Buffy, I think I know what caused it."

"How? You're over in England, we're here." She paused. "Unless you cast a spell on him. Giles, why would you cast a spell on Spike?"

"Don't worry about that now. Buffy, the moment Spike wakes up, I want him on the first possible plane to London. I don't care what it takes, what it costs; I'll find some way of reimbursing you for the expense."

"You want Spike to fly to England? Giles, are you feeling all right?"

"Buffy, unless you want Spike to have another…episode, another seizure, I need him to come to England. As soon as possible."

"Fine, fine, whatever you say. I'll do it."

"Good. Call me again when he's on the plane. I'll try my best to meet him at Heathrow, but if not, I'll want him to meet me at an address that I'll give you in a moment. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen at hand?" Buffy murmured some affirmatives and then Giles gave her the address of the Murdock residence. "Spike might recognize the address and may not want to go, but I trust you to do whatever it takes to get him here."

A few minutes later, he powered off his cell phone and turned to the Murdocks. "What on Earth is going on?" asked Steven.

Giles cleared his throat. "I have discovered the root of and at least part of the solution to your ghost problem, Mr. and Mrs. Murdock: William Carlisle did not simply die an unfortunate death, resulting in his haunting your sitting room. There is a reason why the police never found his body. William Carlisle died and split into two: his soul came here, but his body transformed.

"William Carlisle became a vampire."
 
 

Part Nine

Saturday evening. It was surprisingly dark and rainy already at seven o'clock, as if a stronger storm was simply biding its time before arriving and letting loose its destructive force.

Or, Buffy mused, as if the Powers That Be knew that a vampire had just arrived in town.

It had taken the combined efforts of the entire Scooby Gang to convince the chipped vampire even leave Sunnydale and return to England. They had each tried their own form of trying to indulge Spike's weaknesses - free cigarettes, a new TV for his crypt, free merchandise from the Magic Box, and so on - before resorting to threats. Nothing had worked. Finally, Xander had threatened to knock him out and stick him in a crate as someone's checked-in luggage (they still had the gun and sedatives from the old days when Oz had still been around), or worse yet, in a coffin. This final threat - and the vampire knew that Xander was serious - combined with the headache he still had from his 'episode' made Spike give in. If Giles wanted him in England, and if Giles wanted him to go to that damn address, he was going, he had said. They weren't entirely convinced.

Which was why Buffy and Dawn had accompanied him and had not let him out of their sight once since they stepped onto the plane until now.

The three weary travelers found themselves standing before a beautiful and well-kept Victorian house. Spike had been surprisingly quiet the entire trip, not even complaining about the food on the plane, but now he was making up for it with rather unique and colorful metaphors.

Buffy giggled. They had been watching Star Trek IV on TV when Spike had had his little episode two days before. She had always liked that line.

"Come on, Spike," said Dawn, tugging on the vampire's sleeve.

Spike seemed to pout. Any second now, Buffy expected him to say, "Nuh-uh. Don'wanna go."

Instead, he said, "No, Bit, I'm not going in there. It's bad enough the Watcher - and you two - dragged me back to the Mother Country. Worse, you made me come here and I have to stare at this damn house. We're not making it three-for-three. I'm not going inside."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. That had been the adult equivalent.

"Look, Spike," she said finally, "I don't really care at this point whether or not you want to be here, or if you want to go inside, or whatever else is going on. I'm tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a long, hot bath. Preferably with bubbles and scented candles. I'm sure Dawn's feeling the same way. In fact, I bet you do too. Giles wanted you to come here, so I know that whatever the heck is going on, it has got to be pretty damn important. And somehow it's connected to whatever happened to you Thursday. So, unless you maybe want to keep having stuff like that happen to you, and, oh, I don't know, die, I suggest you work with us." Without waiting for an answer, the Slayer marched up the few steps and rang the doorbell.

Dawn gave Spike a Look. "Come on, Spike, how bad can this be?"

Spike was tempted to return that Look with one of his own. "Nibblet, you have no idea what's going on here. I have very specific reasons for not wanting to be here -"

"And Buffy has very specific reasons for wanting you alive." Dawn paused. "Or, un-alive or whatever. Still around. Spike, she likes you."

Spike went ahead and gave her the Look.

Dawn ignored it. "I know you guys had a thing going on. And I know it stopped and things happened and now you're doing the sorta-kinda friends thing. But you love her. You're still in love with her. And she's finally getting it in her head that it's okay for her to love you too." She smirked at the vampire's confused look. "I'm the little sister. I snoop. I sneak. I figure things out."

Then, in the style of her sister, Dawn marched up the steps.

Spike sighed and looked up at the house. Throwing out a few more colorful metaphors and squaring his shoulders, he launched himself up the steps-

Only to trip on the last one and tumble into the house as someone opened the door, knocking over Dawn and Buffy in the process.
 
 

Part Ten

"…he all right? He hit the floor pretty hard…"

"…fine, Dawn. I think…"

"…can't have done as much damage to him as those seizures did Thursday…"

"…thought you said vampires…without an invitation…Mr. Giles?"

Groaning and lifting his hand to his forehead, Spike regained consciousness. He discovered himself to be sprawled out on an expensive-looking couch that he didn't recognize. He pulled his hand back into view, squinting a bit to try to focus his blurry vision, and noted almost absently that there was a little blood on his fingers.

"Here, Miss Summers. I knew we had some bandages somewhere…"

He tried to sit up, but was immediately pushed back with a judicious use of Slayer-strength. That's my girl, he told himself absent-mindedly. Then, aloud, he whispered, "Buffy?"

The Slayer came into view and his sight began to sharpen. "Just lay still for a sec, Spike. I need to bandage the cut on your forehead." Her arms moved over his head and he felt her rub something onto his face, just above his eyes.

After a moment, she helped him sit up and his vision finally cleared. They were not alone. Behind Buffy stood two very familiar faces - Dawn and Giles. To Buffy's left stood a man he had never seen before, holding a first-aid kit and looking at him with complete fascination. Behind him and seated on a footstool, a plump woman whose aura felt…shiny and glittery: a psychic of some kind. But to Buffy and Dawn's right, standing at a slight distance, as if curious and afraid at the same time, was a dark-haired woman who seemed slightly familiar.

Spike stood, shaking off Buffy's attempts to keep him seated, and made his way to the woman. Carefully, he looked her over, examining her face and searching in her eyes for any hint of recognition. At the same time she kept her own eyes on his face. She trembled a little - not enough for humans to notice, but Spike's vampire senses caught it easily enough. It was a tremble of not only the faintest hints of fear, but also excitement, curious excitement.

After those few moments of silence, he stepped back. "You're not her," he announced, "but you look like her. You…you have her eyes. Her…hair, and her lips. Yours are thinner, though."

"Cecily, you mean," said the woman softly.

He nodded.

"It's true then," she continued, casting her gaze to the floor. "It's all true." She lifted her head and stepped towards him, her hand out as if to shake. "Cecily…was my ancestor."

Spike took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he curled it in his hand and kissed her knuckles once, very softly. "What's your name, luv?" he asked, still holding onto her hand.

She blushed faintly before answering. "Susanna," she told him. "Susanna Murdock. The man over by your Miss Summers is my husband, Steven."

Spike turned his head slightly to glance at the man, catching the Slayer's eyes for a moment in doing so. "My Miss Summers, eh?" Buffy blushed.

Susanna murmured some sort of affirmation and Spike turned back at her. "I-" she started and then tried again. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carlisle."

Spike dropped her hand. "What did you call me?"

"That is your name, isn't it? William Carlisle? I admit, you don't quite look like what I had imagined, but you do look just like him-"

"Just like him?" said Spike angrily. He turned and walked over to Giles. "Watcher, you have about thirty seconds to explain to me what the bloody hell is going on here!"

Giles stepped back, startled slightly by the fact that the vampire's anger had caused him to go into game face. The Murdocks gasped behind them. Dawn giggled faintly. "Spike, calm down," Giles said finally.

"I will not calm down. I want to know why you had me cross an entire continent and an ocean, and how the hell you managed to find the one house in all of London that I would never voluntarily enter into, but that I apparently can without invitation, and how on Earth that woman knows my name!"

Suddenly, Spike found himself relaxing under Buffy's hands, which she had placed softly on his shoulders. He turned towards her. "Spike," she said softly. "Please calm down. Giles has a really bizarre story to tell you and I need to have you sit down, okay?"

He nodded, and caught Dawn's eye. The younger girl grinned at him, the same grin she would give when she came up with new and bizarre recipes to try, or more exquisite tortures for Angel when he came to visit next. She had a more devious mind than he did.

They sat. Giles cleared his throat and then began to speak. "As Buffy said, this is indeed a bizarre story. Spike, I'm not sure how you'll take this, to be honest. You see, it has to do with your soul."
 
 

Part Eleven

The vampire stared at him. "My soul? Eh, hello? Vampire here. In all but the rarest and…poofiest of instances, that means no soul. You should know that, Watcher."

Dawn giggled again.

"I realize that, Spike," said Giles, "but this is indeed a rare instance, as you put it. You see, Spike, normally when a vampire is made, the soul leaves the mortal plane altogether, usually entering into one of the heavenly dimensions. It appears, however, that in rare circumstances, the soul can enter into the space between the mortal and the heavenly realms, where it remains indefinitely. I would assume that it would then make its proper transition into the heavenly dimensions when the vampire is destroyed."

"In rare circumstances?" repeated Spike hesitantly. Dawn sat down beside him and snuggled up against him. Automatically, his arm went around her shoulder, his hand clasping at hers. Buffy tightened her hold on his other hand. There observe the evil vampire, surrounded by the women who love him, said Buffy to herself with a giggle. Wait a sec…love?

"Yes," said Giles. "It seems that your soul, or rather, William's soul is still here on the mortal plane."

"Oh." Spike looked over at the Murdocks. "Reincarnated or something, you mean."

"No, Spike," said Giles gently. "As a ghost."

"A ghost?" whispered Spike hesitantly. He seemed to collapse into himself. "The whole time? The entire one hundred and twenty-two years?"

Giles nodded.

"Here?"

He nodded a second time.

Spike stood and slowly made his way over to the infamous moving chair. He sat down in it, his gaze landing on the stairs across from them, past the entrance. In that very moment, Giles was struck with the realization that Spike and William Carlisle were indeed the same person, simply from the way the vampire sat in the chair that his soul's ghost was so fond of.

"I can remember sitting here," whispered the vampire. "I remember that I…I liked to sit here."

"As does he," said Carrie finally, breaking her long silence. "Whenever the ghost appears, he is first seen sitting in that chair, just as you do now."

Spike jerked his head towards her, shifting in his seat as he did. He looked at her with a puzzled expression and then suddenly he knew. "I've seen you before. The other day, when…whatever that was happened to me. I saw things. I saw you."

Carrie nodded. "I'm not surprised. You see, William-"

Spike stiffened at her use of his human name.

"-we didn't know it was you. We had no idea. We decided to hold a séance and try to communicate with the spirit, and I acted as the medium. Somehow, there is still a connection of some sort between you and your soul. When we attempted to communicate with the soul, the connection was…agitated, for lack of a better word, and it affected you physically."

Spike mulled this over. "A connection?" he said hesitantly.

"Yes, Spike, a connection," said Giles. "It's not the same as with Angel. His situation is different in two ways: first, his soul actually resides within his body, and two, his soul and his demon are constantly at war with each other. With you…with you, there is a connection between you and your human soul, but it does not influence you whatsoever. At the same time, the demon that is within you does not conflict with the connection with the soul."

"Then what's the problem?" asked Spike. "As long as no one tries to do something about the ghost, about…the soul, I'm fine. Right?"

"You see, Mr. Carlisle, the ghost has had some…problems of late," said Steven Murdock slowly.

Spike turned his head toward him, giving the human man a glare, and then turned back to Giles. "What's he talking about?"

Quickly, Giles outlined the history of the ghost: how it had started appearing in 1901 once a year, how it started appearing more often in 1998, and how it had taken to harming itself. Spike paled at the descriptions. "I take it you have a theory, then, Watcher?" he said softly.

Giles nodded. "Spike, do you remember what happened in May of 1998?"

"Of course I do. Me and the Slayer-" He stopped, eyes wide open, as if suddenly seeing a connection.

"Exactly. You and Buffy joined forces to defeat Angelus, to save the world. You did an act of good, Spike. That's what happened. You went against the basic nature of your demon and helped save the world. You would have been able to do this, I think, even if your human soul had passed on to the heavens as it should have. But because it is still here in the mortal plane of existence, and there is a connection, that connection was activated. No, that's not quite the right word: the activation of the connection, which had been dormant, must have been what caused the ghost to become visible-"

"When I killed the Chinese Slayer," offered Spike. "July 1900. The soul probably didn't like that too much."

"Resulting in it fighting its way out of the between-space, but not being able to appear visibly until the next March, on the anniversary of his…your death," said Carrie. "Yes, that makes a bizarre kind of sense."

The Murdocks and the Summers continued to sit quietly, watching the discussion unfold.

"You see, Spike," continued Giles, "except for the yearly appearance, the ghost appears whenever you do an act of good or have a-a noble thought or something of that nature. Something that appeals to the innate goodness of the human soul, which is touched by it through the connection. It doesn't happen at that exact moment; it still waits until the same time every evening, collecting good deeds, as it were, as if those good deeds were charging its battery. Ever since you teamed up with Buffy to stop Angelus, the ghost has appeared more and more because, slowly, you have been performing more and more good deeds or having powerfully good thoughts, which in turn send a 'charge' to the ghost."

"So…it's really my fault," said Spike slowly. "I'm the one keeping him here." Buffy realized that she didn't like the guilty look on his face.

"No, Spike," said Giles. "It's not your fault. What's wrong is that the soul, William, hasn't come to terms with whatever it was that happened that night. He relives it without being able to change it. Something needs to be done to change the cycle somehow, to get him to realize that he's still here after all these years, and that he can leave. These times when he injures himself, clawing at his face and whatnot - it's because he's frustrated. He can feel you out in the world, and he's much rather be there than just here, night after night, without change, though he doesn't really know for certain that he's a ghost."

"What do we do?" piped up Dawn from the couch. "Can we curse him like Angel?"

"Dawn!" exclaimed Buffy.

"That would fix it, right? And then Xander couldn't make those stupid jokes about him being evil and just waiting until the chip's out," said Dawn.

Giles grimaced. "That would fix it, yes," he said, "but that's not what needs be done."

Spike blinked.

The Watcher continued. "If we cursed Spike, as was done with Angel, Spike would change dramatically, Dawn, and we don't know how. The soul has been here, reliving the same night for a hundred years, Dawn; the repetition may have made him go mad. For all that Spike may have loved Drusilla, I doubt that he wants to become her."

"Oh," said Dawn.

"What's the plan then?" asked Buffy softly. She exchanged a kind look with Spike, who gave her a hesitant smile. He knew that Dawn's heart had been in the right place.

"Somehow, we - and by that I mean most likely just one of us - must again contact the ghost as we did Thursday with the séance, but this time try to somehow convince him that he has died and he needs to leave the mortal plane."

"How do we-" started Buffy.

Spike screamed.
 
 

Part Twelve

The scream was but momentary and then they heard a clock, elsewhere in the house, chime that it was a quarter past. They stared at the vampire, who for a moment simply sat there with a strange look on his face, almost as if he were confused. Then, as suddenly as his scream had ended, he began to speak and move.

"Luminous... oh, no, no, no. Irradiant's better….Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for "gleaming"? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see….Cecily.…"

"Oh, dear God," whispered Giles.

"Giles! What happened?" said Buffy, moving from her seat on the couch with Dawn (who was secretly fascinated with what she saw going on before her) to stand beside Giles.

The Watcher shook his head. "The ghost appears at nine-fifteen. Spike was in the way. And since it's the proper body and whatnot-"

"The ghost was able to hijack it. Got it," replied the Slayer.

"I feel sorry for Spike," admitted Giles, "but you must admit it's quite fascinating at the same time. And we can finally hear what the ghost has been saying for all these years…"

"You couldn't hear him before?" asked Buffy, somewhat surprised by the revelation.

Giles nodded. "There are literally hundreds of kinds of ghosts. This was one that functioned on only one level - that of the visual. A silent ghost. For the first time in a century, he's transcending that level, but he's still locked into the cycle. He doesn't even realize that he's in a body again."

Now silent themselves, they followed Spike with their eyes.

"I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for. I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty….Careful. The inks are still wet. Please, it's not finished…."

Once again, the vampire moved, this time to the little side room. He sat down. "Cecily?…Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you and I….They're about how I feel….Every syllable….Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily….I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me-" A moment later, his eyes following some invisible figure, a single tear fell from Spike's eye.

Dawn began to cry. Buffy ached to do so, but found herself unable to, instead only capable of a single thought: she was glad that this Cecily chick was long since dead, 'cause if she hadn't been, she would have been quickly introduced to the wrath of a Slayer.

Suddenly, Spike stood upright and made as if to leave, gathering something off of his favorite chair and then walking to the door. He opened it and started down the stairs.

They stood there, stock-still, uncertain as to what they should do. After a moment's hesitation, Buffy ran to follow Spike. She caught up with him half-way down the street, just in time to hear him shout through his tears, "Watch where you're going!" and to watch him run into a person he could only see and drop things that were invisible to her eyes. He picked them up and went a few more steps before stopping suddenly and then collapsing onto the ground.
 
 

Part Thirteen

Morning came with the smell of freshly baked bread and frying sausages. Buffy tried to roll over, but found that there was something human-shaped blocking her efforts. She opened her eyes to see Dawn asleep beside her in a worn sleeping bag, twisted comically around her. Buffy stretched and slowly made her way out of the sleeping bag she had slept in, borrowed from the Murdocks the night before. Quietly, she examined the vampire on the couch next to them. Still asleep, or comatose or whatever he was. Unconscious. The Slayer wrinkled her forehead. It looked like he hadn't moved at all since they had put him there.

She followed her nose into the kitchen, where she found Susanna Murdock scurrying to and fro with dishes and utensils and food, and Giles seated at the table, reading. "Morning," she said hesitantly.

Giles looked up. "Good morning, Buffy," he offered in return. "Did you sleep well?"

She stretched a little and then took the seat across from him. "Pretty good. Haven't done the sleeping bag thing in a long time, though. Sleepovers and campouts aren't exactly part of the standard Slayer package." Giles gave her a little grin at that, and she continued. "But all-in-all it was of the good. By the way, thanks for letting us stay here, and y'know, the sleeping bags and everything, Mrs. Murdock."

Susanna turned from the stove. "It was no trouble, Buffy, really. Though I do worry about William. Both of them, really."

The ends of Buffy's smile twitched. "That's just so bizarre for me, to hear people call him William and-and Mr. Carlisle and stuff. I mean, he's Spike. Just Spike. Plus, finding out that he wasn't a bad-ass as a human-" Quickly, she covered her mouth and looked apologetically to Mrs. Murdock. "Sorry. Language."

Susanna simply gave her a hesitant little smile and returned to her cooking.

"Yes, well, it is a bit of a shock to me as well, Buffy," interjected Giles, "and looking back on things, I realized that I should have known. Any vampire that quoted Shakespeare on a regular basis…"

"Shakespeare?" asked Buffy, puzzled. "Spike quotes Shakespeare?"

Giles nodded. "He's rather fond of the sonnets, not surprisingly. And Much Ado About Nothing. It was on PBS when he lived with me and he knew the entire play by heart. He was particularly good at pretending to be Kenneth Branagh."

"Oh." At that moment, Susanna began bringing over the silverware and plates. "Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs. Murdock?" asked Buffy.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it, dear. But perhaps you could see if your sister's ready to eat yet?" suggested Susanna.
 
 

Dawn was indeed awake when she returned to the sitting room. The younger girl was sitting on the floor next to the couch, her arms and head resting on the cushions so that she could look up at her vampire protector. "Dawnie?"

She looked up and Buffy saw that Dawn was aching to cry. "Is he going to be all right?" asked Dawn hesitantly.

Buffy came over to her and pulled her close in a tight hug. "Don't worry, Dawn. We'll fix things."

"But he's still asleep. He hasn't even moved."

"It's 'cause of the ghost, Dawn, that's all. The ghost got stuck in him. And you know what's the same about ghosts and vampires?"

Dawn shook her head.

"They both like to sleep during the day and come out at night," said Buffy. "So let's not worry about it just yet, okay? Mrs. Murdock's making breakfast and Giles is awake, too, so let's join them, okay?"

Dawn nodded. Together, they stood and slowly made their way out of the room, each sparing an uncertain glance back to the vampire before they left.
 
 

Part Fourteen

"So what's the plan?"

Breakfast had finished and now all but Spike - who was still out - and Steven Murdock - who had gone to work - sat around the kitchen table. Carrie had returned, having picked up some candles and other witchy items.

Giles sighed. "There is a spell that will allow a living person to walk in the ghost world. It's fairly simple to execute, but it can be dangerous. It's easy to become trapped."

"But?" pushed Buffy.

"But," finished Giles, "it's the only solution that Carrie and I have come up with. Originally, we thought that one of us would do it. Then we discovered that the ghost was of Spike's human self, and we hypothesized that he should be the one to do it - facing himself, as it were. That's why I wanted him to come here. But now…" He sighed.

"But maybe that's what's going on," suggested Dawn. "Maybe he's talking to himself and that's why he's still asleep."

Carrie shook her head. "That's not quite how it works, sweetie. When a ghost enters into a physical body - usually a human, a medium like me - the ghost has the power. It's the one in the driver's seat, you could say. The William you know has no power right now; only the ghost does. And because the ghost only appears in the evenings, he's inactive now."

"Oh." Dawn looked away, embarrassed.

"So what do we do?" asked Buffy.

"I would say that we should go ahead and do the spell," answered Giles. "The question, though, is who should do it. It's best when the person has a connection to the ghost-"

"I'll do it," said Buffy suddenly. Giles looked at her. "Buffy, I'm not sure you know what you're getting into-"

"Giles," she said softly. "I have the strongest connection with Spike of all of us. It's pretty close between Dawn and me. Spike loves Dawn, and she adores him. But…it's like she's his sister, his little sister. William died 'cause he was in love. Spike's in love with me, and…and it's okay for him to say that now. Things have changed since you left."

Giles pursed his lips. "Are you sure, Buffy? Are you sure that this is what you want to do?"

She took a deep breath. "I am."

"Very well then," he said and exchanged a look with Carrie, who smiled. "Then we'd best start preparing." He and Carrie stood and went into the sitting room, taking the candles and other items with them.

"Buffy?" said Susanna.

"Hm?"

Susanna took a deep breath. "I only wish to say that I think you are very brave, Miss Summers. And you must love William quite deeply to do this for him."

Dawn perked up at that and turned her head to watch the two elder women.

"Why do you say that?" asked Buffy.

"Mr. Giles explained to me the other evening about this…this spell he spoke of. It does sound quite dangerous. If you're unable to convince William - the soul, the ghost William - that he's iin fact dead and it's time for him to move on, you yourself may become lodged in the in-between-space with him. Mrs. Southworth described it as being similar to the astral plane. If you're not careful, the connection between your body and your soul may become disjointed or even break, preventing you from returning. And if your soul is unable to return to your body…"

"She could die?" said Dawn softly.

Susanna nodded. "And thus she would become a ghost herself, locked into a pattern as William is. Only you would potentially relive your attempt to communicate with him, but failing to do so each time."

"I see," Buffy said slowly She shook her head and stood up. "No. It doesn't matter. This is the way things are. And we're gonna fix it. I'm gonna fix it."

Dawn and Susanna watched as Buffy left the room with a determined gait. "Very cool," whispered Dawn.

Susanna looked at her. "Why do you say that?"

She giggled. "Isn't it obvious? She finally figured out that she's in love with him. It's so obvious." Then she began in a singsong voice, "Buffy and Spike, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes…"
 
 

Part Fifteen

Once again it was evening and it felt unnaturally dark. The sitting room was lit only with candles, which stood around her in two concentric circles. Giles and Steven Murdock had propped Spike up in William's chair and now they had formed a circle, hands linked, around her, between the two circles of candles. Carrie had informed her that it was strangely fortuitous to have five individuals forming the circle, that it was linked through the magical elements of earth, air, fire, water and spirit that way, strengthening the psychic power that they would lend to her during the spell. Buffy shivered. Would the extra power be good or bad? Already, she could see scenarios in her mind of both.

They heard the clock strike nine and Buffy took a deep breath. "Buffy, are you absolutely certain?" asked Giles from his place at the northern point. Earth. Mortal-realm wisdom. Beside him sat Dawn as the indeterminate spirit, and beside her Carrie at the west - intuitive knowledge. The Murdocks had taken the remaining two places.

"I am," she told him, and took another deep breath, preparing herself to enter into the meditative state.

Giles swallowed nervously and glanced over to Carrie, who nodded. "Very well then. Let us begin."

Carrie began the incantation and soon Buffy felt herself become sleepy, so out of it that Dawn had to get her attention before she remembered to say her part of the spell. They continued and now Buffy felt the world turn watery, as if she were in a dream. Things began to not quite make sense. She wasn't sure where she was anymore, or why she was there. The room was empty, completely stripped of human life. All that remained was the furniture, and all she saw was Spike-

The clock struck the quarter of the hour.

She stood, stepping towards him, when suddenly the room was no longer dark or empty. In fact it was crowded, filled with people, noisy with their chatter. She bumped into a young woman in a pale rose-colored evening gown. "Why, I never-!" said the woman, staring at Buffy as if she were diseased.

"Oh, sorry. Sorry about that," said the Slayer, moving further through the throng of people, trying to find Spike. She had lost sight of him.

"Robert! Did you see that?" she heard the woman said to her companion. "Why, the sheer lack of consideration of that girl!"

"You shouldn't bother yourself about it, Maude. Just some American girl - you heard her accent. Someone's cousin onn the European tour, no doubt," said Robert.

"Well, I certainly hope she picks up some manners with her smattering of French and Italian…"

Ah-ha! She had found him again: there he was, sitting in the chair as usual, muttering to himself and scribbling in a notebook. Buffy fought back a laugh at the image of him. She had barely recognized him in the old-fashioned clothing and the long, undyed, curly hair, and - oh, God! He wore glasses, too!

She watched the butler approach him. "Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for "gleaming"? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see." She could barely hear him from that distance, but it happened to be just loud enough for her to catch what he had said, and this time she could not fight back that giggle. A few of the partygoers turned and stared at her before returning to their conversations.

She continued to watch William. Suddenly, he looked up. "Cecily..." he said in an awed tone. She turned and looked to see what he was staring at: a girl with dark hair coming down the stairs, wearing a cream and purple dress. She frowned. "Okay, so she's kinda pretty. And yeah, she does look a little like Mrs. Murdock, but is she really all that?" said Buffy softly. Out of curiosity, she glanced down at herself and discovered that she, too, was dressed for the times: a long gown of cream and dark blue, a small fan in her hand and a lightweight gold bracelet on her wrist. A little lady's watch was pinned to her bodice and when she raised her free hand to her hair, she discovered that it was suddenly much longer, curled and pinned and put up in a fancy style. Watching Cecily enter the room, Buffy slowly walked into the foyer, where she found a large mirror, part of an elaborate coat rack. "Wow," she whispered to herself. "Not quite Gone with the Wind, but damn close." She preened for a moment, and then rejoined the party.

"...I've heard on good authority they're not human at all," she heard a man say, and instinctively she drew herself toward him. "Animals of some sort. Escaped from a traveling sideshow."

The young woman beside him frowned. "But wild animals would leave a trace of some kind. Tracks..."

"Mangled bodies," added a second man.

"Charles!" exclaimed the woman. "Don't be ghastly. I merely point out that it's something of a mystery, and the police should keep an open mind."

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw William approach, almost nervously. She wasn't the only one who saw him. "Ah, William! Favor us with your opinion," said the first man. "What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?"

William joined their little circle. "I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for."

Oh, God, Buffy thought to herself, how did he get from that to 'I need a spot of violence before bedtime, love'? She saw him glance over to Cecily before continuing. "I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty."

"I see," said one of the men. "Well, don't withhold, William." The tone had just the tint of friendliness, but underneath it Buffy could hear the meanness that matched the body language of the others as he stole the notebook from William in a quick movement.

The woman laughed. "Rescue us from a dreary topic."

William looked uncertain and nervous. "Careful," he said. "The inks are still wet. Please, it's not finished-"

"Don't be shy," said the man. He took a moment to glance at the page and then read it aloud:

The man laughed. "Effulgent?" he said and everyone laughed with him a second time. Buffy cringed. It had been pretty bad. And that word - 'effulgent'. Bizarre. Definitely an SAT word.

She watched as Cecily left. The girl obviously knew that William had a thing for her. Buffy sighed. Poor William. He gave the man who had read the poem a dirty look and took the notebook from him, following Cecily.

"And that's actually one of his better compositions," Buffy heard one of the men say.

"Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"

"It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"

Buffy cringed. Well, now we know how he got his inspiration.
 
 

Part Sixteen

"Cecily?"

Buffy followed William discretely and watched him approach the dark-haired girl. Cecily was not happy to see him. "Oh. Leave me alone."

He sat down. "Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you and I."

"You and I?" Cecily looked startled. "I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"

He nodded. Oh, God, thought Buffy. It's the puppy-dog eyes. Carefully, she listened, turning her back to them so that it wasn't as obvious that she was eavesdropping. A few of the men cast her appreciative, sometimes almost leering glances, but no one spoke to her.

"Your poetry, it's... they're... not written about me, are they?"

"They're about how I feel."

"Yes, but are they about me?"

"Every syllable."

"Oh, God!"

"Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily."

"Please stop!"

"I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me-"

"I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me."

I'm a good man…a good man…a man…I know you'll never love me. I know that I'm a monster. But you treat me like a man…a man…a good man…You know you want to dance… It wouldn't be you, Spike…It would never be you… You're beneath me. Unbidden, the memories returned. Her. Spike. The alley behind the Bronze. The stairs in her house. The look on his face each time. She shuddered, and almost missed seeing Cecily leave. She reached out and grabbed the girl by the arm.

"What in heaven's name-! Who are you? What are you doing-" cried the dark-haired girl.

"Shut up!" Buffy told her. She felt strangely lucky: no one was watching them, no one appeared to have heard Cecily's cries. "Do you have any idea what you just did?" Buffy asked her. "What you did to him?"

"What I did?" Cecily repeated in a haughty tone. "Do you have any idea who that was?"

"I'm starting to get an idea of who he really is," said Buffy under her breath.

"That was William Carlisle," continued Cecily. "The…lowest individual among my acquaintances, I assure you."

"He's a nice guy, lady. He's…he's a good man. And he has a lot of potential."

Cecily laughed. "I don't know who you are, but you are quite mistaken. Young Mr. Carlisle has no potential whatsoever. Even before his father died, the Carlisles were quickly loosing their meager wealth. And now they haven't got nearly anything. Why would I want to even look at him?"

Buffy slapped her and left.

Moments later, she followed William onto the street.
 
 

Part Seventeen

The streets were not by any means empty, nor were they crowded. Nonetheless, William seemed to bump into every person possible. Hurry up, Buffy, she told herself, where's that Slayer speed? Obviously, in the ghost world, she was just a normal girl. She stopped, trying to catch her breath, only to gasp as she recognized three figures approaching - and William was on a trajectory aimed directly for them.

Even with the long hair and strange, old-fashioned clothing, she recognized Angel - no, Angelus. And Drusilla wasn't hard to pick out, either. But who's the blonde? Suddenly, she recognized the third member of the deadly trio.

Darla.

Nice to see that she had some fashion sense beyond classic Catholic schoolgirl!

She could just barely hear them:

"Well, if you're lonely, Dru, why don't you make yourself a playmate?"

"I could. I could pick the wisest and bravest knight in all the land - and make him mine forever with a kiss."

A moment later, William collided with them. "Bloody watch where you're going!" He bent to pick up his dropped papers. The vampires stopped momentarily and watched him. Darla smirked. "Or you could just take the first drooling idiot that comes along."

Angelus laughed. "You think she'll find a good one?"

"I found you, didn't I?"

The two older vampires kept going, but Drusilla stood there, as if trying to sense something, or listen to some voice in her head. Unafraid of her, Buffy ran to William, who had just stood up straight again after having picked up his papers. "William! Stop! William!" she cried.

She caught up with William and grabbed his arm. At first, she thought her hand had simply moved through William, as if she were the ghost and he the living, because she saw him continue onward to a strange building - a stable? - up ahead of them. Drusilla mooved past her, as if blind to the Slayer's presence, following the upset young man.

But then Buffy realized that she was holding onto something and for the first time looked into William's eyes. "Who are you?" he whispered.

Suddenly the world shook and then screeched to a halt.
 
 

Part Eighteen

Buffy looked around her and saw that the world had indeed stopped. All the people, the horses and carriages - they were standing still, like someone had hit a great big pause button. She looked back up at William - or rather, one of the Williams. The other William was paused just before the entrance to the stable ahead of them, Drusilla hot on his heels. This William was standing right before her, the faint traces of tears staining his cheeks, and a confused look sat upon his face.

"Don't you know who I am?" she asked.

He shook his head. "There's…there's something not quite right here," he whispered. He looked around and noticed how everything had come to a standstill. "What's going on? I-I don't understand."

"You don't know me?" she asked again.

"Believe me, Miss, if I had I most certainly would have remembered," he told her. A bright red blush took the place of his tears. He looked at her carefully, examining her face for any sign of his own recognition. "You're…you're very beautiful," he said hesitantly, unable to meet her eyes. "Your husband is a very lucky man."

"My husband…" she whispered, frowning. Suddenly she recognized the feeling of a ring on her hand, as if it had always been there, but she had just now noticed it and she looked down. "The ring…" It was Spike's ring, the ring he had given her when they had become engaged under the spell several years earlier. She touched it gingerly with a fingertip, as if to make sure it was really there. It was. It clashed horribly with the period costume, but it was there. "William-"

"It's you," he said suddenly. "You're what's-what's wrong here. You're…new." He took a deep breath. "You weren't here before. You're new."

She nodded. "Do you understand what happened, William? Do you know what's going on?"

He looked around again, at the frozen people and the frozen horses, and then lifted a hand to his eye. He stared at the tears that remained on his finger when he brought it away from his face. "It feels as if…I've done this before. Not this, right now - this feels…new. But earlier - the party. And Cecily. It felt as if I had done everything before, said the same words over again. As if I were in a theater. But…" He frowned. "I don't understand how that could be."

Buffy tried her best to be serious. "William, it's true," she said. "You have been doing it all over and over again. I have to tell you something, and you probably won't like it, but I think you're strong enough to hear it. You don't know it yet, but you're stronger and more intelligent than any of those people back at the party who ridiculed you. Believe me, William - I know you, or at least someone who's just like you. Cecily was wrong: you're not beneath them. It's actually the other way around."

William looked at her with a puzzled expression. "You were there? At the party?"

She nodded. "William, it's time for you to hear the truth."

He sniffed and looked away. "Then tell me. I don't care how awful it is. Just tell me. Please."

Buffy cupped his cheek with her hand and pulled his face back towards her. "William," she said slowly. "All of this…it happened a long, long time ago."

"How long ago?" he whispered.

"Over a hundred years ago," she replied. "I don't know for certain, but it was a good hundred years ago."

He searched her face, her eyes, for any sign that she might be lying, but found none. "How can that be? How could I have been doing this for a century without knowing it?"

She swallowed. "You died, William," she whispered. "You left the party and started walking down the street, just like you did a few moments ago. But someone saw you - that woman, right there, with the dark hair." She guided his vision towards Drusilla. "She killed you that night."

"Kill-killed me?"

"She killed you, William. But for some reason, you stayed here, in the world, instead of passing on, instead of crossing over. You - your soul - you stayed here, on Earth."

He frowned, the implications of this slowly trickling into his mind. "But how?"

"As a ghost," she said finally. "You became a ghost, William."

For a moment he simply stared at her with a blank expression on his face. But then he nodded. "I believe you. I-I don't know how I can, but I do."

Buffy nodded. "William, you need to fix this. You need to continue on to-to heaven. It's not…healthy for you to stay here, especially now that you know."

He swallowed nervously. "What do I have to do?"

"You have to see yourself die."
 
 

Part Nineteen

William blinked. "I have to see myself die?" he asked hesitantly. "But, if what you say is true, then I'm already dead."

"You are," Buffy replied, taking his hand. "But from what I've been told, you - as a ghost - have a routine. Specific things that you relive over and over, things that happened the night you died."

"The party, you mean," he said.

"Exactly. But you always stop short at the end. You always stop here - in the street, a few minutes before you ddied."

He frowned. "Why would I do that?"

She cupped his hand between her hands. "Because if you allowed yourself to die, you would realize that you were dead and you would somehow manage to stop being a ghost and cross over. Your death traumatized your soul - it was unexpected, I think. Whatever happpened between this moment, in the street, and the moment when you died was so bizarre or unexpected or painful that you didn't know how to deal with it. You couldn't face it and overcome it. So you began to pretend it never happened."

He nodded. "Again, your words make a bizarre kind of sense," he said. "And once again, I believe you."

"Good," Buffy said, giving him a little smile. "Now, this is your world. You control it. Only you have any power here. Pretend it's a strange dream. Set things back in motion."

"Set things back in…" He closed his eyes, his eyebrows meeting in determination. When he opened his eyes again, there was sound and movement.

"Good," she repeated. "Now come with me." He hung back for a moment in hesitation. "Don't worry, William. Nothing can hurt you here. It all happened a long time ago." This time he went with her.
 
 

The stable was dark, lit by only a few lanterns, but the phantom image of William was clear and life-like, sitting on a stack of hay, tearing at his poetry. Buffy felt her William start at the sight of his double, but she squeezed his hand and he calmed again. Beside them, but unknowing of their presence, Drusilla entered, uttering the words that apparently began the end of William's life. "And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

The phantom William looked up. "Nothing. I wish to be alone."

The vampire was unconvinced. "Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." She stepped forward and made a dance-like move. "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head."

Trust Drusilla to say something both prophetic-sounding and completely insane, Buffy thought to herself. Beside her, William began to shake, as if the memories were finally returning to him.

"That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you."

"Don't need a purse," countered Drusilla slyly. "Your wealth lies here... and here. In the spirit and... imagination." Oh, yeah, right. I'm sure you're thinking of his 'imagination', Buffy giggled silently. "You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."

"Oh, yes! I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me."

Poor William. Of course it would have to be Drusilla who was the first woman to come on to you.

Drusilla toyed with his shirt collar. "I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent." She seemed to capture the word in the air.

"Effulgent," whispered both Williams softly. Buffy looked at her William. "I-I think I'm starting to remember," he told her. Before them, the scene continued uninterrupted.

"Do you want it?" asked Drusilla.

"Oh, yes!" cried the phantom William softly, raising his hand hesitantly to her bosom. "God, yes."

The vampire gave him a sly smile, hypnotizing him, before her face changed, revealing the yellow eyes and long fangs of the demon. William stepped back, startled and confused - too confused to be afraid.

She bit.

William cried out in pain, excruciating pain.

"Oh, God," whispered William beside Buffy. "She-she-I-"

She gave his hand another reassuring squeeze. "She's a vampire. I know."

"A vampire," he said hesitantly, his eyes transfixed on the horrid scene before them. "It's true, then," he told her, tearing his gaze away. "I did die. And everything you told me was true."

Buffy nodded. "Yes."

He wrenched his hand away from her and staggered into the street. "Oh, God, oh, God," he whispered, collapsing onto the ground.

"William!" Buffy cried, following him. She crouched down in front of him, heedless of her dress. "William, it's over now. It's over."

He began to cry, to sob, to shake. She hugged him to her and rocked a little, trying to calm him. "William, it's all right now. It's all over." Slowly, he quieted. Looking up at her, he asked, "There's one thing I can't understand." His voice was tired and soft.

"What is it?"

"How it is that you look at me with such affection," he said. "The way you look at me - it-it almost looks like love."

She nodded. "I like you, William. And I'm sorry. You didn't deserve what happened to you. But sometimes I almost feel that there's a pattern and a reason to it, because I do love the man you became."

She kissed him.
 
 

Part Twenty

There was a moment where the world stopped again and the universe seemed to hiccup, and when the world started again, everything was different. She pulled away and saw, instead of William with his glasses and honey-colored hair, Spike in all his bleached glory. There were tears in his eyes and for a moment he looked confused, as if he wasn't sure whom he was looking at or where he was. For a moment they simply stared at each other, and then Buffy bent down again and kissed him.

Dawn laughed.

The kiss ended abruptly after that and they looked up to find themselves back in the sitting room in the house.

Only Giles had an expression on his face anywhere near what could be called horrified, and in all actuality it was more surprise than anything else.

Vampire and Slayer broke contact and inched away from each other as the Watcher ended the spell. There was a tingling sensation and then it was over.

"Spike?" asked Dawn hesitantly.

The vampire looked over at her. "Yeah, Nibblet?"

Clearly, that was the answer she had wanted to hear as then she launched herself at him. They hugged, and as they did, Buffy stood and moved herself away from them, settling on the couch. Carrie followed her. "Are you all right, dear?"

Buffy nodded. "A little dizzy, but for the most part okay." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "It was weird. I can't really find a better word for it. It was…weird." She sighed.

"A good kind of weird?"

She chuckled. "Definitely. But still….weird."

"You know, Buffy," said Carrie, "your aura is a pretty fantastic color right now. In fact, in the short time that I've know you, it's been quite a few very interesting colors."

"Oh?" said Buffy, opening her eyes and looking at the medium.

"Hm-hm. But do you know when it was the brightest, most beautiful color I've ever seen?"

"When?"

Carrie laughed and stood. "Just a few minutes ago, when you were kissing your boyfriend."

Buffy frowned. "He's not--"

"Trust me on this one, sweetie. He's a keeper." She smiled. "If you ask me, you've found your mate."
 
 

Epilogue

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you may have already noticed, we have turned on the seatbelt sign, indicating the begin of our descent into Los Angeles…"

"Buffy?"

"What, Dawn?"

"I have to go to the restroom. Can I go now, or do I have to wait until we're in the airport?"

"Go ahead, Bit. Just be quick about it, eh?"

"'Kay." Dawn unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed over Spike to get to the aisle.

A moment of silence passed.

"Buffy?"

The travel-worn Slayer turned her head. "What, Spike?" She giggled. "Need a potty break yourself?"

He laughed. "No, love."

"What do you remember?" she asked. "From the spell, and the ghost being inside you and so on. How much do you remember of it?"

His mouth formed a quirky smile. "Damn near everything, I'd say. Why?"

"Do you remember the ring?"

Spike frowned. "Vaguely. What about it?"

"I've been trying to sort things out in my head, little details from that whole ghostly-world experience. I was wearing your ring. The one -" She giggled. "The one from our very much short-lived engagement."

"I see," he said, puzzled.

"It meant something," she told him. "It didn't just appear when William commented on it - it had been there the whole time. I simply hadn't noticed it."

"And?"

She sighed. "You're being difficult."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Then please tell me this: what were you thinking when you kissed him?"

Buffy smirked. "I was thinking," she said cattily, "that I loved him."

"You loved the ghost?" he replied incredulously.

"I was thinking," she continued, "that I loved all of him. The man he was, and the man he became. The man he is…now."

"But, love, he-"

She scooted a little closer, as much as the seatbelt would allow her, and ran her thumb across his cheek. "The man, the good and loving man I'm gonna kiss right now, and whose ring I might wear again someday - for good."
 
 

At first, Dawn was uncertain why there was clapping and hooting, and assumed it was because LAX was now within sight.

However, upon returning to aisle fifteen, seats c-g, she changed her mind, biting her tongue, preventing any number of sarcastic remarks that ached to be said.

After all, she had to start building up brownie points if she wanted to be Maid of Honor.

[END]
 

"Fool for Love" quotes taken from both transcripts and shooting scripts at Psyche's.

Plot inspired by the following passage in an up-and-coming fic of mine called "Finding Home Again":