When young cad Finlay Saunders spurns the wrong lover, he is murdered, his soul now tied to the place where his life ended. Though the building changes over the years, Finlay’s haunting of the living becomes so bad, that a priest is called in, trapping him in the wall of his ‘death room.’
Ninety-three years later, Finlay’s room is unwittingly reopened. Jamie 'Fizz' Fitzherbert suffers from depression and his misery culminates in his parents throwing him out, leaving him with two bags, twenty pounds, and nowhere to go. Desperate, he calls his brother, who takes him to The Queen Anne's Revenge, where Fizz winds up living in a room that seems to already have an occupant ...
Fizz's negative energy feeds Finlay's soul, and as soon as the first crackle of blaring rock music fills the room, the ghost is free once again to wreak havoc upon the living.
Fizz kept his eyes closed, even covered them with his hands. He sought refuge in the blackness; he didn't want to see anything. He heard Ash walk out of the room then heard two sets of footsteps stomp away down the hall.
Well, it was official, then; he was nuts.
"Shit," he muttered, feeling his eyes prick with tears. "Shit, shit, sh --"
"Oh, for heaven's sake," a voice interrupted. "Get a hold of yourself."
Fizz looked up, his vision bleary from pressing his hands over his eyes. He'd thought the room was empty, but he was wrong. His gaze settled on a young man, sitting almost directly across from him. Fizz blinked, and stared. The man wasn't exactly sitting, he was levitating -- or sitting on an invisible chair, it seemed -- with one leg crossed over the other.
Weird. Fizz wondered absently how strong his subconscious must be to create such a detailed image. The vision was wearing an outfit; Fizz didn't even know what style it was, only that it looked like a vintage suit. The last rays of the setting sun from the window tinted everything orange, turning the man's clothes a burnt tan colour. His skin was pale, and his body slight. He didn't look all that old, either. His face was thin and effeminate, especially with that artful flop of hazel brown hair, clipped short at the sides, left long on top. Everything about his style was vintage yet, ironically, also in fashion.
Maybe Fizz remembered him from a movie poster or something? Was that where he'd conjured this vision from? The young man stared at him, his mouth slanting up in a smile. His eyes darkened and suddenly Fizz felt fear replace his curiosity.
That smile wasn't friendly, and those eyes were too dark. A black vapour seeped out from their corners, rising in the air around him. Fizz blinked his eyes to focus, and noticed more things about the man: there were bruises on his face, a cut on his lower lip. His clothes were torn in places, like he'd been in a fight.
Fizz's heart, which had slowed only moments ago, started beating fast.
"Ahh," the vision said. He showed a flash of white teeth as he smiled wider. "Now you worry."
Fizz willed himself to stay calm. He was asleep, that was all, and this was a nightmare. The counsellors had told him for years if he knew he was in a dream, he could guide and control his way out of it. This in mind, he swallowed hard, and said, "H-hello."
The young man threw his head back and laughed heartily. The black vapour spilling from his eyes was momentarily dispersed, like smoke. He stretched his legs out as he laughed, leaning back on thin air as comfortably as if he sat on a lounger.
"Um, who are you?" Fizz asked.
The laughing stopped. The young man straightened in his seat and stared at Fizz. "Surely, dear boy, the question is, who are you?"
Fizz was confused. "N-no, I know who I am."
The man looked as though he were about to start laughing again. "Do you now? So tell me, are you Jamie, or are you Fizz?"
Fizz thought about this, then voiced his first answer. "I guess ... I'm both."
"So, who are you?"
"Maybe I am you."
Fizz didn't think that was right. "You don't look anything like me."
"No," the man sighed. "More's the pity. What I could have done with your looks!"
Fizz felt his cheeks heat up. Why on earth would he dream up a hallucination that complimented him? Was this his way of coping with Ash? Or more accurately, without Ash? Fizz's eyes stung with tears at the thought. He didn't want to think about Ash.
"So, who are you?" he asked again.
"He's an old pervert, that's who," said a new voice. Fizz looked to the door, seeing the figure of a much taller, broader man. Fizz knew instantly that his was the same gruff voice that had spoken before, and this vision was even stranger. He was in some kind of uniform, like a soldier. Fizz didn't know what era the uniform was from: the jacket was dark green and dusty, with brass buttons over it. The soldier was definitely older in appearance, his face worn and haggard. He was also scowling hard.
"Oh, Martin, you're such a bore," the young man told him. "I'm going to banish you from my room now."
"You need to stop this," the soldier said.
"Pish!" The young man stood from his invisible chair and appeared to dust himself down. Fine bursts of dust motes dispersed through the air at his action, and Fizz could smell something sharp and acrid tickle his nose. He watched the two visions, intrigued more than scared.
"You'll get in trouble again," the soldier said. "They'll put you in the wall."
"Never." Black vapour seeped from the young man's eyes, clouding them completely. "Leave, Martin." He held out his hand, palm spread up. Fizz next looked for the soldier, but he had disappeared. Vanished completely.
"Where did --" Fizz paused. He heard footsteps echo down the hall, hurrying away. So, at least the soldier was all right, Fizz thought. Trust him to have a crazy hallucination. He frowned in thought, a memory from earlier pushing to the front of his mind. "You ... you're Finlay, aren't you?"