There’s a general consensus among the tea-drinking classes that those who make an Impression on us in life—capital I, hand gestures encouraged—are also rather more inclined to linger after death, making a fine nuisance of themselves in curtains, mirrors, and committee meetings. Great personalities, it seems, rarely know when to take their final bow. Indeed, the world of Splendid Bounders is agreeably riddled with spectres, shades, and dearly departed aunties who still insist on correcting one’s posture from beyond the veil.
The cause of all this posthumous activity? Well, opinions differ. Some say it’s the natural result of a life lived with flair, folly, and frequent newspaper appearances. Others blame Splendidium—those radiant, good-natured gems that power so many of our gadgets, giggletraps, and animated haberdashery. The debate rages on (often over port) as to whether the gems themselves tether a soul to the mortal coil, or whether the sort of people who use Splendidium tend to live the kind of lives that echo loudly enough to rattle the afterlife. Either way, the correlation is clear: a splendid life rather tends to become a persistent afterlife.
And what, one asks, are ghosts like? Well, much like one’s extended family—chatty, prone to repetition, and occasionally floating above the furniture. Ghosts can, with sufficient willpower, interact with the physical world: opening doors, tipping hats, writing cryptic warnings in bathroom steam. But such efforts require considerable concentration, and not all spectres are up to the task. Some are rather good at it (former librarians and petty bureaucrats, chiefly), while others struggle to do much more than flicker at inopportune moments and mutter about unfinished bridge games.
They can walk through walls—yes, yes, very impressive—but they prefer not to. It is, by all accounts, a thoroughly horrid experience. One ghost described it as “like bathing in gooseberry jam while someone screams your secrets into your ear.” Most choose to float around solid objects, thank you very much, unless absolutely necessary or showing off for tourists.
A number of ghosts serve with great dignity in The Parliament of Shadows that upper political chamber reserved for the posthumously opinionated. These honourable haunts drift through debates, pass legislation, and occasionally forget which century they’re legislating in. A common affliction among elder ghosts is the tendency to drift off mid-conversation, gazing wistfully at nothing in particular and muttering about long-lost hats, mistresses, or marmalade rationing during the Siege of Tiffleton. The older the ghost, the more pronounced this becomes—rather like a lantern on its last flicker, or Uncle Percival after a second brandy and a good cry.
But do not think for a moment that becoming a ghost ensures eternal mischief. Far from it. Spectres, for all their persistence, are not immune to time. Eventually, they fall prey to a phenomenon they grimly call the Fade. It is rather like retirement, only considerably quieter. No ghost currently wafts about beyond the age of 300, and most dissolve into the ether before 200—often mid-sentence, mid-waltz, or mid-petition to the Ministry of Road Closures.
In conclusion: live grandly, haunt stylishly, and if one must return as a ghost, do try to avoid walking through walls unless you absolutely must. And whatever you do, try not to fade before tea.