Wooden Overcoats Presents: Conversations with Ghosts

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Hello, my name is David K. Barnes from Wooden Overcoats, and I've just learned that Wooden Overcoats is not the only podcast available.
I know, absolutely extraordinary.

It turns out there are tons of them out there, but I just want to talk to you about one, and it's called Conversations with Ghosts.

It's the newest audio drama from the creators of the hit show Archive 81, and it's about loss, history, and the things that we leave behind.

The podcast follows a mausoleum attendant called Mal Fleming as he tries to convince the spirits of Grey Briar Cemetery to pass on.

So each episode is, as you might guess, a conversation with a different ghost, with Mal learning about each ghost's life and death and their legacy and what's tying them to this reality.

It's a mix of horror and wistfulness and sort of history, and we think that Wood and Overcoats fans, like yourselves, we hope, will really enjoy it.

So we've got an episode for you right now on this feed. It's called Bridget Keegan.
It involves Mal Fleming trying to help the ghost of a maid who's been cleaning out the cemetery for over a century.

Can you believe it? A century. Imagine all those cobwebs.
That's what the episode is. It's going to be on in just a few moments.
Take a listen.

And if you like it, you can find Conversations with Ghosts wherever you get your podcast. There are some episodes already there waiting for you in their feed.

We have a new episode coming every Wednesday. Now, I ought to tell you: conversations with ghosts can deal with some pretty heavy subject matter.
There's references to death, of course.

There's also some swearing, some bad language. So, you know, if your parents catch you listening to this, then you're in deep trouble, you know, I warned you.

But there is nothing particularly violent, so you should still be okay. So, sit back and listen to this episode of Conversations with Ghosts.
It's called Bridget Keegan, and it goes something

like this.

Good afternoon, Mr. Fleming.
My name is Bridget Keegan.

But please just call me Bridget. And I'm quite all right, Mr.
Fleming. Now, is there anything else I can help you with? Oh, uh, thank you.

And no, uh nothing I need help with other than, well, assisting in your passage. It's all right, mister Fleming.
No need to bother yourself on my account. It's no bother, Bridget.
It's it's my job.

I'm sure there are other residents that need your help far more than me, mister Fleming. Uh why do you say that, Bridget?

You're being clever, mister Fleming. Trying to get me to leave.
There's no need. I'm perfectly content here.
I'm not lazing about, mind. I keep myself busy.

And how do you do that? Oh, I clean the mausoleum. Make sure the Widow Dotson is ready for her day, preserve the tombstones.
Greybriar does have a maintenance department.

And I wouldn't want to speak ill of them, but I prefer to see to the Dotson plots myself. And you're able to actually affect these plots? You see a difference when you clean them? Yes, of course.

Any reason why I wouldn't? Most of the spirits aren't able to interact directly with the world, at least in my experience. Well, in my experience, I am able to see to the Dotson plots.

Understood, though I believe your employment contract doesn't extend past your death.

Correct me if I'm wrong, though. Well, one must keep busy.
Must one?

Don't be glib.

It's not all work. I have quite a bit of time to myself, far more than when I was...

Oh, what's the word? Alive?

I know the word alive, Mr. Fleming.
I worked in service. I'm not a child.
I was looking for... corporeal.

Sorry, I didn't mean to. It's quite all right, Miss Fleming, as I was saying.

I now have more than the customary half-day on Sunday and one full day a month, which is almost more than I know what to do with.

What do you do in your free time? Oh, you're very new, Mr. Fleming.
You'll learn what a spirits do in time.

Is there

any reason? I don't mean to. Oh, no.
Not at all. Us residents have just been here for quite a long while.
We can be a bit uh wary?

I'm sure you understand.

And it's not all that interesting. Mostly we talk, reminisce.

There's the bar that isn't called spirits.

Wait, what does that oh, uh no, uh

no one can agree on what to actually call it. Just that it's most certainly not called spirits.
Too predictable a name. So we just say it's the bar that's not called spirits.
That

makes sense. Uh and do you drink? Uh can you drink? Or or eat? Mr.
Fleming, the fact that you can see us and talk to us us does not make you one of us.

God willing, you won't be one of us for a good long while.

There is a.

And I hope you won't mind me saying this, a color to you that makes your job easier, I imagine. And I can't say if it's an entirely good thing.
I.

I don't think I know what that means, Bridget.

You're very new to your position, Mr. Fleming.

Starting a job is never easy. It's certainly been interesting.

Now, Bridget, may I may I ask about your life?

Trying to get me to leave, Mr. Fleming.

Should I not have reminded you about your position? I I am genuinely curious. Your headstone reads made, no other information given, not even a birth or a death date.

Well, I was buried in Greybrier, thanks to the

largess of the widow Dotson. Which was a kindness.
My family didn't have to pay for the burial costs. And your family? My father and brothers.
brothers.

Not enough time to find one of my own. Too busy in service.
I'm sorry. Oh, no need for apologies.
It's the way of the world. Sometimes.
For some people.

All of the time, Mr. Fleming.
For most people.

From what I could gather talking to the other spirits, most people still live lives like me, rather than the widow Dotson and her daughter.

Some things have changed.

If you look at the standard of living, depending on how you measure the standard of living, it does fluctuate though actually according to more recent examination of the gilded age's economic inequality it's actually oh yes yes how could i possibly have overlooked that

oh

sorry i i didn't mean to

apologize mr fleming

i have lived and you are living

very different lives and that is quite all right

I am curious what your life was like, though.

What it was actually like. I've done research of the time period in general, but there aren't a lot of primary sources.
From people of your class, I mean.

Most of the extant letters and diaries are from the Astors or the Vanderbilts. People of their, you know, ilk.
The lives of, well...

Ordinary people? Not ordinary, necessarily, but... I know what you mean, Mr.
Fleming.

Outside of my, you know, job, I'd find it fascinating just to hear what your life was like.

Though, to be clear, I would still like to assist in your passage. Your predecessor, Mr.
Caldwell, he wouldn't press the issue. He would just ask us if we would like to move on, and if we said no.

There's been a

change in directives, Bridget.

And are you sure you still want me to call you Bridget? Should I call you Miss Keegan or Mrs. Keegan? Would that be.
Miss.

And please call me Bridget. Everyone did.

Even if they didn't actually know my name. That was the nickname for Irish Maids, correct? Hmm.
Term's fallen out of use, I see. Yes.
A good thing. The Widow Dotson loved to make a joke of it.

Still does.

What was the Widow Dotson like as an employer?

Well,

she was the only mistress I had, so I can't compare directly, but

when the girls and I would talk at the parish, and that was mostly what we did, talking shite about being in service,

she seemed fine in comparison. Not good, not bad.
Half day on Sunday, full day off once a month.

Work ends at nine, earlier, if you can get the task done, back to the house at eleven, or else you wouldn't be let in.

Though Marley, who manned the door, would let me in if you asked. But then you would owe Marley a favour, and that is not a position you want to be in.
Better to

stay up, go back to the parish, nod off for a bit in one of the pews, come early in the morning to the Dotson house, make it through the day somehow, then go back to bed right after work.

Ah, the Widow Dotson was a fine mistress. Very strict about keeping up appearances, but that was to be expected.

A lot of the girls had it much worse than I did.

Sure, I don't mind a bit of hard work.

And how is she now?

Oh, she hasn't changed much at all.

Though keeping a mausoleum clean is far lighter task than cleaning a house on Fifth Avenue. And the Widow Dotson's appearance requires a little bit less maintenance.

Her hair stays up, so no need to put the rats in after she wakes up. Wait, sorry, the rats?

Pads to give her hair volume. Make it appear like waves in the ocean.

Hair was worn above the neck back then, after a woman made her debut. Her hair was styled and primmed, so it wasn't worn long, didn't appear childish.

Very heavy to carry it throughout the day, quite a lot of bother. Pretty, though, I must admit that.

Especially set against the jewels that they wore.

And the Widow Dotson still needs a bit of help, even though it's a bit less, even after all this time. Do you...

do you need to be the one that helps her?

One must keep busy.

And don't say must one again. Don't be glib.
Your mouth makes sort of a half-smile when you think you're being clever. It's not seemly.
I'm sorry. I genuinely.
It's all right, Mr. Fleming.

But I don't appreciate your pity. I had my routine.
I still do.

This might not have been how I imagined purgatory, but it seems to fit the criteria, wouldn't you agree? I mean,

I don't know. I'm not especially religious, I guess.
Picked an interesting job, then, didn't you?

To be honest, I didn't know that this would be the job when I signed up.

No one really does.

Probably not as much as you, Mr. Fleming, but still.

No one really does.

Before I left for America, I'd help on the farm. And once I got here, I'd help my ma with chores, and

she tried to get me to a parochial school, but being a maid wasn't a bad job, considering where I left. Dad had wanted to leave for years.
We had to save up. Didn't know anyone who'd done the voyage.

Dad wasn't an agreeable sort.

Kept to himself.

Didn't want to speak in Irish. Said English was what we'd be speaking in New York, told us that as soon as we got off the boat, we needed to talk like we'd been there for 50 years.
No accents.

Wasn't all that successful, was he?

But my ma would sing to us in Irish.

Thou

wouldn't stop her doing that.

Would you

mind singing one of those lullabies for me? Yes, Mr. Fleming.

There are parts of me that I would rather keep to myself if you don't mind.

Oh, I

no, it's it's it's quite all right.

In service, you have to keep hold of the secret parts of yourself, otherwise you'll go mad.

You might hear a harp, though. Can't help it.
My ma would play to me when she was singing.

I would

quite like to hear that.

Well,

I have no control over it, so don't go thanking me if it starts.

You say that this is purgatory, Bridget, but

you mentioned going to your parish. And perhaps I'm being overly overly familiar, but I can't particularly imagine you committing any grave sin.
Shows what you know.

If you're secretly a bank robber, you have to tell me. I'll have to find some way to return your ill-gotten gains.

You're joking, Mr. Fleming.

I'm sorry, I... Oh, no, no.
It's alright. It just...
It doesn't really suit you.

Oh, don't make that face. I'm sure you have many other fine qualities.

You were able to get Joe to leave, and not many of us thought that would ever happen, so there's that.

The next time you make a joke, I'll promise I'll laugh. A comfort.
Thank you, Bridget. Of course, Mr.
Fleming. My.

My point is that I don't think God would want you to clean the mausoleum of your former employer for a hundred years, Bridget. That just doesn't seem fair.

And what would you know of God, Mr. Fleming?

Not much.

There you have it.

there's that pity in your face again, Mr. Fleming.
I won't be pitied.

My life was not one to be pitied.

I was not some weak-willed

None of us in service were.

Or rather, we were not some uniquely pathetic species. If a mistress or employer were particularly cruel, or the wages were low, the staff would quit.

They might not have a reference, but they would find new jobs.

It was also unlike Europe, as the widow Dotson, who had spent quite a bit of time there in her youth, was quick to point out.

There was a shortage of servants that these brand new millionaires would take anyone.

And you could always quit and work as a shop girl. Service was better, for me, at least.
The room and board was taken care of, and the cook didn't make separate meals for the staff. Madame LeFleur.

I suspect she wasn't really French, her accent went in and out. But the food she cooked, oh.

There was this champagne jelly with little pieces of peach and cherry nestled in it. Oh, it tasted like floating.

I don't know.

Perhaps it's frivolous of me to say, but there is something pleasant about being near beautiful dresses, works of craft that skilled professionals pour countless hours into, and there were the paintings and the occasional balls with their music.

Better than working in a factory, I would say.

It was hard work, I won't deny that. Up before the sun rose every day, the lie making your nose feel like it was about to fall off.

The way people looked through you as though you were a piece of furniture, and not a very valuable one at that. But my life

was not pitiable.

There was a Sunday when

Rose

another of the girls,

another of the parish girls,

she was always a bit wild.

We went to Coney Island together. There was a hotel shaped like an elephant all along its body.
An elephant. Bigger than anything.
We didn't stay there, of course, but um...

And they had just built the Switchback Railway. Rose wanted to go.

But I said there was no way I would ever go on something like that, but Rose...

had a way about her.

And pretty soon we were on one of the carts. Oh, the way they would go up and down the tracks.
It felt like my heart was gonna fly out of my mouth. And Rose just looked so very fine in her dress.

There was joy in my life.

The widow Dotson didn't have that. And certainly not her daughter with her unending shopping.

Not that I ever accompanied her, but even if I did, I am certain I would never have seen her smile as wide as Rose did.

No.

I won't be pitied, Mr. Fleming.
I simply will not.

I don't pity you, Bridget. I just.

You can leave.

It's all right. You can rest.
I know you died young.

I was not that young. Not a child.
Almost in my 30s.

Old for a maid of my position. I lived a life.

And I understand that, but you died before your time, and I.

Will you at least let me sympathize? I'm not pitying pitying you. I'm just...
that's an awful thing and I sympathize.

Alright, Mr. Fleming.
You may sympathize. Thank you.

I just.

If there's anything I can do to assist in your passage, I would like to help. I will leave when I'm good and ready, Mr.
Fleming.

I simply... When I think about leaving...

It is like the switchback railway. My heart is about to fly out of my mouth.
I cannot explain why.

Does it

feel like the carriage ride?

Was that a joke, Mr. Fleming?

Oh,

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be cruel.
I shouldn't have read too. Mr.
Fleming, I really have no idea what you're talking about.

You died in a carriage accident. I can assure you, Mr.
Fleming, I did not. Well,

when I researched you,

there was an obituary, not for you, but for Caroline Dotson. You were the maid she was with when the carriage lost control of

I'm sorry, Bridget, it was in the Herald's archives.

Well, if it was in the Herald's archives, then I'm sure you can ignore the spirit sitting across from you, telling you that she died quite suddenly while she was helping Caroline Dotson, the widow Dotson's ne'er-do-well daughter, prepare for her day.

What happened, if you don't mind me asking? I I don't see how it matters now.

Are you sure there isn't anything I can help you with? Bridget.

Please.

Some confusion. A sharp pain on the back of my head.
I expect.

Well,

perhaps a bit of the roof caved in. The house was built quickly, after all.

Or a medical calamity of some sort.

It's not seemly to think about one's death, and I would ask you not to bring it up again.

I there's that half-smile on your face again when you think you're being clever.

Sorry.

There is something that you could help me with, though.

Yes, Mr. Fleming.
The Widow Dotson. Do you know why she hasn't passed on?

Oh, the Widow Dotson loves her routine.

And she is one of the largest mausoleums in Greybrier. I think she'd hate to give that up.

Ah.

Have you ever talked about the transition, the Onyx Door, whatever you'd like to call it, with her? Oh, no. The Widow Dotson keeps her own counsel.

And Caldwell, his notes on her, are lacking, it's fair to say. He never...
Oh, she wouldn't talk to him. No.

He worked with his hands, a laborer, not someone to.

Well,

you might have better luck. Hmm.

Perhaps.

Now.

Are you quite done trying to think of clever ways to trick me into passing on? I don't think I tried a lot of clever tricks or. You're right.

If you're not ready to leave, I'm not going to make you go.

I thank you for that, Mr. Fleming.

Would you be put out, Bridget, if I talked to the widow Dotson once I did some more research? She's not my responsibility.

Of course.

Thank you, Bridget.

Do you like the harp, by the way?

Yes. I like it very much.
I'm glad.

My ma wasn't able to bring it with her to New York. After I passed, it was good to hear it again.

Are you sure there's nothing? I'm quite sure, Mr. Fleming.

Understood.

Before I.

Do you really think this is purgatory, Bridget?

That you're being...

I'm sorry, I wasn't raised. I'm not- I'm not familiar with...
Mr. Fleming, I cannot be sure that this is purgatory.

I cannot be sure that this is heaven, or, God forbid, hell.

Or even if it is some sort of strange dream from which I will awake the next day.

But I can be sure that...

or I must believe that

one must do the best they can with the circumstances presented to them, both in life and in death.

Do you understand that, Mr. Fleming?

Yes, Bridget. I

think

I hope

I do.

Hello again. Just reminding you that if you enjoy that episode of Conversations with Ghosts, there are many more of them for you to find over on the Conversations with Ghosts podcast feed.

Just subscribe to the show in your podcast app of choice, and there will be a new episode waiting for you every Wednesday. That's Conversations with Ghosts.

Find it now and subscribe wherever you get your podcasts.

The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish.

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