For Frea's Birthday

It has been my great joy and privilege to get to know Frea O'Scanlin over the past year or so and become her friend.  We've made each other laugh, encouraged each other as we waded through giant stories that took over our lives (still, in my case), commiserated when life sucked and rejoiced when it didn't.  It has been a great honor to co-write a story with her (no, we haven't forgotten about Spies and Nerds), and learn from her as I strive to improve my writing.

Today is Frea's birthday and I wrote a little something for her as a present.  It's also my mom's birthday today, but she'll get a phone call from me instead.

This story is prompted by two pictures Frea made and posted on her Tumblr.  I don't remember exactly how the first one came about, but needless to say, it was one of the greatest things ever.  And the second one--well, let's just say I won that bet.  Enjoy.

“Matthew,” the Lady Mary Crawley said, “I have had the distinct feeling since we became engaged to be married that you are still feeling guilty over what happened the night Lavinia saw us dancing.”   

He flinched.  “Well, yes, of course.  I can’t help but feel that when she saw us together, she lost the will to live.  Already weakened by the Spanish flu, our embrace is what indeed killed her,” he said, eyeing his late fiancé’s gravestone with somberness.  Looking back at Mary, he swallowed hard when he saw her eyebrow arch dangerously.  “May I ask why we’re standing at Lavinia’s grave?”  Despite the fact that it was dark and chilly and the dampness was making his bones ache, he realized he was awash with perspiration.

“It’s time for you to choose, Matthew,” Mary said with conviction.  “You can live a full and happy life married to me, or you can wallow in the misplaced guilt of believing you killed Lavinia.  It’s time to make your choice.”  Somehow, her eyebrow reached higher up her forehead.

“How can you make me choose?” he whined.

Even in the darkness, he saw her dark eyes flash.  “The fact that you even have to think about it tells me your answer,” she said, her voice cutting through him like a rapier.  “Goodbye, Matthew.”  She turned on her heel and strode purposefully across the spongy grass.  She never looked back.  (Needing to put as much distance between herself and Matthew’s betrayal, Mary moved to Colorado, married a cattle rancher and had seven children.  They lived a happy life together.)

Matthew was rooted where he stood. He knew he should go after her, but he couldn’t.  The guilt was too strong.  “Well, I guess it’s just you and me now, Lavinia,” he said to the cold, flat stone that seemed to spring up from the ground.

Not believing his eyes, he swiped at them when he thought he saw the ground in front of Lavinia’s grave marker churn.  “It can’t be,” he said under his breath.  He let out a girlish scream when a hand erupted from under the ground.  Stumbling backward in shock, he lost his balance and fell to the wet grass.  He watched in horror as another hand popped up through the sod.  Soon, the entire plot of turf above Lavinia’s coffin was a roiling mass of grass and dirt clods.

His mouth literally hung open as he watched Lavinia climb from the grave and brush the dirt from her dress.  It was the one he had chosen for her to be buried in.  In the darkness, he could see the frock was already moldering a bit, but Lavinia, overall, seemed to be holding up quite well.

“It is just you and me now, Matthew,” Lavinia said, her voice sounding a bit hollow.  He scrambled backward when several of her teeth fell out when she spoke.  “Pick those up for me, would you, dear?  I’ll need to put those back in.”

He cautiously crawled forward and gingerly picked up the teeth from the dirt.

“I’m so glad you chose me, Matthew.  That Mary was never right for you.  I was always your soul mate.  You know it’s true.”  She walked—or rather limped, dragging a foot behind her—out of the graveyard and up the road toward Downton Abbey.

“Come, Matthew,” she said in a sort of echoing, howling way.

Too stunned to argue, Matthew scrambled to his feet and dutifully caught up to her.  Once they were under the light of the streetlamps, he saw that her skin was green and cracked.  Chunks of rotting flesh were sloughing off and hung from her face.  At least her hair still looked nice, he thought.

It took some getting used to, having Lavinia Swire, zombie, on the grounds of Downton Abbey.  Everyone tried to be supportive of Matthew’s choice, although it did cause things to change.  Mrs. Patmore had to have brains delivered daily and Anna complained that there were a lot more bugs to deal with than there used to be.  Carson refused to pour wine for her after the time Lavinia’s eye fell out when she’d leaned forward to take a sip.  It had plunked into the wineglass, splashing the drink over the side and making a terrible stain on the tablecloth.  And of course, O’Brien only laughed when she watched Lavinia’s hand fall off and bounce to the ground.  Matthew hadn’t been able to pick it up before Isis snatched it up in her mouth and ran off with it.  He had to follow the dog around for a week before he finally found where she’d buried it.  After that, Matthew always made sure to carry a satchel with him to safely store Lavinia’s dropping body parts for later reattachment.  That was becoming increasingly problematic as the weeks wore on.  It was growing more difficult to sew the bits together as her skin became more and more unstable.

As the bug infestation grew worse, and the staff grew ever more impatient with the bits of Lavinia they kept finding lying about the manor, it became somewhat of a crisis.  They found themselves caught between a rock and a hard place.  If Matthew sent her away, the guilt would remain.  And he couldn’t leave as heir to Downton.  No one knew how to get rid of a zombie anyway, so both family and staff drearily faced a life of misery.

When Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham, returned from her extended trip to London to visit her daughter, she was incensed by the way Miss Swire had turned life at her beloved manor upside down.  Calling young, dead, zombie Lavinia to her drawing room for tea, Violet said, “I’m sorry, dear.  But you must leave. Downton is too refined a place for a zombie.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.  I cannot do that,” green-faced Lavinia replied.  “Matthew chose me over Mary.  I must stay.”  Then her arm fell off at the shoulder and thunked on the Oriental rug.

Not having seen this sudden and inexplicable loss of appendage before, Violet was both surprised and startled.  She unsheathed the katana hidden in her pimp stick and wielded it like a ninja.  With one graceful swipe, she lopped off the zombie head of Miss Swire.  It landed with a thud next to her arm on the rug.

Carson emerged from the shadows looming in the corner of the room.  “Well done, madam,” he said with a deep, reverential bow.

Handing her sword to him to be cleaned and returned to its sheath, she gazed at him with steely eyes and said, “That, Carson, is the way you remove undesirables from Downton Abbey.”

Happy Birthday, Frea.