A/N: …aaaaand the last one! Thank you everyone for following along this far! It's been a great ride, one in which I've met plenty of wonderful people, done more writing than I've ever done on a consistent basis, and most of all, had a ton of fun along the way! A big shout-out goes to my friend Kat for being my proofreader/idea bouncer, because it never would have gotten this far without her.

Chapter One-Hundred: 29 September 2015

Johnnie MacLaren cricked his neck as he got off the bus, bracing himself for another long day at work. Normally being a primary school teacher wasn't a bad thing, but with the first month back from summer holiday the kids were still restless and not yet fully tamed into their regular schooling routine. It was only his first year teaching to boot, which had made things all the more interesting.

"Once you get that first year under your belt, it's smooth sailing," his granddad had once told him, over half a year ago when he was ready to sit exams. Granddad didn't know, however, that two months later Johnnie would take on a position at a tiny school in the suburbs, in one of the oldest and most decrepit buildings in the town; where he'd get an office, yeah, but when cleaning it out he ended up finding everything from Blitz evacuation records to seventy-year-old condoms and silk knickers.

He donated the papers to the local historical society and burned the condoms and knickers (along with the suspiciously-stained couch that had been covering up their hidey-hole), whining the entire time he needed protective clothing just to go to work. Johnnie's room, according to the headmaster, had been used infrequently since the 1950's, never a teacher staying in there long. The longest-tenured instructor was a woman, Smith, who even jammed her and her husband into the office for over a year while waiting for housing during the Second World War. That explained the undergarments, at least, but that only made Johnnie's coworkers claims that the room was haunted more justified.

It had been haunted since the early 70's, he was told, by the ghost of Mrs. Smith's husband. An angry, surly man, with softness for few and eyes for only his wife, he was reportedly a school fixture that was a mixture of Peeves the Poltergeist and the Bloody Baron (at least, that was how Anderson put it). Odd hissing in the pipes? Mr. Smith. Misplaced books and pens and notebook computers? Mr. Smith. Projector did not work? Mr. Smith. A few years, Johnnie thought, and he'd have enough experience under his belt to go out and work in a more modern facility, not haunted by disgruntled riveters likely gone to an early grave thanks to too much liquor and tobacco and not enough rest and fresh air.

"Hey there Mr. MacLaren," the school secretary said cheerily as he walked in the office. She was young and flirty, as some secretaries were wont to be, and made eyes at him as he walked over to the pigeonholes where the mail was kept.

"Oh, hi Miss Campbell," Johnnie nodded, sorting through his mail. He tried to politely not look at her, an action that made him vow to never pursue a girl like she did him. "I'm expecting a parcel from a cousin abroad; has it arrived yet?"

"Something did come for you, yeah, but your grandparents came and took it," Miss Campbell replied. "They're upstairs in your classroom."

Johnnie's attention was caught and he spun around, looking the secretary in the face. "My grandparents? Here?"

"Yeah, your granddad, the one that's been coming over, along with a lady I assume is your granny since they were walking arm-in-arm. Old people are so cute like that."

"Thank you, Miss Campbell. See you later," Johnnie said. He tried not to rush out of the office, and completely failed when he began to bound up the stairs two steps at a time. Sure enough, sitting at his desk was his granddad, looking over the classroom in a wistful haze.

"Y'know, this was my classroom one year," the old man chuckled. "I still remember tossing one of those giant paperclips in your gran's hair from all the way across the room."

"Granddad, where's the parcel from Vicky?" Johnnie frowned. "She sent me some Australian liquorice for my class's history lesson next week and I need to make sure none of the kids see it."

"It's in your office, with a visitor," Granddad replied. Johnnie poked his head into his office and blinked in surprise—there, holding his parcel on her lap, was his aunt. Well, more like his granddad's honorary aunt, but the woman sitting on the couch was an aunt to them all the same, blood-relation or not. They mostly communicated through Christmas cards and the odd phone call, though that did not make her any less an aunt to him

"Aunt Clara…?" he marveled. "I didn't know you were in town. How are you?"

"Oh, doing well enough," she smiled. She was always smiling, his Aunt Clara was, in almost every recollection he had of her. Holding up the box, she shook it slightly. "Now what did my great-granddaughter bother to send you while she's supposed to be working hard on her studies?"

"A treat, for the students," he replied. Johnnie sat down next to her and held her hand. "How long has it been?"

"You were taller than me, but only just, that was for sure," Clara said. She put the parcel down on the couch and wrapped her arm around his, leaning on him. "It's good to see you again, and it's good of Donny to take me around to all the old haunts while I'm visiting."

"That's right… you lived around here once, didn't you?" he asked. Johnnie looked up when he saw his granddad come into view, leaning up against the doorway.

"Flat's torn down, so really this is one of the few places we've got left," Donny said. He turned towards Clara and smirked. "So, how is it? Just like the old days?"

"Not quite, but after seventy years, few things truly stay the same," Clara smirked. Johnnie had to double-take to contain his surprise.

"Aunt Clara, I didn't know you went to school here too," he said. "I was always told you grew up in Blackpool."

"…and I did grow up in Blackpool, but I had to meet my husband somehow," she chuckled. "He'd be tickled to know his namesake ended up in my old office."

Johnnie could barely believe his ears. "Your old office?" he asked. "You mean… you're the Smith that taught here during the war? I asked Wynn and she said you taught at a different school…"

"Wynn is what I think you kids call a 'troll' these days," Clara laughed. "Besides, it's more fun to tell you myself… though I wish they hadn't binned the couch…"

Inhaling deeply, Johnnie's eyes went wide as he let out a nervous little laugh. "Oh God… that was your couch…?"

"You're the one that got rid of it? Oh you silly boy." She hit his arm, though it felt no lighter than a tap. "That couch held so many stories, and held up amazingly well. It was still a good couch, wasn't it? Maybe in need of a wash, but not much else."

"Uhh…" Johnnie looked at his aunt and felt the heat rise to his face. "There was no amount of washing that could save that couch."

"Poppycock—a wash and it could have been good as new."

"No Aunt Clara… it wouldn't have." He could see the shit-eating grin on his granddad's face out of the corner of his eye and scowled. "So the very… active and oddly-matched Smiths that lived here were the two of you?"

"Oooh, we're legend, what fun!" Clara squeaked happily. "What do they say?"

"That Uncle John haunts the school for some sort of revenge, except now I know it's not Uncle John because that's impossible."

"Why's that?"

"It's been haunted since the 70's and considering he almost made it to the 90's…"

"Ah, I see," Clara nodded. Her perpetual smile turned sad and she exhaled heavily. "It wouldn't surprise me if he kicked the old ghost out—probably upset by someone saying something lewd about me while passing down that silly legend. He always was protective…"

"No one told me about the lewd parts. I came to that conclusion on my own." Johnnie cringed slightly as Clara looked at him in surprise. "The couch stains were kind of a clue… as well as the knickers and, erm, condoms in the wall."

"You have my knickers?" she asked, barely able to contain her laughter.

"No!" he replied quickly. "I mean, I burned them with the couch. Christ, Aunt Clara, what was wrong with the two of you? I thought everyone back then was, you know, not comfortable about that stuff."

"Not the two of them. Uncle John, if I recall, got off on it in public," Donny laughed. "Remember when you took David, Wynn, and me to see Trafalgar Square back in '55? That cart vendor recognized me on a class trip a couple years later."

"Johnnie, if I recall those were some of my best knickers." Clara raised her eyebrows and chuckled at his discomfort. "Relax—it's fine. I'm just surprised it all made it untouched. Seventy years is a long time, after all. Our hidey-hole survived, the lock my husband stole from the gate is still on the door, I can see they haven't bothered to fix the floor in the meantime, and if I close my eyes I can smell the last of the rosemary."

"…so that's what that smell is," Johnnie said. "I was wondering what it was, but I couldn't place it."

"John believed it warded off nightmares, and there were more than a few former gardens he was able to pluck it from," she explained. "He was so Victorian in that sense—you would have laughed."

"Careful; you might make some of the health fads going around these days seem tame," Donny smirked. He glanced over at his grandson, who seemed to be lost in thought. "What's the matter?"

"Um, Aunt Clara?" Johnnie muttered. "How long are you staying?"

"Through the week," she replied, blinking in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"How would you like to be a guest speaker for a bunch of Primary Fives before you head back to Wynn and Orson's?" he asked quietly. "I think there's a few tales you can spin that would catch their attention; even just the times that you loved best would work. Your mind's still sharp enough for a couple dozen pudding brains that are an endless font of questions, yeah?"

"Of course," she sighed, taking his hand in hers and patting it gently. "I'd be honored."