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The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

Page 13

by Peter Spokes


  It didn’t stop.

  The world was red and pain.

  DeMarco’s dead, glazed eyes gazed on the creature loping away into the shadows with most of his throat still gripped in her claw-like hand.

  From several yards away, DeSouza watched the dark figures suddenly scatter and after a few moments sat himself up and wandered over to the dumpster. DeMarco was lying on his back, his eyes gazing unfocussed at the stars with only a few vertebrae where his neck once was.

  Rachel had gone.

  The Trial of Gerald Blake

  Scene 1: The Trial

  On arrival, I looked around at those in attendance. A large table was the only feature in the room and three people were seated at it. I walked over and stood at the far end of the table and faced a lady at its head. She had long black hair down to her waist and large amounts of jewellery adorned her.

  I was probably expected to sit and so I chose to stand.

  I looked around at the faces of the other two seated at the table. Though I would swear that I had never met them, there was something familiar about them.

  The woman to my left was perhaps in her early fifties but looked much younger; though attractive, the absence of lines on her face was indicative to me of one who enjoys an easy life and one not familiar with the rigours of labour. Her blonde hair was tied a little too tightly in a bun at the back of her head and her small fingers moved incessantly, though from apprehension or anticipation, I knew not and cared less.

  To my right sat a small man wearing a pince-nez and with the straight-backed bearing of someone who commanded authority. His arrogant presence was evident to me. This man never worked the pit; this man never concerned himself with where his next meal was coming from. This man was unlikely to experience a winter’s night on dark rat-infested streets.

  The two of them shared a vaguely haunted countenance.

  I knew them not but detested them anyway – I looked away disinterested and noticed two tall men, each one standing either side of the door that I had just entered. I couldn’t see their faces, due to they being just beyond the candlelight but yet could see the flicker in their eyes. I was momentarily perplexed for I would have sworn that they had not been there earlier and the door was behind the seated lady directly in front of me.

  Their stare was intense and though I was not one easily intimidated, I found myself averting my eyes after only a few moments.

  I welcomed any respite in my transportation to a prison cell, but although I liked the temporary freedom, the company I did not.

  I moved my head several times from side to side to loosen my neck muscles and massaged the latter with my hands. Odd that I had not been put in manacles for surely, I could snap a neck or two before I was put down; I was good at snapping necks having made a career of it. At well over six feet tall and some 300 pounds I was surprised by the lackadaisical attitude of whomever it was that had brought me here.

  Maybe I could have some fun.

  I remembered with some satisfaction the time – quite recently in fact – when I was finally shot and arrested.

  It had taken four bullets to put me down and still I walked to the cell.

  I looked around but couldn’t see any policemen in the room.

  Then the lady with the jewellery spoke: “Gerald Blake, my name is Grace Buchanan. I have with me Miss Geraldine Jameson and Sebastian Johnston. You were responsible for the murders of Miss Jameson’s father and Mr Johnston’s brother; I wish to talk to you about them.”

  I noticed the blonde woman and the small gentleman look at one another and then back at the woman called Grace.

  They both looked scared and I smiled.

  “Yes, I killed them,” I said nonchalantly.

  If they were scared before, then with my utterance, they were positively terrified.

  Good, I thought, instilling terror is the first step to commanding power.

  I rubbed at my neck some more as I waited for Grace to continue.

  After a pause, “Why was I brought here? I killed a lot of people,” I said irritated.

  “I only want to know what you did with the bodies of Rufus Jameson and Edward Johnston.”

  “Why? Are they any more special than the others?” I said.

  “The other bodies were found; these two are still missing… and some… closure is needed for the families.”

  “Who are you to ask these questions?” I said. “I care not for the families or anyone. I am guilty; there will be no restitution; no pardon, so why should I acquiesce to you?”

  “Perhaps to atone in some small way?”

  I stared at her and replied with contempt, “I am going to jail and I’m never going to be let out – I care not for atonement.”

  The woman called Grace looked confused for a moment; I can only guess she thought I would be more repentant.

  “Are you sure about that? Maybe not in this life but what about the next?” she said slowly.

  I laughed. “Don’t give me any of that fucking religious bullshit! When I’m dead – I’m dead!” I spat.

  There was a pause.

  “Is there not anything inside you to provide some small succour or comfort to Miss Jameson and Mr Johnston?”

  “Not at all,” I smiled – all those I killed deserved it. They all wallowed in their wealth; their high status and their self-important arrogance. They needed taking down a notch, or better still removing completely from this world – and I was the man to do it.

  As I looked at my interrogator I noticed for the first time that she had her eyes tightly shut and held the hands of the man and woman at her sides.

  “Just take me to my goddamn cell,” I shouted rubbing my neck again – the pain was becoming quite unbearable.

  “Then I am sorry,” she said with some finality.

  She then opened her eyes and I realised that she must be blind for although she appeared to look at me, her gaze was unfocussed as if she were seeing beyond me.

  It was then that I saw that the room was slowly becoming darker. I looked around at the candles and was surprised to see that though they were still lit, their light no longer appeared to project into the room; their coronas hugging their origin.

  Those seated at the table seemed not to notice.

  For several moments, nobody moved; and then one of the men in the shadows looked at the other and nodded. The other then started around the table towards me.

  I had little doubt that he would regret anything that he was offering.

  But as he moved closer he caught my arm and held it firmly; I looked at him and my strength ebbed and left my body; his gaze held me more static than his arm did.

  Like a decrepit old man, I was led towards the door as I continued to rub my neck.

  “Are we going to the jail?” I asked quietly, surprised at my sudden subservient manner.

  “Oh no,” he said smiling, “you are quite beyond that. My brother wanted to take you with him but you are coming with me; we have another place for people like you… and it’s not heaven.”

  Scene 2: Epilogue

  Grace Buchanan stood up and blew out the candles – they were no longer needed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jameson; Mr Johnston. I really thought there was a chance…” she trailed off.

  Miss Jameson said nothing but after a pause Mr Johnston spoke; “You did your best, Grace, and I thank you for it. I guess we’ll need to let this go; after thirty years, there is no way that the police will find the bodies of my brother or Miss Jameson’s father. I’m only glad Blake was found and hung for his crimes.”

  “That was his punishment in this world but what of the next?” Grace said. Despite the warm evening, she shivered slightly as she blew out the candles, put on her cardigan, and left the room.

  Always April

  Chapter 1

  Scene
1: Prologue

  I am verbalising my thoughts and hopes in the belief that I may better understand my… problem.

  Although I appreciate a mute third party is unlikely to supply me with answers, I do expect to gain some clarity from the external outpouring of my troubles and ignorance of my situation.

  I would like to add that despite the seemingly ludicrous nature of my tale, I have been most judicious and honest in my narrative.

  So, dear listener; this is my story and these are my words:

  I am sitting in a chapel crypt reading a journal by the light of a lit candle; I’m in the crypt in case I get another visit from a member of the local constabulary, thinking I might be some miscreant.

  I have a hope that I might find some rationale to my odd existence – but I’m jumping ahead. So, let me start again:

  Have you ever given any thought to that strange entity commonly referred to as a ‘ghost’?

  Before you glance sideways with clandestine smiles of ridicule and envisage headless horsemen or white sheets hovering several inches off the ground; or people with their heads held awkwardly – and not a little amusingly – under one arm, I would ask you to give them some serious thought and not a little sympathy.

  For they exist – God, yes!

  A popular explanation to their existence I have researched includes a spirit of a lately deceased person that for one reason or another has not as yet ‘passed through the veil’. Their reason for this lack of traditional behaviour is often attributed to one of several things: anger at finding themselves dead – perhaps death came unexpectedly; vengeance on someone; not realising death has come, and, of course, not wanting to be parted from someone dear.

  There is also the ‘wrong that needs righting’ idea which though I can’t put my finger on it, I feel an odd recognition to and bias towards, in my own particular investigations.

  I have researched how ghostly occurrences can be associated with the echoes of strong feelings and emotions of the dead that become infused into the fabric of a location or attracted to a person – and commonly referred to as a ‘haunting’ in the case of the former and a ‘poltergeist’ in that of the latter.

  ‘Do I have a “ghost” problem then?’ I hear you ask.

  ‘The hell I do!’ I would have to reply with some frustration; but it lacks clarity… and reason.

  Initially I felt I was party to a ‘haunting’ as it seemed to me I was surrounded by beings I could not touch and that moved through me. But I soon found it was I that was… different.

  But I digress: shades, spectres, phantoms and phantasms have existed in stories of one sort or another for as long as we have existed on this planet; which brings me to my point – and dilemma.

  During my research into my… condition, I have come to believe that if ghosts exist then as someone dies, their prior memory remains intact.

  But I do not have one. I know not who I am or who I’ve been.

  Before anyone tells me that just because I have no memory of a previous existence, it does not preclude me from having had one, I would like to say that I have considered this and maintain that all I have learned projects me towards the strong argument that ghosts remember their corporeal lives, otherwise their reasons for being – again – would not exist.

  The only other senses I feel are ones of a tremendous loss and something that needs to be made right but it is intangible and I cannot focus on it enough to see it.

  Even my place and time appears inconsistently spurious and appears to alter.

  I have stated my problem and things I don’t know; now let me state what I do know…

  Scene 2: Remembering

  It is the month of April and the year is 1912; but though April is omnipresent, it seems that the year… is not, but I’ll come back to that. I find this confusing to myself and so trying to express it to others – albeit a non-existent external conscience – in a coherent fashion is not easy.

  But let me just say at this juncture that it is always April.

  I have left the chapel crypt and now find myself sitting under an old oak tree which I find oddly ‘comforting’ – though I know not why – in a cemetery in the southern Ireland coastal town of Queenstown.

  My reason for being in the cemetery is nothing as pedestrian as the idea that it’s where my kind should be; but uncertain. I hope that maybe I might see something on one of the hundreds of gravestones; a name, a date or anything that might give me a clue or direction as to why I have found myself here.

  Is there something I need to find, do or discover?

  I feel that it may be possible that there exists some guidance to my being here. This is based on two facts: firstly, I cannot leave the graveyard; if I walk beyond the gates I suddenly feel light-headed before finding myself back in the cemetery.

  And secondly – as I have previously alluded to – it is always April.

  I know this latter from the discarded newspapers in the waste bins.

  Once April is over – it simply begins again.

  Before I continue further down my labyrinth of incertitude, I would like to share that I’m aware that April is supposed to be followed by May while March precedes it, so my incorporeal amnesia is anomalous and selective – to say the least.

  I appear educated as I can read the books in the chapel library. In fact, I have a reasonable knowledge of a surprising number of things considering all I can be sentient to resides here in the graveyard around me.

  As I am unable to leave the graveyard I spend much time simply sitting on one of the many benches dedicated to dear and departed loved ones.

  Sometimes I will sit on one closest to the entrance and watch the visitors come and go. Another week I shall sit at the far end of the yard where the oldest of the graves lie. It is quieter here as these ones are never visited at all but I find it oddly comforting that the gardener tends to them no less than the more recent ones.

  More often than not though, I sit under the old oak surrounded by daffodils, which affords me some shade from the sun though I doubt I might suffer sunburn from its rays; and also – due to the graveyard’s location on a hill’s apex – a view of the docks.

  The latter seems a curious interest for me as I sometimes sit with a feeling of expectancy as I watch the big ships come and go. Perhaps I’m awaiting someone from one of the ships?

  As I have already mentioned, I find an odd ‘comfort’ under this particular tree.

  Occasionally, an elderly chap, wearing a fedora, sits under the old oak. Like others in the graveyard I sense he cannot see me and so we sit side by side in our own silence. His presence exudes a sense of reflection which I find – oddly – relaxing. Perhaps it’s because he is the only one I meet actually stopping for a while and not going anywhere.

  Throughout time I have watched the same people making several appearances through the month; there is the old lady walking her dog to her husband’s grave; the couple and their young daughter under the very tree I often frequent. Sadly, the man always appears to be angry and berating his partner oblivious to the little girl clearly trying so hard to distract herself by gently stroking the petals of the daffodils as she looks over.

  So sad.

  There is the border collie urinating on an angel – I still haven’t figured out who it belongs to as yet but surely no stone effigy should suffer that level of abuse!

  I sometimes see a dishevelled and unkempt chap clinging to a brandy bottle and muttering incoherently – surrounded by his empties. He sits with his back to the same tree that I sit under; his occasional outbursts are ignored by all that pass him. I still sway between disgust and an honest sadness. I often wonder what had caused him to be that way. I figure the way he was ‘knocking it back’ he was unlikely to see many more years.

  On the second Friday of April I watch four young girls running along the path; clearly not here to
pay respects; and the border collie ‘watering’ the angel.

  I watch them all come and go.

  There is a multitude of others for whom I could reel off descriptive details regarding the whos and whens, though perhaps not the whys; maybe some are important to my understanding, or maybe all are not.

  There is certainly an ecosystem within the graveyard as the old and young, the busy and passive, set about their own private and personal business.

  The old lady with her dog visits her husband’s grave on each Monday come rain or shine – and in the last two weeks there is plenty of the former.

  I was curious as to the haste shown by the adolescent girls, and so one time followed them to find a seemingly clandestine rendezvous with four similarly aged pubescent males at the far gate. Presumably the graveyard was a quiet and private cut-through where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  So, all would pass with monotonous routine. I have often wondered what May might be like.

  Understandably, after several ‘Aprils’ you will understand how I have become – not surprisingly – familiar with the visitors to the graveyard and their comings and goings.

  But as April ends, I feel strongly that once again I have missed something. There must be some way of changing this repetitive routine.

  Like players on a stage, all those around me re-enact their parts again, again, and again.

  As I’m the only one free to change my ‘April routine’, I feel that it must be up to me to make the change or recognise the catalyst for that change.

  I’m unsure just how many Aprils I have haunted this graveyard as there appears a mental fog when I look back beyond four or five (April) months.

  I have mentioned that though April is monotonously predictable, adding to my confusion is the fact that the year… is not.

 

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