The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  “Monsters indeed!” he said smiling.

  The Museum of Fabulous Monsters

  Scene 1: An Unhappy Boss

  I stared at my unhappy boss. Her anger was not directed at me – only her frustration – and so I simply sat and admired her form.

  I thought her quite fascinating – but it wasn’t her long legs, or her shiny black hair that drew my eye; nor was it the abundant cleavage – a large part of which was almost always on show.

  No; it was the supernumerary digits she possessed – a single extra finger located outside of the little finger on each of her hands.

  Of course, when it came to deformity, I could beat her hands down – excuse the pun – regarding my facial aspect and lack of bodily symmetry but then she did not possess tumours that covered a large part of her face, as I did, nor a spinal ‘aberration’, as I had.

  But I had always found these things that make us so very different to the norm so… fascinating. It’s what sets us apart from the banality and mundaneness of others on this planet.

  Finally, she shook her head. “Why do you think they keep leaving?” she said.

  I didn’t shake my head – it would hurt too much if I did. “I really don’t know…” I slurred slightly thanks to the tumour on my upper lip. “Maybe they were just bored…”

  “But what did they expect as a night watchman at a museum? Dancing girls and fireworks?”

  I smiled then quickly stopped – it wasn’t nice to see.

  “Maybe it’s me…” I said.

  She looked at me for several seconds – I didn’t think anyone had lasted that long before. “That is quite ridiculous,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said quietly. “None of them liked to look at me… in fact, one said I was repulsive… they weren’t very nice…”

  I stood up and removed both coffee mugs from the top of the security camera console and limped to the sink.

  “It’s just the ignorant minority who make fun of us,” she said holding up both hands and wiggling her thumbs and extra fingers.

  Coming from someone else I would have considered these words superficial. But – apart from her extra fingers – I had seen her husband picking her up from the car park once, and the blood-red birthmark on his face made me fully aware of her understanding of what she was saying.

  “Well,” she started, “I guess I’ve got another ad to put in the dailies. Anyway, we’re okay… sort of… for the moment, as I called someone on our books – his name’s Wolfgang.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of ‘Wolf’. He’s just who we need.”

  “Really?” She looked up surprised. “Personally, I think he’s a lazy good-for-nothing toad… but I have no one else at present.”

  She looked at her watch; “He should’ve been here forty minutes ago.”

  Just then her mobile rang. “Ah, he’s here – finally. I’ll let him in and you can take care of him.”

  “I will,” I said. I would have liked to shake her hand but maybe that was just too creepy.

  “Well, thanks again; I really don’t know what the museum would do without you,” she said.

  “That’s quite okay. I really don’t know what I would do without the museum. With a face like mine a nightwatchman’s job at a place called the ‘Museum of Fabulous Monsters’ is ironically perfect.”

  She smiled. “If you need anything, just call me. See you.”

  And she was gone.

  Then Wolfgang entered the office. Shame, I thought; I always liked the quiet and solitude of the job. I really didn’t feel I needed assistance. I knew all that was important and needed doing. Help I did not need, especially from a Neanderthal who could barely offer a coherent sentence, but hey, tonight – oddly enough – I really needed him.

  Scene 2: Wolf

  I looked over at ‘Wolf’. He was staring at me.

  He stood well over six feet – and knew it.

  “So, what sort of disease have you got? Should I get some kind of injections?”

  Hmm, started early, I thought.

  “It’s not a disease,” I said a little wearily.

  “The hell it isn’t!” he responded loudly and smirking. “Well, it’s not something I wanna catch.”

  “You won’t,” I said. “It’s called ‘Neurofibromatosis’.”

  “Neuro what? Sounds like something to do with the ends of the feet.”

  I let him see the full force of my smile. “Of course; ‘tosis’,” I said.

  He continued, “Well, now the bitch has gone, what do we do now? I’ve got a pack of cards,” he said reaching into a pocket and yawning. “Then again, I’m a bit sleepy. I guess you must have a bed hidden away somewhere where I won’t be disturbed?”

  “We have a job to do,” I said standing up. “Firstly, we need to check the floors and halls.”

  “Hey, I’m not doing any work! I’m just gonna sit around looking at cameras… or something… that’s what I was told I’d be doing…”

  “Well, then I’m sure you’ve also been told that the ‘cameraman’ isn’t paid as much as the man walking the corridors… but that’s fine by me.”

  “Hey, don’t short change me, or there’ll be trouble!”

  “Okay… well, there are five floors in all. Three above and two below, and the two below are smaller than those above.”

  “Then as the new guy I’ll take the two lower basement levels, and you can take the rest – unless you have a problem with that…?” he said with a certain degree of menace.

  “Not at all,” I said giving him my biggest smile.

  “Shit, you’re ugly!” he said as I walked past him and into the atrium that was the main part of the entrance hall.

  “Oh, pick up a flashlight,” I said, “the basement lights don’t work.”

  Wolf grabbed one and followed me.

  “Hey, you walk funny too,” he said smiling.

  “Yes, thank you for telling me. It’s due to an unfortunate deformity of my spine. My gait may well be considered ungainly, but after twenty-eight years I have found it works for me. If you had a backbone like mine you would walk ‘funny’ too.”

  “Hey, guy, don’t get cocky with me just because you’re a freak! You need to laugh about it; looks like you shat your pants!”

  I smiled again. “Yes… yes, it does…” I said thinking how easy he was making this for me.

  Just one night, I thought.

  Scene 3: Anomalies

  At the stairwell, I said, “Should only take about twenty minutes.”

  “It’ll take me longer than that. I fancy forty winks… oh, and don’t think about telling the bitch about me or I’ll mess up your face – more than it already is – I need this money.”

  Then he turned and descended the stairs.

  O… kay, I thought and proceeded to check on the upper levels.

  I rather enjoyed walking these corridors and marvelling at the freaks of nature and anomalies of life. I felt a kindred spirit with these creatures, mute and static safe behind their glass panels. I envied their ignorance for they had never suffered the hurt of harsh words and ridicule that I had; the stares in the street and the stiff awkwardness of introductions.

  But they were unique – as I was – and that made me… and them… special.

  The two-headed sheep never knew what it was like to be bullied and the six-legged calf would never shy away from the rest of its flock – on the contrary, I was aware of some animals including elephants and wolves that actively helped, fed and protected the ‘different and less able-bodied’ in the herd or pack.

  How was it that the lower intelligence animals possessed more tolerance to the ‘different’ than the apparently advanced humankind?

  As I have already mentioned, in antithesis to humanity’s fixation and indulgence with the perfect and the p
ure, my interest has always been with the beauty that society shies and hides from and considers hideous and distasteful, to be ignored and purposely overlooked.

  I could certainly appreciate the ‘perfections’ that made my boss who she was but to me her real beauty was in the abnormality that made her different.

  I remembered my sister – who suffered the same affliction as myself – telling me how once on a shopping errand she feared staring eyes but found the whole episode far worse, for rather than stares, she was ignored to the point that no one would look at her; all would turn away. Perhaps they thought if they didn’t see her, she didn’t exist and their rose-tinted world would remain intact.

  It was an ignorant and yet physically ‘acceptable’ person who ended my sister’s life.

  Scene 4: The Basement

  It was now well after midnight and there was still no sign of Wolf.

  Perhaps he was slumbering against a crate or case. I thought not.

  It was four o’clock when I decided it was time to look for my new colleague.

  I reached for my torch and headed towards the stairwell that Wolf had descended earlier.

  I switched on the flashlight and the dimmest beam emerged.

  Bugger – this isn’t going to last long, I thought.

  Still, I had full confidence in my abilities to find my way around the basement levels – I had been down there so many times that I felt I might not have too troublesome a time finding my nauseous associate.

  I walked past cabinets and display cases. I didn’t bother shouting – I knew it would be pointless.

  After completing the first basement level I returned to the stairwell. As I descended to the lowest and oldest part of the museum, the glow from my flashlight became useless and so I switched it off.

  I left the stairwell and with my arms waving out in front and to the sides, I proceeded into the darkness.

  I so hated this bit but knew I had to do it.

  It wasn’t long before I recognised the pungent smell of blood and as I slowed I noticed a bright light like an intense lantern, over to my left. It appeared to be slowly waving around in the air.

  I knew it wasn’t Wolf’s flashlight.

  Very slowly I made my way towards it. In the darkness, it was difficult to judge its distance from me, but then my foot trod on something. On reaching down I felt a sticky ribbon and what I guessed to be Wolf’s ID and the lanyard that had been around his neck.

  I stood up and looked over at the bright ball of light still dancing some way away. I took a deep breath and shuffled towards it.

  I judged I was still several feet away when the light source started to recede. I followed and then stopped as I saw what the light was revealing.

  Wolf lay before the mandibles of a large spider. I say ‘large’ but this creature was immense. I could see about six feet of it while the rest disappeared into the darkness behind it.

  Wolf was alive and his mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. I guessed that the spider’s poison had already immobilised him.

  Just then the creature vomited acid across Wolf’s face and chest.

  Wolf’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his face began to melt.

  I watched for a minute or two – horrified and yet fascinated – as the creature’s mouthparts started to chew – and drink – through Wolf’s skull.

  Wolf’s eyes remained on me.

  I wondered what he was thinking but cared not.

  Then all of a sudden, it let Wolf go, and the lantern that appeared on a long whip connected to the front of its head, whipped back while it skittered away a few feet and then moved quickly towards me – raising itself high above me onto its rearmost legs.

  Scene 5: Food

  The tips of its bloody front legs came down and rested – surprisingly lightly – onto my shoulders before moving, almost tenderly, across my face.

  I stood motionless; it was not something I felt I would likely ever get used to.

  I raised my hand and gently stroked the coarse hairs on its leg before moving closer and rubbing the top of its beautifully multi-eyed arachnid head.

  I knew it wouldn’t harm me; even the most basic of creatures realised the need for food and would not harm the one who provided it.

  I had often wondered what it was: my own research had indicated that it appeared to be some form of ‘Black Widow’ spider. But on its head, was exhibited a whip which terminated in a bright lantern not unlike those on the heads of angler fish I have read about, which similarly would enable it to attract prey to its jaws.

  A beautiful and oddly deformed – or mutated – creature.

  As to how something that should be no more than two inches long can become in excess of ten feet, I do not know.

  For almost three years I have wondered as to the origin of its abnormality. It was too wonderful a creature to ignore but while the world is overrunning with the bland, the ordinary and the mundane, I naturally felt it was of paramount importance; certainly, more so than a rude and disrespectful nightwatchman.

  The spider returned to Wolf and began to drink from the body that was now nothing more than a thick, bloody fluid.

  I had so needed Wolf this evening as my pet had not eaten for several days and I had been growing quite concerned as to where its next meal might come from.

  Demosthenes

  Scene 1: Cold Feet

  On entering the library, I turned and proceeded to a chair in the reception area and sat down looking around, awkward and uncomfortable.

  There was a light cough from a desk to my left.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  I looked over at a rather petite young lady, her hair tied back in a somewhat severe manner. She peered at me over her noticeably masculine glasses and propounded at me once again.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Erm, yes… no… I’m okay. Actually, I’m here for a m… m… m… meeting,” I stuttered.

  “I see,” she said looking at me longer than I thought necessary.

  She looked down for a moment before looking up and, “Mr St John, I presume?”

  I sighed; its pronounced Sinjun I thought, but answered, “Yes. That’s m… m… m … me.” I stammered again.

  The lady simply nodded.

  This meeting was going to go oh so badly, I thought.

  My colleague who was responsible for answering the committee’s questions was sick and so I – a man happy to sit in the background and concentrate on research and the letter of the law – was propelled into the blinding light and torture of not only social dialogue but the focus of said dialogue. I had heard it said that some people were born to things. I was certainly not born to speak openly or for that matter, in any presentational way.

  I felt I was more ‘cerebral’ rather than a ‘talker’.

  In my colleague’s absence, it had fallen to me to explain to a committee of education leaders and auditors, the results of our investigation into the suspected cheating of several Greek students at their respective places of study.

  “You can go in now, Mr St John.”

  “Th… th… th… thank you,” I replied miserably, and stood up.

  Scene 2: Trevor St John

  I walked from the reception and into a long corridor. Looking around, it was obvious as a place of study; a temple to academia.

  From wall-mounted portraits to busts between the widely spaced bookcases and cabinets, I noted distinguished intellectuals and historically accepted geniuses gazing in their solemnity at me as I walked past.

  I eyed them suspiciously. I only knew who some of them were from the titles beneath the pictures and the reliefs on the sculptured plinths which made me feel a little fraudulent to be in their presence.

  I was certain some of them thought so too.

  Some plinths were still abs
ent of their owners due – in no small way – to the actions of my colleague, and something I would need to explain to the committee.

  Some, I had heard of, such as Archimedes and Aristotle, Plato and Socrates but others such as Demosthenes were alien to me.

  I continued down the hall while my mind imagined cells to my left and right and mutterings from inside of ‘dead man walking’.

  This was not going to be an easy day.

  I entered the meeting room feeling not unlike a man stepping into a courtroom, straightened my shoulders, and proceeded forth.

  Scene 3: The Meeting

  I sat down at a table and looked around while nervously shuffling my papers and glancing briefly and uneasily at the notebook – my colleague’s notebook – by my right hand.

  Seated before me – on a higher level – there was a chap from the government’s education committee, two senior university officials and several academic auditors.

  I shuffled my papers again.

  We were here to discover how it was that eight Greek students had achieved a very unreasonable 100 per cent on a plethora of different subjects. It was generally expected for the geniuses among the fraternity to aspire to 90 per cent at best but 100 per cent was apparently quite beyond the realms of probability. That is, of course, unless help was being provided.

  And so, after much blathering and not a little apoplexy, the heads of various faculties decided an investigator – of Greek heritage – needed to be sought and the responsible miscreant apprehended.

  Feeling that two shuffles were not enough, I shuffled my notes once again and cast another look at the notebook before me.

  Although I had been waiting several minutes for all to settle, I jumped slightly when the chairman – a small man with a large nose and eyebrows that looked like hairy caterpillars – coughed and brought the session to a start.