The Ghost

The more enlightened our houses are,
the more their walls ooze ghosts.
— Italo Calvino

It had been a long day and I had almost forgotten about the ghost. Meg would be angry to hear me call it that—but what else could it be?

The three a.m. awakenings had left my wits frazzled and now my body was buzzing from either too much coffee or lack of sleep.

Why we moved to The Barrens was beyond me. It was really a lovely town—just a bit too far off the beaten track, but Meg liked it and that was that.

Okay, it really wasn’t called The Barrens—it was called Willow Grove—a nice-sounding name that conjured up images of pastoral bliss and rolling farmland. And to tell the truth, it was all that—and more—it’s just that I don’t like ghosts.

The mere thought of spirits or ectoplasm made my skin crawl and driving home through the wet autumn darkness didn’t help either.

The car windows were bejewelled with golden droplets that shimmered in the oncoming lights and ordinarily I would have luxuriated in the ambience.

I love rain, especially rainy nights—but tonight was different.

Since leaving the leather-scented comfort of the club, I felt apprehensive.

Events at the house were escalating to an impending crisis—what that might be, I had no idea, but I was finding my security was more and more jeopardized and I distinctly abhorred that.

Why Meg was being so stubborn the matter was beyond me; after all, she was the one who first told me about the spectre.

She had been gardening and came into the study out of the bright sunlight and saw an older man in a blue, three-piece suit, standing by the window. He looked like a banker or a Professor she said—tall, white-haired and smiling genially at her.

She wasn’t frightened and strangely, not even surprised. She said hello and was about to ask his business when he evaporated like a mist into thin air.

For days afterwards I pestered her with questions: “How tall was he? Did he have a moustache or beard? Did he remind you of anyone at all?”

She’d just smile faintly as if recalling his face and say, “I’m not worried about it, William—he was just a harmless old fellow.”

I always believed the Ghost in Hamlet was a demon, so I wasn’t having any of what she was selling. Needless to say, my arguments fell on deaf ears.

I actually began to think she was looking forward to seeing him again. I wouldn’t put it past her to do something rash like organizing a séance with her bohemian friends or trying to raise the spirit in my own living room.

I turned off into our lane and followed the winding road about a quarter of a mile back, until I caught glimpse of our house all lit up and set back into the pines.

I loved the house—I really did—and seeing it at night twinkling in the rain made me realize how eager I had been to buy it when Meg finally twisted my arm enough to make me drive out to see it.

I just don’t like ghosts.

As I pulled into the driveway leading to the garages, my heart froze.

My headlights picked up the glow of a red traffic cone standing in the driveway and beside it on the asphalt was the chalk outline of a body.

I leaped out of the vehicle, heart racing, and stood over the absurd white gingerbread man outline.

The rain poured down over me, as I stood bewildered and transfixed. I bent down and touched the edge of the white outline—it was paint, not chalk.

Strange. No wonder it hadn’t smeared or marred in this downpour. But what the hell was going on?

As soon as I asked the question, my mind leaped to Meg.

My God, was she all right? I began to shake, partly from the cold and damp and mostly from fear.

A cold dread was spreading through my body like an icy wave. Oh Meg, Meg—if anything happened to her…

I ran blindly toward the house, squinting against the wind-driven drops.

It’s all the fault of this bloody ghost, I swore under my breath.

I fumbled with the lock and finally managed to push the door open and stumble into the foyer.

Meg was standing with a tray of coffee—standing in her black Chirac dress, looking elegant and alarmed.

“Will—whatever has happened to you?”

I could barely speak. “You’re…you’re all right?”

“Of course, I’m all right, Silly—although…” she paused and saw I was soaked to the skin and hysterical, “although, I can’t say the same for you. You looked like you just saw a ghost.”

“The…the pylon—and the spray-painted outline of a body, “ I sputtered, “—what’s going on Meg?”

She laughed and the sound tinkled like treble notes down the hallway.

“Oh, that—Krista was using our house for the setting of her new film. Don’t worry about the paint—it’s water-based and will power wash right off.”

She looked at me compassionately, “You look a mess. Come in and sit down.”

She led me into the den where I collapsed into my leather sofa chair.

“Drink this,” she ordered, pouring some steaming coffee into a mug. I downed it greedily, cradling the mug in my frozen hands.

“I was worried,” I said at last.

“Worried—whatever for? I spent a delightful afternoon with Krista and later had tea and a chat with Charles.”

“Charles—Who the hell is Charles?”

“The ghost, Silly. Now drink your coffee.”

© 2024, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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