Unfinished Business

          Falling,

                    Falling,

                                           Falling.

Then darkness, then nothing at all.  No pain, no sorrow, no happiness.  No consciousness of being, no awareness of self.

Then bright, burning light.

 

Ben tried to shield his eyes but found the action impossible.  The light faded somewhat and Ben was aware of movement blurs all around him.  His perception stabilised and the blurs became people, sort of people, shadows of people. And they were all moving briskly in the same direction.  A shadow person passed close to Ben, the feeling of being determined to arrive at wherever he, or she, was heading was palpable.   

Ben found himself moving alongside the shadow, trying desperately to attract their attention, “Excuse, me, excuse me.” 

He felt, rather than saw, the shadow give a turn of the head, then, feeling the words arrive in his mind, not hearing them, the shadow said, 

“Quickly now, you don’t want to be left behind.”

Ben looked up from where he was sitting, he had no idea how he had arrived there, not that it mattered, not to him, not any more.  There were a line of shadow people, also sitting, to his left and to his right.  He too was a shadow person now.  He had no illusions that he was dead.  But his thoughts held neither question nor fear on his condition, just mild curiosity as to why he was sitting in a line of others facing…..his attention became focused upon who he and the others were facing.  Again it was a shadow, tall and authorative, the features and details unseen, and this shadow’s voice was entering and resonating in Ben’s mind.

“Being dead means you have no bodies, no brain, nothing left of the corruptible flesh your parents made.  The shadows that you are, and that you perceive, are the mind’s last ditch attempt at being rational and putting what you know to be there into some sort of context. We are now but the essence of the people we once were.  This part never depended upon flesh and blood to sustain it, in a way it is the immortal sum total of a person’s being.  For some that essence can live on in great works of art, literature, or historic deeds, but not you, you have unfinished business. What that business may be, how you will complete it, and the outcome of completing it, I have no idea, nor do I have any wish to know.  I have just completed mine by talking to you, so farewell and good luck.”

And he was gone, along with the line of shadow people; all that was left was a feeling of familiarity, a sense of knowing where he was.  Ben took a ‘step’ forward………

……….into his mother’s living room.  Full of sombre attired relatives and friends.  His mother’s friends of course, not his, she would never allow his friends in her living room.  Ben felt some element of surprise that the animosity he felt toward his mother was still with him.  It shouldn’t matter now, but it seemed to Ben that it was important that it did, it kept him here, in this room of people that he had never liked, and who had never liked him.

The wake, his wake, was humming with conversation punctuated with the occasional clink of sherry bottle on glass.  

He heard an elderly aunt say to his mother, “Our condolences,” 

Ben saw his mother shrug in answer before passing on to attend to another guest.  

The aunt turned to her husband and muttered, ”You can’t tell me she doesn’t feel some kind of relief he’s gone, I’m not one to talk ill of the dead, but, he was a wrong ‘un, and that’s the truth.”  

Ben couldn’t remember if he was a ‘wrong ‘un’ or not, it was too late to go back and change, it was no longer of any importance.  What mattered to him, what had always mattered to him in life as well as death was close, very close.  The door to the kitchen was pushed open and Ben felt an old familiar feeling of love, gratitude, companionship, and more that he had never had, or needed. the words to express.  His unfinished business had come waddling into the room.

Ben felt his being drift on the wave of unconditional love that was the still living essence of this intruder into his mother’s room.  The intruder’s presence had not gone un-noticed by the wake guests, or his mother.  The majority had given a moue of disapproval and his mother had grabbed a magazine off the coffee table and rolling it up delivered an unkind whack to the intruder’s rump.  “Out, get out.”  

She hadn’t shouted, but the words were full of venom.  The whack hadn’t been over hard, but his arthriticy old bones had felt it keenly, giving a yelp of pain and a whimper the old dog returned to his now lonely life of waiting in the kitchen.

As Ben drifted through the door to his truest friend he heard his mother say, “…only thing he cared about, he thought more of that stinking old dog then he did of me, well, it takes a one way trip to the vet’s tomorrow, and good bloody riddance.”

Ben felt no fear or anger at his mother’s words.  The old dog was aware of him and started to lash his tail in greeting, his waiting at an end.  Keeping his essence hovering just above the dog, and opening a channel of feeling Ben let the dog know that he was going to stay with him until the end.

The next morning Ben felt a small, very small, jolt of guilt from deep within his mother.  It passed quicker than it had arrived. Clipping the lead to the dog’s collar she gave a hard jerk, 

“Come,” a harsh command, not a kind request.  

The old dog did his very best to comply, but his ancient bones were slow and stiff.  Another hard jerk of the lead brought him to his feet.  Still trying to please, the dog allowed himself to be dragged mercilessly through the house and out to the car.  Ben kept up his vigil of comfort above the dog.

As his mother left the veterinary’s surgery, the dog gave a small yip of despair at being left in a strange place by the last living human that had shared his long life.  

The veterinary nurse reached down and ruffled his ears, “All right mate, I know it’s all scary, but it won’t hurt, I promise.”  

Ben sent waves of comfort and love and the dog quickly settled.  The nurse was kind and patient and allowed the old dog to follow at his own pace into the veterinary’s surgery.

It was over so quickly, and peacefully.  Ben looked down on the once russet red of his dog’s coat, now it looked dull and grey, almost dirty.  He felt a pull at his essence, feeling that his unfinished business was now complete; he allowed the pull to take him.  He drifted away from the dead dog on the table, now free from pain and the agony of pining, and toward the entrance of a tunnel.  But he didn’t feel alone.  Reaching down he felt…..

…….the warm crisp bounce of a russet red coat.  They were lying beneath a tree, its dappled shadows giving an almost surreal view of the cloudless blue sky.  The dog was resting his noble head on his chest, and together they drifted into a sleep of forever after.

                                                                        The end 

                                                                                                                                      ©2014cvb

The Attention Seeker

        

She couldn’t remember how it all started, well, ended really, being a ghost was difficult unless you had made an end. She assumed that when she had been alive she had been young, she felt young, she didn’t feel grown up anyway.  The early years of her haunting the house were fun.  People would cower in corners when she made her presence felt.  She had quickly learned how to open tightly shut doors, she could make windows rattle and curtains billow.  She had perfected the art of making china jump off shelves.  Best of all she could lower the temperature in a room dramatically; even in the hottest summer she could have people diving for their woolly jumper drawer.  The house’s living residents would finally pack up and leave and the ghost would eagerly anticipate the next new arrivals.  This was the way it was for quite a few decades, until ‘word’ got around about her activities, and no one came to live in the house for yet more decades. Then one day the whole building seemed to be taken over by what she assumed to be workmen.  She had overheard them saying they were to ‘completely gut’ the house.  The kitchen had been her favourite room to haunt, so she knew what gutting entailed.  Her curiosity overcame her desire to haunt, so she just lay low to see what would unfold.

Over the next nine months new words entered her vocabulary, like refurbishment, laminated surfaces, white goods and counter tops.  The putting together of the old house’s interior had also brought with it a plethora of other words from the workmen, none of which she was sure were polite.  The workmen departed and a large van arrived, furniture and cardboard boxes were brought into the house by two men in overalls, accompanied by yet more impolite words.  

The men and their van had not long left the property when a very large and shiny automobile pulled up to the front door.  
‘Aha,’ the young ghost thought on seeing its occupants, ‘It’s play time again.’   
The new inhabitants of the old house consisted of a Mother and Father, their thirteen year old daughter and ten year old son.  The ghost knew better than to start her fun and games immediately, it was always more effective when the hauntees were settled, secure, and content in their new home, so with a sweet child smile she slipped into the fabric of the building and waited.

She hadn’t waited long, six months, before she resumed her post death play time.  She had billowed and rattled, left previously locked doors swinging on their hinges, smashed her way through half a dinner service, and dropped the temperature so low that the boy’s pet gerbils had gone into premature hibernation.  All to no avail.  Irritatingly the father had explained her activities away.  Either the workmen had not fitted the windows properly, the old house was ‘settling,’ the floor was uneven, and the one she could not understand, the air conditioning was on the blink.  Obviously this was a modern family with modern mind sets, what she decided she had to do was study them, find a weakness and play upon it.  The best way of upsetting grown-ups is to upset their children and that was where she made a start.

The boy, Malcolm, spent an extraordinary amount of time in his room.  The ghost discovered this was not due to punishment by his parents, but by his own choice.  He was almost always to be found engrossed in the same occupation.  He would sit in front of a desk tightly grasping and manipulating a device which seemed to be connected to yet another device.  This device put the ghost in mind of a book, albeit page less, in the way it lay open.  However, no book she had ever seen contained moving figures on one lighted screen-like side and a typeface on the other.   Fascinated, she had hovered at his shoulder and watched.  Two things became apparent, one, by some means involving the hand held device, Malcolm was in command of the moving figures on the screen, and two, there was absolutely no way he could be distracted from his occupation.  Once again she had gone through her full repertoire, the rattling and billowing was totally ignored, as was his door flying open.  She had caused an ornament of a dinosaur, obviously much prized from the position it held on the book shelf, to come tumbling down, where it promptly bounced a few times on the deep piled carpet and was left, again ignored.  She did have some reaction to the lowering of the temperature, but instead of casting nervous glances around the room, he just said a bad word and grabbed his thick eiderdown off the bed and wrapped it round him before blissfully continuing his god-like control of the ‘book’ screen’s entities.  So she turned her attention to the girl.

The daughter of the house was called Susan.  Susan spent her time either being lectured about her sulky behavior by her parents, or in the bathroom, (the ghost assumed she was at the normal activities one performed in a bathroom, only Susan seemed to take an inordinate amount of time doing so, the ghost never slipped through the walls to investigate, even members of the spirit world knew where to draw the line.)  Like her brother the majority of her spare time was spent in her bedroom.  Susan also owned a page less book, but it seemed to have an altogether different use.  Susan’s book, as far as the ghost could work out, was used as a typewriting machine.  The screen took the place of typing paper, the words hammered out on the type face appearing on the lighted screen.  Worryingly, words also appeared on the screen even when Susan didn’t type, which she read, then either giggled mischievously over, or swore loudly at before recommencing her own typing.  Always nearby or held closely to the side of her head, was a small flat device which Susan spent hours talking to.  This, more than any other, had persuaded the ghost that haunting Susan was a non-starter; the girl was obviously mentally impaired, and just a little scary.

The ghost had heard the family talking about Halloween.  She assumed that this was their pet name for All Hallows Eve, a day of church going and religious observance.  From what the ghost could tell the family was indeed going to ‘observe’ All Hallows Eve, this could well be the opportunity she was waiting for.  Past experience had taught her that there was nothing more guaranteed to put an entire family on edge than a visit to church.  She drifted upstairs to Malcolm’s room to see what he would look like in smart Sunday Best.  He was, as usual, seated in front of his screen.  Giving a quick icy blast of a sigh, the ghost ran an eye over the boy’s back, well; he was certainly dressed in formal black.  

She was about to waft her way to Susan’s room when Malcolm spoke,
“Are you a ghost?”  
The initial surprise of hearing Malcolm say a complete sentence was quickly pushed away by the realization that he was speaking to her, she melted into the wall to take stock of the situation.  It wasn’t the reaction she had hoped for, but it was nice to be finally noticed.  A thought occurred to her which made her feel indignant, slipping back into the room she materialized in her hazy ‘could be a trick of the light, but you are not really sure are you?’ way.  
“What do you mean, ‘Am I a ghost,’ she demanded, “Of course I’m a ghost, what did you think I was?”  
“Dodgy air conditioning, at least that’s what Dad says,” replied Malcolm.  
The boy hadn’t even bothered to turn around to talk to her, which further added to her crossness,
“Well, for you, and your Father’s information, I am indeed a ghost.”  She said, making the ceiling light flicker.  
Still not turning around Malcolm offered up a single syllable in reply,
“Oh,” and resumed his gadget manipulation. 

There was no way the ghost could effectively materialize in front of Malcolm; the light screen would have diminished her already translucent outline, so she settled for standing directly behind him.  
“If I do not scare you just a little a bit, then are you not even curious about me?  Do you not feel compelled to research who I once was?  Hold a seance, that sort of thing.”  She asked the back of his head,
“No,” Malcolm simply replied.  
“WHY?” she blasted back at him, causing a momentary parting in his hair.  
“Because,” he quietly answered, still facing the screen and moving the characters around, “You really are not much of a ghost, are you?  I have never heard you give a ‘whooooo,’ or a ‘boo’, all you do is spy on people, and you're what Mum would call an 'attention seeker,' and not a very good one at that,  I mean to say, can you even take your head off?”  
“CAN I WHAT?  NO!  Why would I want to take my head off?”  
The ghost could hear the tearful hysteria in her voice, this was not how things were supposed to go, and of course she sought attention, for crying out loud, that's what ghosts were supposed to do.  
“OK,” Malcolm went on, “Can you pop your eye out with green gunge and maggots sliding out of the socket………..Sort    -     of    -    like    -    this!”
And with that, Malcolm finally turned around.
  
Ghosts do not have physical bodies, so they cannot feel acid bile rising to their throats, but they do have a full set of feelings that lead to reactions.  Malcolm’s face was pale and sickly green, with the eye protruding from the socket on a sinuous, shiny stalk which caused the eye to give a little bounce at his every movement.   From the socket, and dribbling down his cheek, was indeed a dark green slime, encrusted with small maggots.  The ghost took the sight in and promptly exploded in a soft cloud of spectral atoms.  Mentally shaken, and full of terror, she re-materialized in Susan’s room.

Susan was definitely not dressed for church.  Wearing what for all the world looked like ripped up net curtains; she was sitting on the bed with her back to the ghost holding her flat device at arm’s length.  There was a small blink of light and the girl scrutinized the device carefully.  The ghost wondered if Susan was going to hurl it across the room and break down in screaming sobs as she had often done before, but no, this time she gave a satisfied grunt and turned round, swung herself off the bed and stood up, coming face to face with the ghost.  Unlike her brother, Susan gave no indication that she was aware of the ghost's presence.  The ghost on the other hand was fully aware of hers.  Susan had always put the ghost ill at ease, but now, now Susan caused a resurgence of the fear the ghost had felt earlier.  Susan’s face was a deathly white which accentuated the blackness of her eye make-up.  Criss-crossing her face were crudely sewn-up wounds, red and angry looking, with just a faint hint of darkening putrefaction.

When she had gathered her molecules together for the second time that evening, the ghost found herself in the cellar.   She could not understand what was going on, whom, or what were these people?  There was something terrifying about the way they went from the normal to looking like, like THAT, the thought had her ectoplasm quivering like jelly.   Unlike the house’s former inhabitants she could not escape, not for her was the luxury of grabbing her coat to run screaming out of the front door.  She was firmly bound to the house, not a chance, this side of the last trumpet, of leaving.  Sadly she had to concede, the weird family upstairs was beyond her scope, she was well and truly out of her league.  Looking round her surroundings she came to the conclusion that the cellar was a good place to be, if she couldn’t leave the house then she would stay in the cellar.  The family rarely came down here, if they did it was for a very short and hurried time, it was cold and damp and covered in cob webs.  Cob webs meant spiders; at least she wouldn’t be alone down here.  Integrating herself into an old mangle she smiled and decided that it was quite homely in the cellar, first she would rest and then she would see if spiders could be frightened.

“I feel sick,” said Malcolm the next morning sat at the breakfast table.  
“You’re going to school,” said his mother, slamming his breakfast bowl down in front of him, then crossing the room she placed one hand on the banister and yelled up the stairs,
“Susan, I’ll give you five minutes to get your lazy butt out of that bed before I come up and get you out myself.”  
With the morning family conversation complete, each member returned to their own thoughts.  The mother was pleased that her children had made a good impression with their Halloween costumes at the party, that would show that stuck up Mrs Halberry to look down her nose at them, mind you it would have made a better impression in front of the local gentry if Malcolm hadn’t made such a pig of himself, a whole cake and half a trifle, no wonder the greedy little sod felt sick!  

Malcolm wondered if he would ever see the ghost again, he hoped he hadn’t scared it too much, at least not on their first meeting; there could be ages of fun to be had there.  

Susan, finally dragging herself to the bathroom, explored her reflection in the mirror for spots.  

The father wondered how much it would cost to convert the cellar into a games room, he would probably get a pretty penny for scrap from some the junk stored down there………

And thus the living got on with life, ignorant of the remains that lay beneath the cellar floor, and the remains of those remains that slept in the fabric of the mangle.

"We'll Have Some Fun"

Horace sat on the wall that surrounded the town's cemetery with his head bowed, staring at his intertwined fingers.  He felt depressed and lonely.  He  watched the children of the town running from house to house, ringing doorbells, knocking on knockers, and yelling in their excited high pitched voices, "Trick or Treat, Trick or Treat."  The doors were always opened by the home owners, at first feigning fear at the children's costumes, and then laughing as they distributed the contents of bowls and huge jars of sweets amongst the clapping, cheering children.  Horace would love to have some of those 'Treats.'  More than that, he would have loved to join the other kids, to be a part of 'the gang' in having fun, and a laugh. 

Earlier he had tried to join in with the fun.  He had approached a group of kids, all dressed up in their various costumes, devils, witches, vampires and the like, all garish and over stated.  He had asked if he could tag along with them.  They had stared hard at him, first they asked his name, when he told them, "Horace"  there were a few hoots and snorts of laughter.  Then there was the cold up and down appraising look of one boy, "That's a crap costume," was the boy's only comment before he ran off, followed by the others, to continue their evenings festivities.  Well, not all had run off.  One little girl, dressed as a rather benign looking witch, had lingered.  "Come on," she had said "They can't stop you from doing 'Trick or Treat' too."   With that, she too had turned on her heel to run and catch up with her friends.

Taking a gulp of air to steady his nerves, Horace ran to join the children at the front door of the next house to be visited.  Finding himself at the front of the group he had yelled along with the others as the front door had slowly opened, "Trick or Treat, Trick or Treat!"  An old man, John Owens,  had opened the door, beaming as he put his hand into a large washing up bowl, full to the brim with all kinds of confectionery delights.  He threw two huge handfuls over the children's heads and onto the front lawn beyond.  The children screamed and laughed and turned to scrabble about for the treats.  But not Horace.  Before the old man could hurl another fistful of sweets his eyes had locked onto Horace's face.  Horace stood transfixed by the gaze.  Then, of a sudden, the old man had hurriedly closed the door.

Horace found himself surrounded by the other children, their anger, including that of the benign little witch, was palpable.   "What did you say to him?"  "You must have upset him, he always gives more than that!"  "Told you he had a crap costume, that's what put the old man off !"  Their comments came flying from their enraged chocolate stained mouths, hitting Horace harder than any blow could.  He managed to break free from the throng and ran.

Horace had stopped running at the cemetery wall, which he had sat on to dwell awhile in his sorrow.  He felt a shiver run through him, raising his head he looked toward the high and barren moorland that rose on the outskirts of town.  Home lay in that direction, and he knew he must be getting back there.  With a sigh he slipped off the wall and headed back to where he belonged.

The old man, John Owens, had been very quiet since his last 'Trick or Treat' visitors.  The girl who had been dressed as the benign witch leaned toward him on the sofa and asked, "Grandpa, are you OK.  Did that odd looking boy say something nasty to you?"  "Mmm? What? No, he didn't say a word, kind of looked familiar though, my memory, it isn't what it used to be, what did you say his name was pet? Do you know him?"  replied her Grandpa.  The girl creased her brow, trying to remember, "It was a funny old fashioned name.  Poor boy, I felt sad for him, he didn't have a proper costume, just some raggy old long shorts and a jumper with holes in it.... 'Orace!  That was it, he said his name was 'Orace, he must come from over the moor somewhere, 'cos he doesn't go to our school.  Why do want to know his name Grandpa?"

John didn't reply to his Granddaughter's question, and as she went on to chatter and chirrup about her evening's adventures, he leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes ...........  He drifted back into the memories of his own childhood, to when the town was little more than a village.  They were a poor community, but close.  They never had such things as 'Trick or Treat,'  that was an American tradition that had started long after he had grown up.  Oh, but they would have loved it, him and his best friend Horace Pope.  He was the boy who had gone up on the moors to play and never came home, probably becoming lost and dying of exposure.  Horace had called for John on the day he disappeared, but John had a hacking cough and his mother wouldn't let him out.  Horace's last words to him were, "I'll call round for you tomorrow, see if you can come out then, we'll have some fun, and a laugh....see ya!"

The old man, John Herbert Owens, passed away that night, on the 31st October.  Sixty years and one day after his best friend Horace Michael Pope had died alone on the moor.  And one wonders if their ghosts are out there somewhere, having some fun, and a laugh.

Burden's Close

Property was cheap at Burden's Close.  When Jeff and Tina went to view number 19 they just couldn't believe their luck.  It was an ideal little house, in a cul-de-sac, on a fairly new estate, the estate itself had a crisp clean look.  Neatly manicured front lawns with well looked after houses spoke of what is commonly referred to as a 'good' neighbourhood.  Number 19 was no exception to the rest of the estate, and the asking price was low.  Jeff and Tina had not even bothered to put in an offer and had snapped it up.  It was their first home and it was a beauty.

The neighbours were friendly, but they had that tired look of commuters who spend a great deal of their working day travelling to and from work.  Jeff was fortunate enough to work locally, relatively speaking, and did wonder if the estate, being semi-rural, was too far removed from motorways and train stations to be classed as being on the 'commuter belt.'  This, thought Jeff, would explain the number of For Sale notices that kept popping up around the estate, but in particular Burden's Close, some of the inhabitants were just finding the long journey to and from work a bit too much of a grind.  Jeff and Tina had no such worries, and the first six months in their new home was bliss.

It was Tina who first began to experience broken sleep patterns.  She would startle awake, grip Jeff's shoulder and ask, "Do you have to creep about the bedroom just to go to the loo?" 
The first few nights when this happened Jeff would just sleepily mumble an apology and go back to sleep.  It was only after a week of this interruption to his slumbers, followed the next morning by further accusations of being inconsiderate, that Jeff felt compelled to point out to Tina that one, he hardly, if ever, had to visit the loo during the night, and two, on the rare occasion when he might have a call of nature he would go straight there and back, he certainly did not do any 'creeping about.'  Later that day at work Jeff felt sorry that he had been so sharp with Tina.  He felt so weary, and he knew that Tina did too, it was making them snap at each other.  He wondered if he could persuade Tina to go to see their doctor, there must be a reason for her nightmares.

Tina's reaction to Jeff's suggestion that she seek medical help for her nightmares was not what Jeff had expected,
"WHAT!!  Do you honestly think I am mad, insane?  They are NOT nightmares Jeff, and I am not the one who needs help.  Have you ever even considered the possibility that it is YOU?  That you are sleepwalking." 
Jeff had not for one moment considered this.  The dismay that showed on Jeff's face touched Tina and she leaned her head on his shoulder slipping her arms around his body, showing, what had become of late, a rare moment of tenderness,
"Oh Jeff, we can't go on like this, we are both exhausted, and I hate it when we are grumpy with each other." 
Ignoring his wife's offer of conciliation, Jeff replied, "Sleepwalking?  Are you sure?  I mean to say, have you actually SEEN me sleepwalking?" 
Tina pushed herself away from Jeff's body, the sarcastic spite in her voice shocked Jeff to the core,
"Of course, couldn't possibly be Jeff could it? Jeff-always-is-right Jeff, God Almighty Jeff, Jeff has spoken, his-wifey-is-nuts-lets-bundle-her-off-to-the-luney-bin Jeff, Jeff the....." 
Jeff grabbed her wrists and tried to pull her to him,
"Tina, no, please, that's not what I mean, we're tired, we need sleep, come on love we can work this out." 
"Yes!" Tina spat back at him, "We can." 
Wrenching her wrists from Jeff's hands she stormed out of the room and up the stairs.  Jeff heard her go first to the airing cupboard and then into the spare bedroom. 
"Ah!" thought Jeff, he didn't like the idea, but perhaps if Tina did sleep in the spare bedroom for a couple of nights, then perhaps they would both benefit, and be able to come to a rational decision on what should be done.

The single bed was horribly uncomfortable.  Jeff thumped the pillows and shifted his body trying to find a place in the limited bed width that didn't have a lump in it.  He wasn't quite sure how the decision had been made that it was in fact he that would end up sleeping here.  Maybe it was the word 'sleep' that made the decision for him.  A few nights uninterrupted sleep.  But it wasn't happening for Jeff.  He missed his own bed, and Tina's warm body next to his.  He wondered if Tina was at least managing to get some shut eye, but he knew that her nightmare would begin soon.  In a way he hoped it would, it would prove once and for all that it was HER having the problem, and not HIM.

The next morning found them with the usual look of bleary eyed exhaustion as they sat opposite each other at the kitchen table.  Neither had slept well.  Jeff noticed there was something other than exhaustion etched onto Tina's face, it was concern.  He reached out his hand to her and she grabbed it, much as a drowning man would grasp at a straw. 
"Tina, love, what's wrong?"
As Tina replied the tears formed in her eyes,
"Jeff, don't sleep in the spare room tonight, come back to bed with me, please." 
Oh no,  thought Jeff, she couldn't possibly mean that she was wanting.....no, he was so tired he could hardly raise a smile these days let alone anything else!  Even so he felt a sense of pleasure that she should still find him desirable despite his becoming worn out and  dishevelled looking.  He gently stroked the back of her hand,
"Darling, did you miss me so very much?" 
"No, no it's not that," she replied sending his ego smashing into a million pieces, "I saw something last night, it wasn't you, I know it wasn't you, it was something.  And I want you to stay awake with me tonight, if you see it too, well, I don't know, but if only I can see it, then I promise, I will make an appointment to see the doctor first thing."

It occurred to Jeff later that night, that even if you thought you didn't get any sleep, you must in fact get some sleep, and it was this 'some sleep' that he was desperately fighting off.  Tina had already given up and succumbed.  Although he couldn't see her in the darkened room he could hear her rhythmic breathing that only comes with deep sleep.  It felt a little unfair, but he could see her point, she had seen the 'something' and now it was for him to yay or nay it's existence.  He had risked being accused of once more 'creeping about' and left his warm bed and gone to sit in the Lloyd Loom chair they kept in their bedroom, a collectable it may be, but comfy it was not.  He was just wondering if continued sitting on the chair would leave permanent basket weave patterns on his backside when his meanderings were interrupted by a sharp gasp from Tina.  The bedroom was not completely dark, there was a street lamp outside of the window allowing enough light for Jeff to make out Tina's shape, she was partially sat up, her weight resting on her elbows,
"Jeff?," she whispered,
"Its alright love, I'm here, in the chair," Jeff reassured her. 
"No, no, look, can you see it?" Was her hastily whispered reply. 
Jeff turned his head into what he thought was the direction Tina was looking.  He saw it.  He felt as though he had been subjected to a static electric shock, every hair on his body was standing on end.  He launched himself from the chair to the bed, diving under the covers and pulling them up to under his chin.  He could feel his eyes opening wider and wider as if to take in and comprehend what they were trying to tell him he was seeing.  When he finally felt able to talk his voice was little more than a croak, he had to force the words out past his throat, impossible words, senseless words.
"Tina,....it's a cow!"

The bovine apparition didn't stay for long.  It seemed to just gently waft away, not as a mist does, for it appeared more solid than that, but more like a gentle creeping into nothingness.  Without speaking Jeff and Tina all but tip-toed their way down stairs where they made cups of hot, sweet, tea laced with brandy.  Once seated at the kitchen table Jeff looked directly at Tina and said, "We're being haunted by a fucking cow?!!" 
"Jeff!!" Tina sharply admonished. 
Jeff gave her a sheepish look and continued, 
"Yes, well, sorry for the swear, but, a cow?  Other people get headless horsemen, murder victims, unrequited lovers, how come we have ended up with a cow?" 
Tina shook her head and spread her hands, palms upper most, "Just lucky I guess." 
Her weak attempt at humour fell flat, and as Jeff made no response she continued,
"Do you think we are the only ones? You know, to have a, a, ghost-cow.  When we first moved here we said how tired everyone looked.  We thought it was because they had long commutes, but, we look like them now, we're tired and worn out just like everyone else, and we don't have long journeys to make.  What if the whole Close is being haunted?" 
Jeff looked long and hard at his wife before replying,
"You're telling me the Close is infested with a herd of ghost-cows?  Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds?  What do you suggest we do Tina, ask around, go to our neighbours and say, 'Excuse me, but do you have a ghost-cow too?'    Come on love, even if it is true, it's not anything anyone is going to admit to is it?  I certainly wouldn't." 
Tina bowed her head, then running her fingers though her hair she sighed out an answer, "Then please tell me, my dear husband, what do you suggest we do?" 
For the first time in weeks Jeff felt the tired dejection lift from his shoulders, his voice was firm and confident as he said,  "What everyone else does eventually, the sensible thing."

A few weeks later the 'For Sale' sign was once more put up outside number 19 Burden's Close.  The asking price was well below the value of the house and a buyer was quickly found.  As they left in their car, following the removal van to their new home, Jeff and Tina did not even look back.  None of their neighbours had expressed any surprise at their leaving, just  knowing smiles and sincere good luck wishes.

A few years later, during a bout of flu', Jeff, in one of those 'nothing to do' moments, researched the land Burden's Close was built on.  It was with not one iota of surprise that he discovered that there was once a knackers-yard there, owned by one Jeremiah Burden. where worn out dairy cattle were sent for slaughter, some, exhausted and spent, had travelled miles along the drovers paths to arrive at their final destination.  Jeff never told Tina of his findings, there was no point.  They were so happy in their little cottage, expecting their first baby, he wanted nothing to remind her of the time when they nearly fell apart, all because of some tired old cow not having the decency to RIP. 

     

   

      

The Skype Ghost

 

“Oh for crying out loud, not again!   Hang on love, I’ll just close this and ‘phone you.”  Angie pressed the appropriate button that ended the Skype connection with her friend Wendy. 

 
This was the third time this week that old busy-body had butted in on their conversation.  How was she doing it?  Angie had already complained to Skype's help line, but they had found no record of anyone ‘hacking’ in to either her or Wendy’s account.  The busy-body may be old, but damn, she was good, she was able to break through to other people’s accounts without detection. 

Wendy's phone was engaged when Angie had calmed down enough to call her.  In fact Angie hadn't been able to get through on the phone to Wendy at all this week.  This wasn't unusual, Wendy had a lot of relatives who were constantly calling her.  Wendy's phone was always seemingly engaged.  Angie left yet another message on her answer machine, promising to Skype her tomorrow, when hopefully, they would be left in peace to have a good chin wag.

Wendy and Angie had met on Face book.  After forming a bond on the ‘Message’ app., they had both admitted to each other that they found this particular social network boring.  This had led them to starting up their respective Skype accounts.  It was wonderful being able to see the person you were talking to, almost as though they were in the same room as yourself. Only living a couple of counties away from each other they had arranged to meet up and have lunch, and perhaps see a show or something.  As they had made their arrangements for the coming weekend it was vital that they get their plans ‘sorted.’ Yet every time, in what should have been a week of exciting planning, that Angie had made a connection to Wendy, the line would go all fuzzy and the face of some old woman had come onto the screen.  This usually happened within the first few moments of them exchanging greetings, just before they had chance to launch into a conversation properly.  Every time it had happened the old woman had said, “My dear, there is something you ought to know.”  Well, Angie didn’t want to know what a complete stranger who had hacked into her private conversation had to say, and, with apologies to Wendy, had just simply switched Skype off.  Obviously the elderly hacker  somehow knew how to disrupt further connections too, because when Angie always tried to re-connect some moments later, she received the unavailable sign, and yet she knew Wendy would be waiting for her to contact back. Three times it had happened, and Angie was getting really sick of it.  On the spur of the moment Angie decided to try and Skype Wendy again that night, it was very late now, but she might just catch her before she went to bed. That could work to their advantage.  Surely the old woman would be tucked up in her own bed, either sleeping or planning her next intrusion.

The Skype connection was answered straight away, but not by Wendy.  It was that damnable old woman again.  Angie squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.  When she opened them she reached for the ‘end call’ button…..and then froze.  She recognised the room in which the old lady sat.  It was Wendy’s living room. 

 
The old woman was speaking, “My dear, please, please do not cut me off again.  There is something you really must know.  Please listen.”  
Taken aback, and more than a little frightened, by the appearance of the hacker in Wendy’s home, Angie just nodded.

  
“My dear,” continued the old woman, “I know you do not know me, although I am somewhat confused by your attitude, first you greet me with all pleasantries and then you apologise and cut me off!  But, but, that is all water under the bridge now you are at last listening to me, you are listening dear aren’t you?  This is hard for me too, and I have no wish to repeat it.”  

Mesmerised by the old woman’s seeming advancement into insanity, Angie once again nodded.  

“Good, good,” said the old woman, “I am Wendy’s Auntie, and I am afraid I have some very bad news.  I know that you girls had planned to meet up this weekend so it was imperative I get in touch, I find the telephone too impersonal for calls of this nature, and as I did not have your address to write, I thought this way of telling you would be kindest.  I am afraid to say that last weekend Wendy was involved in an accident, she, she didn’t recover from her injuries, oh my dear, oh my dear…………..” 

 
Angie watched as the tears flowed from the old Aunts eye’s and down into the deep creases of her face.  The Aunt continued to speak, giving details of the funeral arrangements, interrupting herself every now and then to ask if Angie was OK.  Angie’s answers were monosyllabic as her own stunned and grief-stricken tears started to fall.  The Auntie eventually gave her goodbyes and the screen went momentarily blank………..before bursting into life again………………

”Hello” said the apparition that was Wendy, “Do you have time for a chat?”