A Ghost Story

This story is by Dave McHugh and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

I sometimes live in a ghost story. That may sound odd. But there is a residual force resident in me, which causes me to repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and continue, and to linger…..

I sit in a place and read ghost stories. I find them interesting. You know what I mean. Don’t you? The way we sometimes take delight in being scared. The way we like to read about things from the past, because that is safe, and is long gone. We don’t have to worry then. It’s over. Or is it?

My ghost story continues, and I’m damned to allow the loop to replay itself, the same familiar notes entering my mind. Uninvited mind you, with kettle on, my mind drifts as the milk does into tea. Despite the bright morning, I’m inclined towards those liminal places. The half light that fairies and ghosts and, God forbid, the banshee exists.

The place is dark, but well lit. I read. The words dance from the page, and I’m happy to read about old haunts, dark recesses, and haunted places, because it diverts me from my own dark recesses and haunted places. The only thing that never changes is the old haunt. I return to that habitually. I only become truly horrified when I read about residual energy. That which lingers, which remains, when we are gone. Because that means that we never go.

We are forced to continue.

I stir the tea, automatically reach out for the biscuits; and can see the train tracks from my living room window. 10.30 will be in soon. Tempted, I ignore the whiskey.

I met her there once, in that dark old haunt. She was a friend. We used to laugh together. We were lonely. At least, I was lonely, but she gave the impression of loneliness. We would talk about nothing. I was happy to hear her say nothing. We would smile, laugh, and look. Listen. To each others unspoken words. Each wanting to tell the other something, but not having the words to say.

We met regularly in places where other people would be. It was not enough for us. There were too many words, too much explaining. We knew these people and places, but we didn’t want to hang on there. We needed more than words, but less than silence.

Sure enough, the Dublin train pulls in; and jackdaws caw to remind it of the real owners of this desolate Midlands place. Silent yes, but; lacking something. Toast? I press two slices of bread down into the toaster, and listensmell to the process. The train pulls away, chug chug chug…. A memory?

She suggested it.

I agreed.

We went.

A dimly lit place.

I watched as she lit a cigarette. She sucked on it and closed her eyes briefly, not wanting smoke to linger near her eyes.

I smiled at her, and berated her for smoking.

She told me to shut up.

Her voice was unaffected. I like it.

I watched as her hands placed the cigarette in the ash tray. Her nails were bitten, the fingers tapered. She poured from the bottle of beer, glug, glug, glug, into the glass.

We spoke about nothing, nothing at all, at great length. We were good at speaking nothing.

We would meet regularly, sometimes at her suggestion, sometimes at mine.

We chased together.

Some thought we were an item, but we laughed it off. Hahahahahaha!
Sure we wouldn’t like each other. Not my type.

We continued, in a loop, for some time. Always the same thing, the same words, the same place, the same conversation. But we liked it. Never told the other of course.

I sighed. Perhaps again? Only a small one? The click of the Jameson bottle crossfades with the outgoing train. The drip of whiskey into tea recalls, well; a ghost? I recall when the ghost came. Out of the blue, out of the shadows.

He was alive and I didn’t know him.

 

She told me.

We were in our place, sitting. We drink a bit more than usual. She smokes and fidgets more than usual. I ask her what’s wrong.

“It’s him” she says.

Her face looks demure, and I want to kiss it.

“Who” I say.

“Eddie” she says.

“Who’s Eddie” I say.

“I love him” she says, her purple lips sucking, blowing out smoke, eyes closing, a wisp of ghostly cigarette smoke haunting my nostrils.

I pick up my drink, and take a decent slug.

“What’s the story there?” I say.

“You just know when it happens you” she says, fingers lifting the bottle of beer. Drip, drip, drip like a slow cellar. Bitten finger nails swirling the empty bottle, ghostly eyes beer tearly seeing no bottle.

“I know” she continues, “That I love him”

Something died in me.

I was unable to answer for a few seconds.

“Are you sure” I said.

“Certain”

“You should go for it then. There aren’t many things in life that are certain”

I said that last sentence out loud for myself. I knew this also. The only certain thing is death, and that leaves ghosts.

We walked up the street and I left her home. She linked me. The first time we ever had physical contact.

“Thank you” she said “For being there for me”.

I could say nothing, except smile lightly, nonchalantly, as if I was unaffected, exorcised, free of demons.

She kissed me on the lips. I reciprocated, but as I did she withdrew her mouth.

“I love him” she whispered.

I watched her walk on, a shadowy figure on a hazy night. The streetlamp suddenly went off, and the rain began to fall. I was watching a ghost. I stared at my feet and looked up again, but she was gone.

So now, here I am.

I come to this place quite regularly, sometimes to read, sometimes to remember. Sometimes by will, sometimes by my own invite.

I always read ghost stories, they are interesting. All those things that happened long ago, all the ghosts and spirits that linger. All that energy, all that residual feeling, all those things unsaid, and best left buried. But still I have to come here.