The Angry Ghost and Other Stories Page 3

  “I don’t remember,” I whispered.

  “How can you not remember?” he said, his eyes red.

  “My memory is… unforgiving, to say the least,” I started. “I awoke some twenty years ago, in a hospital in London. I had been in an accident with a motor vehicle and the information found in my pockets led them to send me to a west London hospital near to my home.”

  The old man looked down at my wheelchair as if noticing it for the first time. “Are you telling me that you didn’t desert her?”

  I stared at him. “I don’t know! I don’t remember! I only have this photograph… and dreams!” I said frustrated.

  “Jesus!” he said. “Each year,” he started, “she returns to await you. As I have said, she seeks the one who abandoned her,” he said simply. “She lost her heart to you and the anger she now has is so strong that it has breached death itself.”

  “Last night I saw her,” I said quietly. “She didn’t seem angry,” I added.

  He stared at me for several moments before raising his arms again and moving quickly towards me. I raised my arms defensively, but as it turned out, aggression was not on his mind; on the contrary, he hugged me.

  “I am an old man,” he started, “and… was starting to wonder if I was beginning to lose it. I’m certain that no one else has seen her.”

  I said nothing.

  But then he released me and stepped back quickly. “You did see her, didn’t you? You’re not fucking with me?”

  “No… I mean yes, I saw her, and I wouldn’t dream of… It,” I said quickly.

  He smiled.

  He looked up and smiled more so. “What is death? … Another version of life… another existence,” he said before turning and walking away. He paused for a moment and looked back. “Love is the most important and powerful thing in this and any world. Life and death are unimportant,” he whispered.

  I stared after him. Clearly the alcohol had made a philosopher of the old man.

  I smiled to myself. Maybe it was all bullshit, but if a belief makes you happy or gives you some contentment of understanding in this crazy world; then no one should knock it.

  I wheeled my chair around and stared at the lake. I whispered painfully at the ebbing tide. “I know you, Layla, but I don’t remember…”

  I watched the lake’s surface for several minutes but it was unresponsive but for the gentle sound of its lapping against the bank.

  All was silent and seemingly at peace.

  I turned my back and wondered some more, just as I thought I heard a gentle disturbance in the water behind me.

  My memory was limiting my understanding.

  I so wished I could remember the circumstances prior to my accident.

  Scene 10: A Dream 2

  That night I dreamed more.

  The lady that had so intruded on my conscious – and subconscious – actually sat on the side of my bed, her hands still clenched.

  Immediately, but without any sense of fright, I sat upright.

  On the contrary, I was, oddly, so glad to see her.

  I reached for her cold, wet hands still curled into tight fists, as I watched water dripping down from her long midnight hair and onto her shoulders and arms.

  After an immeasurable time, a period that I stared unbelieving at her glowing clarity, she spoke.

  “I can see from your eyes that you don’t remember me, but you have not lost the memory here,” she said, moving her fist over my heart.

  Without looking away – in case she might disappear – I reached over for my wallet on the top of my bedside cabinet, and picked out my photograph and showed it to her.

  She looked at the picture for a long time before she lifted her right fist – upwards – to my face.

  I moved my head backward slightly.

  Still staring at me, she very slowly opened her hand to reveal a small scrap of paper.

  I carefully reached for it but she withdrew her hand. But then after a pause, she unfolded the paper to reveal… a photograph.

  It depicted a laughing young man. He looked happy and in love.

  I moved my picture beside hers. Of course, they fitted exactly.

  “My father took a picture of us,” she said. “Later we tore it in two and kept a half each. We were to bring the pictures together at our wedding. I loved you so much,” she began, “… and was so afraid that you would go…”

  “What made you think that?” I asked.

  “I didn’t expect you to leave but you said you needed to settle things in London before moving here to be my husband,” she said simply, “but others said you would not return – only my father and I believed in you. Also, you had lost your wallet and needed money to return to London.”

  “Oh my…” I said. “That really doesn’t give a good impression.”

  Then I looked on her left fist and reached for it.

  She smiled, “No, no… you can have what I hold when we are married.”

  I looked at her for several moments.

  “The… the possibility of marriage now would seem… slender,” I said staring into the large, dark eyes, while wishing it could be otherwise.

  The dark eyes stared unblinking into mine before a smile, hidden and somewhat clandestine, began to shine.

  “If love is true, all things are possible. I am gone; I cannot come back, but you…?” she said before her incandescent light became bright and then brighter still before it was only the touch of her fingers that told me she was still there.

  I held on to them for as long as I could before dawn appeared and I woke up.

  I lay there thinking for a long time.

  With my painful wheelchair-bound existence, I am not embarrassed to admit that in the last few years I have entertained certain thoughts of a self-destructive nature.

  The more I thought about it, the more I felt Layla’s intent for me was along the same lines as my tentative desires; and my love for her was such that I was beginning to feel rather happily resigned to accept her invitation.

  Was it real? Was it not?

  Was it important?

  Scene 11: The Lake

  It was the next night – Layla’s last night – that I waited for her beside the rapidly darkening lake.

  I had made my decision and was content – and more than a little eager to see it through.

  I waited taking deep breaths as the aching pain in my legs pounded unbearably – like a constant toothache.

  I looked, with impatience, left and right and across the black lake.

  Where was she?

  Then she was there shining brightly in her wedding dress.

  Hastily, I wheeled myself towards her and the muddy bank before stopping.

  “Come, my love… take my hands,” she said smiling.

  I stared. “I can’t… my legs!” I said in pain.

  “Do not worry; once we are in the water it will be easier.”

  She was walking backwards with both her arms lowered to me as if she were encouraging a young child to take his first steps.

  She drew further into the lake. I watched Layla’s dress rise and float around her like a flowery corona of incandescent light.

  “It is but a moment of pain but then we will be together… Always,” she said smiling.

  I looked around at the cold, dark night and wondered briefly at the irrationality before I looked on at her beauty.

  I was always in pain. I yearned so much for it to go away. I pushed my wheels onward with all the strength of my being towards her.

  I shuddered as the cold water moved up my legs surprisingly quickly; it was up to my waist and I stopped.

  Layla stopped. “Do you have doubts, my love?”

  I shook my head. “The mud! I cannot move further! And still, I cannot stand!” I said with desper
ation and panic. “Please don’t go! Don’t leave me!” I begged.

  Layla moved close and bent over to me, her arms under mine and around my back.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” she said.

  I did so and found myself in a close embrace with my ghostly paramour.

  I lost myself in her eyes as she slowly retreated further taking my weight and I felt my legs dragging until the increased depth made my support unnecessary.

  We stopped and Layla looked closely at me. I knew what she wanted.

  I nodded and kissed her lips.

  We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and I smiled, “I love you… I always have.”

  Layla smiled and proceeded to draw me further into the lake.

  We continued and as the water rose to my neck I lifted my head and concentrated on Layla’s face and the photograph that I had carried for twenty years.

  Eventually – my eyes still looking into Layla’s – I took a breath and met Layla’s lips with my own.

  The water overtook my head.

  Scene 12: Happiness

  I looked up from the burning embers of the hearth and around at the Ghost Club, awaiting their response.

  There was complete silence and – I thought – some discomfort.

  I wasn’t too concerned; in fact I thought it rather amusing.

  There was a very overlong pause. It had been agreed long ago that no story should be interrupted in case of likely intrusion and distraction to the pace and atmospheric ambiance of the storyteller’s tale.

  I guessed they were waiting for the next bit and how I had got away.

  But I was finished.

  “A good tale?” I asked.

  Greta spoke up and with an uncomfortable smile proposed, “How on earth did you escape her?”

  “Indeed,” started Maurice, “the fact that you are here clearly gives some lack of credence to your tale… so how did you get away?”

  I smiled at my old friend but shook my head in mock disappointment. “I didn’t escape her; were you not listening to my tale? I had no intention to ‘escape her’.”

  Then… slowly, I raised myself from the wheelchair and stood up.

  Water still dripped from my form. I had been so looking forward to this moment.

  “You… you didn’t get caught in the storm… did you?” Maurice said quietly, and with surprising intuition, I thought.

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I said, still smiling.

  I relished in their amazement.

  Slowly, I walked over to the door of the adjoining room and once there I turned around.

  I looked at Dr Korpal and smiled.

  “My most recent ‘treatment’ is something that I perhaps would not recommend to everyone… but it works for me.”

  Dr Korpal said nothing.

  I raised my fist and tapped lightly on the door.

  It opened and a tall and dark-eyed lady entered the room and placed her hands into mine.

  My Layla stood there smiling before me – a smile that was – is – and will forever be all.

  All else pales and is of no consequence or meaning. I felt I was beginning to understand what the old man had meant.

  I was so fixated by my love that I was only reminded of my friends when I was distracted by a chair falling back suddenly. I looked over to see my friends retreating to the hearth.

  I felt like an excited teenager as I turned and introduced Layla to my friends.

  “My wife.” I introduced her proudly.

  They all stood silently before Nisha, looking at Layla’s open hands said, “What was in her left hand?”

  I smiled. “The small yellow flower in my lapel. She picked it for me when we first met but would not give it to me until we were married. She was so confident I would return and worried in case she might lose it.”

  I watched them looking at one another with what looked like confusion though I knew not why.

  “You are now… married?” said Nisha.

  “Of course,” I said, my eyes looking deeply into those of Layla.

  I had learned – quite recently – that contrary to what is believed, ghosts cannot walk through things, and so I opened the door to my recent bride and – hand in hand – we walked out into the rain.

  Layla rested her head on my shoulder.

  Soon we became the shining silver droplets of the rain, the subtle mist of the night, and the gentle haze of the dawn.

  A Strange Occurrence

  Chapter 1: The Meeting

  There were four of us in the room.

  While the others sat in large armchairs in a semicircle around the blazing hearth, I stood looking once again at the portraits that covered an entire wall.

  One portrait, in particular, interested me and I examined it intensely. It depicted an elderly gentleman, short on stature, with gentle eyes and a smile that indicated that not all should be taken too seriously. A keen-eyed observer would see something long and glinting, hanging almost invisibly, from his right hand.

  You may wonder by what grounds I considered the man ‘short’ – well, the only object in the picture to give a reasonable perspective was a hound sitting upright on its haunches before him. Either the man was short or the hound was of gargantuan proportions. It sat looking at him with such intensity of love and loyalty that I marvelled at the skill of the artist to capture such a powerful image.

  The hound’s head was only a few inches lower than that of the man.

  Pictorial representations are mute and yet can speak volumes I thought, as I turned and headed back towards the fireplace.

  It was a Sunday evening in late March and despite my persistence in maintaining the fire and supplying brandy for my guests, it seemed more the latter than the former that warmed us and worked towards enlightening our spirits on an otherwise cold and wet evening.

  The Archive Room of Morthaven Library was cold and dark but for the fire that cast greatly enlarged flickering shadows of the sitting forms on the surrounding walls, and the occasional flash of lightning that threw those same shadows – suddenly – onto another wall, before returning them to their original location opposite the hearth.

  Each bout of lightning was followed by a peal of thunder that one could feel as well as hear.

  My guests were looking around idly at the surrounding bookcases, bureaus, paintings and filing cabinets.

  They were waiting for me.

  I took my seat by the fire as was my preference, and regarded my guests.

  Doctor Terrance Tremayne sat to my left; he was a psychologist spending a large proportion of his time at a London college teaching his students about the fickle nature of the mind and how it can cause irrational thoughts to the point of – amongst other things – seeing things that are not there.

  To the doctor’s left sat the rotund frame of Professor Marcus Adams, a physicist from Cambridge; he was contemplating the end of his cigar before returning his gaze to me. Here was a man who had no time for opinions or beliefs; all was explained through a derived and precisely structured process or formulae that created a coherent and irrefutable conclusion.

  Lastly, and in the next chair opposite to me, sat Judge Angus Cavanaugh, a man whose judicial deliberations based on apparent factual evidence, held quite literally, the power of life and death.

  At this point I should perhaps divulge my own vocation as one who for forty years has been successful in disproving and dispelling others’ beliefs in the supernatural. My own faith in my belief has been solid… or so I had thought.

  I had been preparing for this evening for some days and had spent many an hour considering my approach with some trepidation. I felt like someone who, after spending a lifetime ridiculing a belief, was in the process of defecting to the ‘enemy’.

  I paused to loo
k at my pocket watch and then spoke. “I’m expecting another guest later this evening,” I said, “and his name is Father Bryan James.”

  I immediately felt an air of disagreement; a mild chagrin to my announcement.

  “But, Samuel,” Adams said, “why on earth would you invite a religious man? Faith is subjective – it cannot be relied upon – you know this.” There were nods of assent from the others.

  I was not surprised at this reaction. I was going to be presenting a man whose life revolved around a belief, a faith; something that arguably could not be proven with a slide rule or testimony from a witness… and yet…

  What interested me in this small group was our shared opinion on the supernatural and the absurdities that often drive individuals as a consequence of its presumed presence – I say absurdities for we have dismissed all things that could not be explained by formulae or common sense as nonsense conjured by the ignorant and weak-willed, our own vocations precluding us from any understanding of anything that could not be explained thus.

  However, I felt it would be rather illuminating to share with them a strange occurrence that happened to me not six weeks ago, and hear evaluation through their own logic and reasoning.

  I was satisfied with my own.

  “Do not be concerned,” I said. “The father’s appearance will not herald a long tirade of religious doctrine. In fact, I rather fancy that he will be mute. However, his presence alone commands remarkable persuasion to my tale.”

  Clearly unconvinced, Tremayne reached forward his palms to the fire and rubbed them together. “Samuel, why are we here? I don’t think I can remember one of our meetings being so cold and dark.”

  “Yes, I do apologise,” I answered, “but the surrounding ambience is somewhat appropriate to my curious event and you may be interested to know that rumours exist of a ghost that rattles his chains in these very rooms after midnight.”

  They looked up in unison. “You are joking? Not the rattling chains; that went out with Jacob Marley!” They all chuckled together.