How Horrible the Moon

How horrible the moon. How horrible the pale light it cast upon my grave as it called me to my duty.

In a few short hours I would leave the comfort of my grave to walk among the living. I scared most of them, but now after over 100 years, this routine had ceased to be amusing and was now just a chore. ‘There must be more to death than this,’ I thought, and frankly, I was tired of scaring people. I just wanted to be a friend, I wanted my existence in death to be a redemption from being grumpy old Mr. Clarkson, the grocer, the man who never returned children’s footballs and who hid from carol singers.  I wanted to be a jolly happy, although departed, soul who made the living world a happier place.

It’s difficult being a ghost, you know. As a soul in limbo there’s no one who represents you and helps you. Those in heaven have God and his offices, even if they did move in mysterious ways, while those in hell these days were generally too busy being roasted or watching endless repeats of Mary Poppins. Satan had a warped sense of humour and sometimes changed the meaning of hell when he and his demons wanted new amusements.

But, help or none, I was determined to change. Tonight was going to be the first night of the rest of my death. I climbed out of my grave, rearranged a couple of misplaced bones and placed my skull back on my neck.

I knew where I was heading and I could transport there in an instant. My destination was an abandoned 18th century pub, one that I knew well as I was murdered there during a heated argument about whether tomato was a vegetable or a fruit. I was correct that it was a vegetable, but the satisfaction of being on the right side of the argument is worth nothing when you’re dead.

Anyway, the pub had a reputation for violence, and I wasn’t the only one to have died there.  The pub was believed to be haunted and an episode of the series “Wow, is this place really haunted?” was to be filmed there, this full moon night when psychic powers were at their peak.  All of us in the spirit world and some in the living, knew that this programme was just a hoax, with special effects used to create hauntings and all the paranormal malarkey that impressed the living. But this time I would be there and I planned to give them a treat.

When they were ready to do the recording, I summed up all the energy I could from around me. A couple of them shivered as the temperature dropped and the cameraman noticed that his camcorder batteries were discharging at a high rate. Yes, that was me, drawing on a free source of energy. Having all this battery power available as they set up was going to make it a lot easier to manifest.

I was going to make a really big, impressive entrance to give them a show that they could be proud of. I wanted them to laugh and be happy. Summoning up all the energy I could draw from the room and from their equipment, I spoke into their recording equipment: '1, 2, 3 testing, calling from the other side. How are you? I’m Frank Clarkson, murdered here in 1911'. They didn’t seem to notice, although the sound recordist looked up quizzically. I threw some pebbles to attract their attention and managed to manifest. Now they noticed and I spoke again. 'Hello everybody, Frank here. I’m really dead. How are you, can we be friends?' 

But they were scared, their show had always been a fraud and they had never met a real ghost before. They got up and ran. I chased after them. 'Can we be friends?' I shouted again. But they just screamed and my energy faded out. I could do no more, although I had tried.

It’s hard to make friends when you’re dead. Next full moon, I’ll go back to scaring people. I know how to do that, but I’m going throw in some surprises. If the living don’t want to be friends with the dead, then I’m just wasting my time. Maybe I’ll try again in a few years’ time. But now, I need my rest until the next full moon.


BIO: Brian Hunt is studying at the Writers' Village University where he is about to start their 1-Year Creative Writing Certificate. He is a retired engineer and recently moved to Suffolk, England where he is a volunteer at National Trust Sutton Hoo and Woodbridge Tide Mill.