Ringing The Chains

Not everybody would I earmark for becoming a ghost one day. Yet when John finally “fell under a bus” one fine Spring morning, I was certainly reminded of why he had always struck me as a strong candidate for any earthbound afterlife going spare. The customary pallor of his almost see-through face had often been noticeable - as if he had just seen a winding sheet. Also, his clothes appeared to hang upon a bodiless shape - which was not surprising in view of what little I saw of him on a topless beach when we shared now a legendary holiday. But, above all, the way he moaned and groaned - and dragged chains by the ankles across the bedroom carpet - was relatively conclusive. I often found it difficult to believe he was not a ghost already. Of course, it was even more difficult to believe he was a ghost. The various rings his ears and nose sported were proof enough, surely, that he had flesh to pierce. And if not, his suffocating embrace was the real clincher. I loved him dearly, you see, but, throughout his carnal existence, it did feel rather like loving a would-be extraterrestrial. At least, after his death, I had an incontrovertible ghost to love - and rings on a revenant were indeed rather fetching.

(published 'Wearwolf' 1993)