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Promptober #5: Graveyard Tales: As you walk through a misty graveyard on Halloween, you encounter a ghost with a story to tell.
Halloween was not a night he wanted to spend in a graveyard. Not that he was superstitious. But it was Halloween. It was past sunset, and why did the sun have to set so early in October?
The weather was unseasonably odd - whoever heard of a mist in October, here? On the coast, either coast. Or in Louisiana. Or Texas. But here?
Next he would be seeing ghosts like the dimly translucent youth on the bench a few yards ahead of him. The youth now staring at him with hope and disbelief.
“You can see me?” The voice was soft, young and its accent was definitely East Coast. Boston, if he had to guess.
“Yes,” he murmured, noting how the moon shone through the apparition.
“It’s been so long,” there was an eager longing in the voice. And a sadness. “Can ya stay? And talk? Just for a moment? Please?”
Uneasily but caught up by the sad eyes watching him, he settled cautiously on the far end of the bench. The mist around them coiled and drifted, forming an alcove, hiding them from the rest of the graveyard. “Just for a few minutes.”
“Thanks!” The young ghost beamed happily and waved at the graveyard around them. “Everything’s changed so much since I first came out here. But so much is still the same.”
“Is it indeed?” The words caught his attention and curiosity. “How so?”
“I came out here to become a lawman,” the young man said proudly, puffing up so his insubstantial badge stood out on his chest. “I wanted to be famous. Known as a lawman and a good shot and…” he paused and shrugged. “But it wasn’t like in the dime novels.”
“No. It is not,” he said soberly, understanding the young sheriff’s dilemma. A child did not truly understand the risks and consequences of being a lawman, especially in the Old West. And from his apparent age, the consequences had come due far too soon. “I am very sorry.”
“Hmm?” The young sheriff shook his head, shadowed hair flopping about into an untidy mess. “Nah. We did good for a few years,” he said with a brief, wistful smile. “There were seven of us and we stopped train robbers, assassins, rogue troops, bank robbers and rustlers… it’s just,” he looked up, his dark eyes intense. “No one remembers anymore. No one visits. It gets kind of lonely.”
“Are your friends not here, as well?” He asked, saddened by the apparition’s words. No one, not even a ghost should be alone.
The sheriff looked startled by the question, before shaking his head. “They went on ahead. It’s just me now.”
“Perhaps you should catch up to them?”
“I’d have to know where to go,” the young voice said. He sounded younger than his apparent age. Lost. Alone. Sad.
For a moment, he stared at the ghost. He was not superstitious. He did not fear the dead. He did not really entertain them or talk to them. He was no charlatan to claim to see what was not there. Even if many charlatans used their minimal abilities (or pretended abilities) for financial gain, he did not. It was not proper or right. But he could not ignore the sadness of this lost one. He sighed.
“If you are looking for them, might they not be looking for you?” He asked quietly.
“I… guess,” it was a new thought for the spirit and it took a long moment to settle. The translucent figure became a bit less so, a bit firmer, more real. His expression became clearer and steadier.
Like a distant wind in fir trees, a soft voice came through the misty night. A name, so faint as to be indistinct. But the ghost stiffened and turned, his expression becoming bright and full of hope. With a quick glance back, he smiled before taking off at a sprint.
Bright green eyes watched as the figure became a wisp and vanished. With it, the unseasonable mist broke up and drifted away. “Rest well,” he said softly. “Be at peace.”