A Ghost Story

Let me begin by making one thing abundantly clear: Herbert was a ghost, and by that I mean he was an apparition of a dead person. He was not a particularly friendly ghost like, say, Casper. Although, he was not an unfriendly ghost either. Herbert was a ghost who was, by all means, inconsequential. 

He sometimes stood in the very dark corner of a very dark room in a very dark abandoned farmhouse in the very dark fallow field in a very dark and quiet town. The thing about very dark places was that living people didn’t care so much for them. So Herbert was left undisturbed, much to his contentment. 

See, Herbert had been brutally, bloodily, baselessly murdered in this very dark corner of the very dark room in the very dark farmhouse in the very dark field of a very quiet town by a very dark man who some claimed was haunted by a very dark demon. It was all very dark when the murdering happened, because it was the middle of the night. Most murdering occurs at such dark and quiet hours. 

But Herbert was a man of routine, so after the brutal, bloody murder, he continued said routine to the best of his ghost abilities. That meant waking with the sun, though he didn’t really seem to sleep, to tend to his farm. Being a ghost, Herbert could not pick up his plow, or shovel, or spade, or hoe, or mattock, or rake. So he could not turn, move, or smooth soil, nor could he clear new ground or sow new seeds. He could not feed or groom or walk any of his animals, as they were now too spooked by his new lack of physical body. Even so, Herbert was a man of routine, so he walked through the actions all the same. 

Herbert would make his rounds each morning, noon, and night. He would tend to his fields and animals; although, now he had added an additional step to his routine. Upon greeting his cow, Bessie, Herbert would say one new line: 

“Good Morning Bessie, I may look different today, but I am not, yet, a ghost.” 

And with each of his animals the routine followed. To his horse Lady: 

“Good Morning Lady, I may look different today, but I am not, yet, a ghost.” 

To his hens and pigs: 

“Good Morning Darlings, I may look different today, but I am not, yet, a ghost.” 

And so on. Every morning, noon and night came Herbert's declaration: He was not yet a ghost. And from his bald ghost head, to the tips of his ghost toes, Herbert believed that. 

 Ghosts had unfinished business. Herbert had no unfinished business. Herbert only had his routine. 

After a few years, the farm looked quite a bit different. The fields lay fallow, the horses and cows had all died where they stood in the stables and fields, and the pigs and chickens had dug their way to freedom, leaving their pens desolate. The only thing thriving was the ivy that had smothered the lonely house. And yet, Herbert followed his beloved routine. 

Until the day. The single day in which Herbert's misery was realized. Not the day of his brutal, bloody, baseless murder, but the day of the Omen. The day Herbert saw a dead raven. 

A dead raven is unequivocally a Bad Omen. A raven is often seen as a messenger between worlds, a prophet, a harbinger of change. A dead raven was a very bad omen indeed. 

To the very light people, with which Herbert used to be associated, ravens were dark, mysterious, scavengers. So when ghost Herbert saw the dead raven that morning, it made sense that more live ravens had come to pick at its remains, and by that I mean they looked to Herbert to be alive. 

See, after Herbert’s brutal, bloody murder, the town had become too dark for the people who lived there. 

Herbert’s brutal, bloody, baseless murder, and by that I mean the townspeople had declared it so, had happened in the dark of night, while Herbert was sleeping, alone, in his very dark house. All that to say, there was no witness. In fact, the very dark man possessed by the very dark demon who did the murdering in the very dark house was never found, nor even seen again. Herbert did not know this, as no one can attend their own funeral, nor the trial of their own murderer. 

And yet, as with routine, the brutal bloody baseless murders continued. Thus, the very light people abandoned the very dark town. 

But several more years later, and by that I mean a couple hundred, a very light, very rich, very well-known man, and his family, bought the very dark abandoned farm. Now this man and his family had become very rich and very well-known by creating pictures and short videos for people to watch on tiny screens they always carried with them. The screens constantly produced light, so people never had to be in very dark places. This man and his family bought the very dark abandoned town and farm to make very light pictures and videos to make very big money to buy more very dark abandoned places. And so on. 

Now back to the morning the preceded all of Herbert’s misery. After seeing the very dead raven, Herbert was shaken. Herbert didn’t care much for blood or death. The bad omen had disrupted his routine quite thoroughly, but it was only the beginning. 

When Herbert settled down for his supper that night (he could not eat supper, so he sat alone at his table for an hour or so), he noticed something very peculiar indeed. A very light, very loud, very smelly machine, and by that I mean a car, rumbled through his fallow field. And above it, an even louder, stranger whirring bird followed. The very rich, very well-known man and his very light family were in that very loud car bringing their very light screens to his very dark farmhouse to make very big money. 

Herbert abandoned his routine, as most do in a time of fear, and hid in his favorite corner of his very dark room, in the very dark house. And there he stayed. He heard the rumble as the machine turned off, and the clatter of the family exiting the vehicle to rampage onto his porch and through the threshold of his safe space. He heard the very light voices exclaim their excitement and wonder, their sentences upturned at the end. Then he heard them pause, whispering in monotone voices, before starting again with their very light voices. And so on. 

See, the very light family had a very special power. Everything they said was true. Even the youngest of them could proclaim that the sky was orange, and so it would be, and by that I mean it would be believed true by all who heard her say such. This was a very special power indeed, especially during the time the family lived in.

Herbert stayed hidden as their footsteps shook the old house, dislodging decades of dust and mold from between the walls. He did not see them pulling out their various light boxes, and by that I mean cameras, audio recorders, and all kinds of blinking buzzing devices built to detect ghosts like Herbert. Nor did he see the priest the very light family had brought with them. 

Herbert listened to them follow their own routine; exclaiming in light voices, the sentences upturned at the end, followed by their monotone, lifeless whispers, then renewed exclamations. It went on for hours, and so too did Herbert’s misery. He began chanting the only part of his daily routine that gave him solace. “Good morning, I may look different today, but I am not, yet, a ghost.” 

The family hadn’t yet entered Herbert's very dark room. They knew about the brutal, bloody murder, and had saved the room for last. But the little girl, the one who could make the sky orange if she wished, was excitable and often hard for her parents to control. She had snuck away from the rest of her very light family to explore the very dark room, surprisingly without her very light screen. 

Herbert’s heart stopped when the door creaked open, and by that I mean he was surprised and anxious. Herbert did not have a heart, because he was dead. 

The very small girl circled the very dark room. Without her very light screen, she could not see much. When she at last landed upon Herbert’s very dark corner, she saw nothing. 

Herbert, frantic and desperate, did the only thing he could think of. 

“Good morning, you may not be able to see me, but I am not a ghost.” 

And the girl screamed. 

It was a brutal, bloody, and baseless shriek that was not light nor dark, but altogether very very loud. 

The girl’s parents came bumbling through the house. They shined their very tiny light screens at the girl’s very pale face and spoke in their very high voices. 

The girl was crying now, but still they shined their very tiny light screens so as not to be in a very dark place. 

They asked over and over what she had seen. They poked and prodded at her with their very light words, begging for every detail of the encounter. 

And when at last she spoke, in a wobbly watery voice, to the very tiny light screen, the absolute change brought by the raven was at last realized. 

“There was a ghost!” 

See, Herbert was a ghost, but is no longer. 

Ghosts have unfinished business. Herbert has no unfinished business, nor does he have his routine.