I never believed in ghosts. I have a doctoral degree; I’m a rational person.
When we were little we would put bedsheets over our heads and make ghostly ‘woo-woo-woo’ noises and enjoy pretending to be scared. The nearest we got to a ghost was in stories like A Christmas Carol.
I soon realised there was a whole industry built up around the supernatural. People made programmes, podcasts and one fellow alone has written forty books featuring people who say they’ve been in haunted houses, spooky pubs, or have seen spirits gliding down country lanes. All total Horlicks. If all these people had seen ghosts why hadn’t I?
Please don’t think I was fanatical about this, I wasn’t. It’s just that when I heard a ‘real-life’ ghost story I was quick to poo-poo it.
The other night I met friends at the Hairy Hamster pub and nobody talked about ghosts at all. I left after closing time and made my way down a country lane to my cottage. There was a full moon and it was almost as light as day. I heard the car before I felt it. It was a big 4X4 jobbie, its engine roaring full throttle; my body was hurled over the hedgerow into the ploughed field. The car didn’t stop.
Now, I’m sat in an armchair in a comfortable living room in an expensive detached house studying the middle-aged man who killed me; figuring out how I can terrify him for the rest of his life.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 