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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 07/13/2013
MISSING GHOST
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, GermanyMISSING GHOST
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
The transparent figure, white and completely clad in 17th century clothing, wore more or less the aristocratic fashion of the 1660’s. An elegant, simple coat, a waistcoat-and-breeches-costume, and a trademark of the Restoration period following the thirty years war. An aristocrat. Roger supposed this man died here in this house. Most probably, murdered. The huge bloodstain on his waistcoat gave an evidence as to what seemed to have been what the islanders of Jamaica called a “boucan knife” rammed with extreme vigour into the man’s heart.
Roger’s research had concluded that a certain English aristocrat had been suspected murdered in 1676 and never found again. Roger had seen this ghost yesterday, but it had disappeared all too quickly. Now, it was here again. If the man that was gazing at Roger, standing in his full fashionable periwig monteur, actually had died in 1676: why was he then dressed in 1660’s fashion? That might not have been an issue, but it was an issue why he had ended up here in Jamaica. Probably, he had actually been part of the army that colonized the island in 1655 and been part of the English rule. The “boucan knife” that killed him must have been a pirate weapon and this pirate attack had probably been an attempt to win the riches of his very wealthy estate.
The pirates must’ve been quick. Was evidence found here pointing to the murder? Roger would make a point of asking the Jamaican landlord this by the following breakfast. This historical ghost vacation was turning into a success.
The man was still looking at Roger, not moving. The only sense of movement was his heavy breathing and the eyebrows that fluttered up and down. The man made noises, strange noises that seemed to speak of anguish. Blood trickled down the man’s mouth and dropped to the ground, but the blood that dropped onto the floor disappeared when it hit the boards.
This was a ghost, mind you, but maybe just a lost apparition. Maybe just a memory. Maybe a missing spirit caught in a time trap. There were plenty of records of haunted mansions in the Caribbean. This last week of visits would be dedicated to this island, its spectre pirates and ghostly slaves. This ghost had never been seen before. Roger knew. After all, Roger researched the field thoroughly. He had written books about ghosts and even held a seminar about ghosts in the Caribbean.
Roger took one step closer toward the spectre and it opened its eyes widely at his approach. So wide that, in fact, Roger grew afraid that he would drop the candle that lit up this large ballroom in which he stood. Roger had wandered off too far now and the landlord was asleep. The next hospital was far away in Kingston, almost an hour from here.
This ghost historian had never been this afraid before. Now, he was. Was this ghost ill willed? Or was he simply distraught? He had obviously been murdered and fought for a long time to break free from the time capsule he was in. The chandaliers and paintings and gilded mirrors seemed very distant right. All Roger could see was the light that this ghost was carrying inside him. A light of pain.
Then, the spectre opened his mouth.
He began to speak.
Roger was at once repulsed and fascinated by this man, whose mouth was black on the inside and white on the outside.
“Help me,” the ghost said. “Please, I have been walking the corridors of oblivion for too long. I have not been able to haunt anyone yet. Since 1676 I have been a missing ghost, trying to break through the barriers of time. I was killed by a pirate, who stole my money, left a note about it and buried me in the forest. I was an aristocrat that came with the colonial army, my faible for 1660’s fashion as my trademark. I kept wearing the same clothes over and over. The pirates ridiculed me, my Jamaican family loved me. The authorities never found me. Look under the great breadfruit tree in the forest’s western part. There, three feet from the lake, you will find my life story buried with my corpse and I will find peace.”
“But what is your name?”
Roger’s question was left unanswered.
That ghost disappeared now as a fog disappears with oncoming sunlight.
Now, Roger looked out and saw the sun rising in pink and green and yellow and red and dark, dark blue. Had he actually been up all night chasing the spectre? Obviously, he had. This soul was longing to be free.
Roger felt his own feet run, as if guided by an apparition, out of the ballroom, down the stairs, into the approaching day. It was already light when he arrived at the breadfruit tree and the daylight made him forget the unlit candle that lay now almost covered by the water from the lake. He dug with his bare hands and for so long that his fingernails hurt.
Then, at once, many feet down, he found a hand and an arm and a waistcoat, breeches, a wig, a book and a face. It was the missing ghost.
Roger sprang up, still sweaty from a long night of insomnia, screaming:
“Eureka! I have found him!”
The landlord, of course, was astounded to find his hospitable, renowned guest leaping at him like a dirty Dominican lizard from the Indian River.
But the fame that he received from being mentioned in the New York Times bestseller could not be vanquished by a simple, sleepless morning.
Roger visited the Jamaican mansion again, often.
Only once the spectre returned.
To thank him for granting him his heavenly peace.
MISSING GHOST(Charles E.J. Moulton)
MISSING GHOST
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
The transparent figure, white and completely clad in 17th century clothing, wore more or less the aristocratic fashion of the 1660’s. An elegant, simple coat, a waistcoat-and-breeches-costume, and a trademark of the Restoration period following the thirty years war. An aristocrat. Roger supposed this man died here in this house. Most probably, murdered. The huge bloodstain on his waistcoat gave an evidence as to what seemed to have been what the islanders of Jamaica called a “boucan knife” rammed with extreme vigour into the man’s heart.
Roger’s research had concluded that a certain English aristocrat had been suspected murdered in 1676 and never found again. Roger had seen this ghost yesterday, but it had disappeared all too quickly. Now, it was here again. If the man that was gazing at Roger, standing in his full fashionable periwig monteur, actually had died in 1676: why was he then dressed in 1660’s fashion? That might not have been an issue, but it was an issue why he had ended up here in Jamaica. Probably, he had actually been part of the army that colonized the island in 1655 and been part of the English rule. The “boucan knife” that killed him must have been a pirate weapon and this pirate attack had probably been an attempt to win the riches of his very wealthy estate.
The pirates must’ve been quick. Was evidence found here pointing to the murder? Roger would make a point of asking the Jamaican landlord this by the following breakfast. This historical ghost vacation was turning into a success.
The man was still looking at Roger, not moving. The only sense of movement was his heavy breathing and the eyebrows that fluttered up and down. The man made noises, strange noises that seemed to speak of anguish. Blood trickled down the man’s mouth and dropped to the ground, but the blood that dropped onto the floor disappeared when it hit the boards.
This was a ghost, mind you, but maybe just a lost apparition. Maybe just a memory. Maybe a missing spirit caught in a time trap. There were plenty of records of haunted mansions in the Caribbean. This last week of visits would be dedicated to this island, its spectre pirates and ghostly slaves. This ghost had never been seen before. Roger knew. After all, Roger researched the field thoroughly. He had written books about ghosts and even held a seminar about ghosts in the Caribbean.
Roger took one step closer toward the spectre and it opened its eyes widely at his approach. So wide that, in fact, Roger grew afraid that he would drop the candle that lit up this large ballroom in which he stood. Roger had wandered off too far now and the landlord was asleep. The next hospital was far away in Kingston, almost an hour from here.
This ghost historian had never been this afraid before. Now, he was. Was this ghost ill willed? Or was he simply distraught? He had obviously been murdered and fought for a long time to break free from the time capsule he was in. The chandaliers and paintings and gilded mirrors seemed very distant right. All Roger could see was the light that this ghost was carrying inside him. A light of pain.
Then, the spectre opened his mouth.
He began to speak.
Roger was at once repulsed and fascinated by this man, whose mouth was black on the inside and white on the outside.
“Help me,” the ghost said. “Please, I have been walking the corridors of oblivion for too long. I have not been able to haunt anyone yet. Since 1676 I have been a missing ghost, trying to break through the barriers of time. I was killed by a pirate, who stole my money, left a note about it and buried me in the forest. I was an aristocrat that came with the colonial army, my faible for 1660’s fashion as my trademark. I kept wearing the same clothes over and over. The pirates ridiculed me, my Jamaican family loved me. The authorities never found me. Look under the great breadfruit tree in the forest’s western part. There, three feet from the lake, you will find my life story buried with my corpse and I will find peace.”
“But what is your name?”
Roger’s question was left unanswered.
That ghost disappeared now as a fog disappears with oncoming sunlight.
Now, Roger looked out and saw the sun rising in pink and green and yellow and red and dark, dark blue. Had he actually been up all night chasing the spectre? Obviously, he had. This soul was longing to be free.
Roger felt his own feet run, as if guided by an apparition, out of the ballroom, down the stairs, into the approaching day. It was already light when he arrived at the breadfruit tree and the daylight made him forget the unlit candle that lay now almost covered by the water from the lake. He dug with his bare hands and for so long that his fingernails hurt.
Then, at once, many feet down, he found a hand and an arm and a waistcoat, breeches, a wig, a book and a face. It was the missing ghost.
Roger sprang up, still sweaty from a long night of insomnia, screaming:
“Eureka! I have found him!”
The landlord, of course, was astounded to find his hospitable, renowned guest leaping at him like a dirty Dominican lizard from the Indian River.
But the fame that he received from being mentioned in the New York Times bestseller could not be vanquished by a simple, sleepless morning.
Roger visited the Jamaican mansion again, often.
Only once the spectre returned.
To thank him for granting him his heavenly peace.
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Lillian Kazmierczak
09/29/2022What a terrific story! Freeing somones soul, what a marvellous concept.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
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Help Us Understand What's Happening
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Charles E.J. Moulton
11/23/2019Thank you, Gail! I wrote this a while ago. It's nice to remember this. Thanks also for your stories. They're very good. All the best from Charles
COMMENTS (2)